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Analog SFF, January-February 2009
by Dell Magazine Authors
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Science Fiction

Dell Magazines
www.analogsf.com

Copyright ©2009 by Dell Magazines

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Cover art by John Allemand

Cover design by Victoria Green

CONTENTS

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: LOOSE ENDS, MISSED POINTS, AND TANGENTS by Stanley Schmidt

Novella: DOCTOR ALIEN by Rajnar Vajra

Science Fact: NEPTUNE, NEPTUNE, NEPTUNE ... BUT NOT NEPTUNE by Kevin Walsh

Novelette: ZHENG HE AND THE DRAGON by Dave Creek

Novelette: TO LEAP THE HIGHEST WALL by Richard Foss

Reader's Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: ENERGY CRISIS *REDUX:* A POLEMIC by Jeffery D. Kooistra

Short Story: ROCKS by John G. Hemry

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

Short Story: EXCELLENCE by Richard A. Lovett

Novelette: SMALL BUSINESS by Edward M. Lerner

Serial: WAKE by Robert J. Sawyer

Novella: THE RECOVERY MAN'S BARGAIN by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Reader's Department: GUEST REFERENCE LIBRARY by Ian Randal Strock

Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

2008 INDEX

IT'S ANLAB TIME AGAIN

Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

* * * *

Vol. CXXIX No. 1 & 2, January-February 2009

Stanley Schmidt Editor

Trevor Quachri Managing Editor

Peter Kanter: Publisher

Christine Begley: Associate Publisher

Susan Mangan: Executive Director, Art and Production

Stanley Schmidt: Editor

Trevor Quachri: Managing Editor

Mary Grant: Editorial Assistant

Victoria Green: Senior Art Director

Irene Lee: Production Artist/Graphic Designer

Carole Dixon: Senior Production Manager

Evira Matos: Production Associate

Abigail Browning: Manager, Subsidiary Rights and Marketing

Julia McEvoy: Manager, Advertising Sales

Bruce W. Sherbow: VP, Sales and Marketing

Sandy Marlowe: Circulation Services

Advertising Representative: Connie Goon, Advertising Sales Coordinator, Tel: (212) 686-7188 Fax:(212) 686-7414 (Display and Classified Advertising)

Editorial Correspondence Only: analog@dellmagazines.com

Published since 1930

First issue of Astounding January 1930 (c)

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: LOOSE ENDS, MISSED POINTS, AND TANGENTS
by Stanley Schmidt

A perennial source of fascination in my job is the wondrous array of things people read into my editorials that I never wrote there—and things they apparently don't read that I did write. If the same kind of problem happened with most readers, I'd have to conclude that I did a bad job of saying what I meant. But usually enough readers do get what I intended that I think I said it clearly enough, but not everyone read it carefully. It's not just me, either; every opinion writer I know has often experienced the same phenomenon.

And it's not always a bad thing. Sometimes, instead of simply misunderstanding or misrepresenting what was said, a reader will point out an aspect of the topic that might have been pursued further, or take something in the original essay as a jumping-off point to go in a whole new direction. Some of those are worthy of discussion in their own right, whether they have much to do with the original piece or not. So today I'd like to respond to an assortment of such loose ends, missed points, and tangents: topics raised in responses to an earlier editorial that warrant counter-responses, whether they're unfinished business, misunderstandings too important to let pass, or new topics somehow suggested by something I said.

* * * *

It's not always clear which category best describes a particular point. Consider, for example, the reader who applauded my saying in September 2008 ("'It's All About Me,’ Writ Large") that liberty means that people can do whatever they want as long as it doesn't infringe on others, but then went on to express concern that I'd “fallen for the latest excuse/attempt to destroy individual liberty.” Environmentalism, he opined, “is seen by many as the last best hope for the restoration of tyranny.”

That may be (though I question the “many"), but what does it have to do with what I wrote? I reread the editorial in question before sitting down to write this, and confirmed my memory that I had said nothing that could be remotely construed as advocating any form of tyranny. It would be astounding if I had; anyone who's read much of my writing would know that I'm quick to raise the alarm whenever I see anything that looks like even a tentative step in that direction. And that, unlike many who talk a lot about freedom, I explicitly recognize that it has to mean freedom even for people whose tastes and proclivities differ from mine. So was this reader suggesting that I had somehow advocated tyranny for the sake of environmental goals, or merely taking my mention of them as an occasion to mention his belief that others do? Or was he even hinting that environmental protection measures should be avoided because they might infringe on property rights?

The answer never became really clear to me, but he was clearly at least concerned that attempts to protect the environment (and to protect ourselves from adverse changes in it) were likely to take socialistic forms. He went on at some length about the “tragedy of the commons,” which can be described in succinct if oversimplified terms as the tendency for resources held in common to suffer neglect and abuse because nobody owns them. Therefore nobody has the unequivocal responsibility to maintain and protect them and the right to reap their rewards. There is considerable truth in this, wherefore my reader maintained that individual property rights are better for the environment than communal control.

I never disputed this (I never even mentioned it)—but I recognize some qualifications that my correspondent did not address. The key words are that people should be able to do what they want as long as it doesn't infringe on others. The tricky part is determining what constitutes an infringement that others are justified in preventing or punishing. Unsightly as I might find my neighbor's plastic lawn flamingos, I don't think I have the right to tell him he can't have them. But there are cases in which others do have a right, even an obligation, to interfere with actions which, viewed superficially, take place entirely on private property.

The classic example is two families living on their own plots of land on the banks of a river. If the Upstream family nets all the fish coming past its property, collects fresh drinking water at the upstream corner, and dumps its sewage at the downstream corner, it might seem to someone who considers property rights to trump all else that those actions are completely within that family's rights. But their consequences extend far beyond those boundaries, directly depriving the Downstream family of clean water and food. Most of us, I think, would agree that the Downstream family is completely within its rights in insisting on some changes—by force, if necessary.

But then, that won't be necessary if the upstream folks understand the problem and have enough basic human decency to behave in such a way as to avoid causing trouble for those downstream.

If the river is big enough, and the families along it few enough and small enough, the problem won't often arise. But it's been a long time since we've been in that situation. The more people you have, and the more impact each of them can have through their technologies, the harder it is to say flatly, “People can do whatever they like on their own property,” because the more likely it is that what they do there will have significant effects elsewhere. When vast numbers of people consume vast quantities of resources and spew forth vast quantities of effluents, the effects become everybody's business.

So, while I agree with my correspondent that people will tend to take better care of their own property than they will of “public” property, I must also reluctantly grant that it isn't that simple. The Upstream family may sincerely believe that it's taking the best possible care of its property by behaving as I described, but that belief is only justified if they consider nothing but the effects of their actions right there. That may become a lot harder when they notice the Downstream neighbors coming up the road with tempers up and pitchforks in hand to demand some consideration—or when others move in still farther upstream and start monopolizing their fish and polluting their water. At that point, like it or not, some form of legislation, or at least cooperative effort, is likely to become necessary for everybody's survival.

And without survival, high-sounding political ideals become unaffordable and meaningless luxuries.

We don't want to reach that point, of course; and most of us, I think and hope, would like to preserve as much individual freedom and property rights as possible. The denser and more powerful the population is, the harder that becomes—which is one of many reasons why I find rampant population growth scary. But we do still have choices.

In “All About Me,” I said nothing about whether the changes we will have to make in recognition of the fact that we are part of a larger system should be made by individuals or by public institutions—socialistic, capitalistic, or anythingistic—setting and enforcing policy. My point was not that the changes we need to make should be made in any particular way, but merely that they have to be made somehow—and that is inescapable.

Personally, I would much prefer to see them made by the majority of people, on their own initiative, acting in ways that maximize their own benefit while minimizing their impact on others. The Upstream family could rationally decide, for example, to catch only the fish they need and dispose of their wastes in some better way than dumping them back into the river downstream. It can work if, and only if, enough people understand enough about how both natural and human systems work to do things that make sense.

And that means they have to be willing to learn. If Mr. Upstream honestly believes it's okay to catch all the fish he can and to dump his trash on his downstream neighbors, things will soon fall apart. People don't have to be forced to behave responsibly if they choose to do so on their own, but that's only likely to happen if they understand why it would benefit them.

* * * *

Which leads me to my second package of odds and ends from reader responses to that same editorial. Observing that a published list of “best books of the year” included nothing about science, concentrating entirely on human beings and their foibles and activities, I suggested that this reflected a widely prevalent and dangerously unbalanced view of the world: the view that human beings are the only subject of any real importance. In support of this suggestion, I mentioned William Faulkner's oft-quoted claim that “the human heart in conflict with itself” is “the only thing worth writing about.” I also mentioned my personal experience with English teachers who dismissed science as “too cut and dried,” and remarked that such a view only proved to me that they had never actually done any science.

One reader took extensive exception to my arguments—so extensive that it took three consecutive posts of the maximum allowed length to set them forth on the Analog website's “Readers’ Forum.” He objected, for example, to that use of “proved,” and I'll grant him that it was perhaps a shade too strong a word. “Strongly suggested” might have been better, though I emphasize “strongly.” I suspect this reader would object to that, too, because he also accused me of wrongly claiming to know why the teachers in question were so dismissive of science, and of claiming to know better than they did what was going on in their minds. A deliciously ironic accusation, that, since not only do I make no such claim, but it's the very one that I have often objected to literature teachers making in regard to the authors of works they “interpret.”

Rather than claiming to know what's going on in the minds of those teachers I criticize (and please note carefully that I do not equate them to all English teachers), I base my claim on my own experience as one who has done scientific research. It's true that science has a far better developed methodology than the humanities for determining the validity and meaning of data and theoretical models. It's also true that scientists try to reduce those models to the simplest possible form. But achieving that is far from simple or “cut and dried.” Have you ever tried to design an experiment to isolate the particular relationship you were trying to test from the magnificent intricacies of the real world? Have you tried to make that experiment actually work in that real world? If you've ever known the profound thrill of finally seeing it work, or seeing two seemingly unrelated bits of information finally crystallize into an elegant model, you'll know that the process is anything but “cut and dried.” I frankly don't see how anybody who's been through that experience could ever hold such a view. And I know from other data that the particular teachers about whom I made my observation had not had such experience, and in fact had at best a distant acquaintance with science.

My forum critic goes so far as to suggest that writing about science is “trivial and easy” compared to writing about people because people are more complicated and less precisely understood. I can't argue with the last part of that sentence, but I can't take the first part seriously. If it's so trivial and easy, why do so many “humanities” people dread science courses, take as few as they can get away with, and often find them excruciatingly difficult? And why do so many more people consider themselves qualified to write about people if it's so much harder?

But then, this same critic often lumps science and science fiction together, as if they were more or less equivalent, or at least parts of a set. Sometimes he even talks about what I allegedly said in my essay about science fiction and people's attitudes toward it. Please note carefully: while there is certainly a close and unique relationship between science and science fiction, no one should ever make the mistake of thinking they're the same thing. And for the record, “It's All About Me” did not mention science fiction even once—only science.

But that, I repeat, is very important—for everybody, whether they want to admit it or not. How important? My forum correspondent rebukes me for claiming that science is more important and worth writing about than the human heart etc., but in fact I didn't say that. A good case could be made for it, if you were an outsider looking at the universe as a whole; on that scale, we are indeed small potatoes. But none of us is in that position. We're all living in a world where our “foreground” is full of other human beings, so it is indeed important for us to make our best efforts to understand how humans work and how we can best share the world with them—even though that's a formidable task.

But our world is also full of matter in many forms, and forces and energy relationships, and genetic and ecological interactions, and emerging and converging technologies that are constantly reshaping the way we live with our fellows and our world—and over which we can exert some control. So it's no less important for us to make our best efforts to understand those, too.

What I actually said was not that science is more important (from our special point of view) than human activities and relationships, but that it is certainly not less important—and especially not by such a huge factor as that “best books” list and popular attitudes would suggest.

Which brings us back to my starting point. We will have to make some changes if we are to continue living in and enjoying this world, but we have to know something about how it works if we're to know how to make viable changes. Like the first correspondent I mentioned, I would strongly prefer that adjustments be made as much as possible by individuals retaining autonomy and making their own decisions about what to do on their own turf.

But it can only work if they understand the world well enough to make those decisions responsibly—which means they need to learn all they can about a much wider range of subjects than most do. Many of us have a basic choice to make: we can learn more about the rest of the world and how we fit into it; or we can remain proudly ignorant and keep letting politicians, corporate executives, rumor-mongers, and advertisers make our decisions for us.

And how much confidence does that inspire?

* * * *

I thank both the correspondents I cited, as well as all the others who took the time to write, for their thought-provoking comments. They have made valuable contributions, and I appreciate that.

But in general, as we proceed with the inevitable arguments about the increasingly difficult decisions we're all going to face, our chances of eventually converging on good solutions will probably be enhanced if we can all focus on saying exactly what we mean, and hearing exactly what others say.

Copyright © 2008 Stanley Schmidt

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novella: DOCTOR ALIEN
by Rajnar Vajra

* * * *

Illustration by John Alllemand

* * * *

Fixing an abnormality is hard enough when you know what's normal—and a whole lot harder when you don't!

* * * *

Funny thing about emotions. While they can be blended ten thousand ways, the basic ingredients are so very limited. Example? Fear. In my case, I'm terrified of performing a fairly ordinary human activity: public speaking. And here I was, about to step into a situation outside all human experience, yet I felt exactly the kind of sick fluttering in my stomach I get every time I'm pressured into addressing my fellow psychiatrists at an APA convention.

Of course the door in front of me, the inner portal, opened in the direction I least expected, sliding straight downward into a previously hidden slot in the floor. How much more intimidating, I asked myself, can this get? Then I realized that in this setting, the top wasn't necessarily the top.

I'd been warned the thermostat here would be set lower than I'd find comfortable—at least my hosts-to-be had conveyed that much—so I wasn't surprised to find the airlock chilly after it had pressurized and I'd stripped down to my hooded smartsuit; but as that inner door descended, whoa! A shock of coldness slapped my face, numbed my cheeks, made my eyes water, and stuffed my nostrils with tiny icicles. No problem. My smartsuit reacted and buried wires radiated warmth. I patted my chest pocket to make sure the photo of my wife and son hadn't overpowered the valence zipper and fallen out, gave my vacuum gear tucked into the airlock's safety netting a longing glance, picked up my case, then cautiously stepped into the alien space station.

Still light as fluff, I tiptoed over the blue “neutral” band acting as a kind of foyer and pushed through a filmy decontamination membrane. I took one step out onto dark, rubbery matting and thud. The large case I'd been toting by its carrying strap was snatched from my hand and hit the floor, hard. I nearly joined it. Normal gravity would've been a shock after eight hours of mostly the micro kind, and suddenly I weighed half again my weight on Earth, a nice trick since the station wasn't spinning. The Tsf had been specific for once about the weight increase to expect, but honestly, I hadn't believed synthetic gravity would change so fast. And despite a crash course in Tsf Trader culture, I hadn't imagined Trader headquarters in our solar system would smell like burnt vanilla beans or be as noisy as a plague of cicadas.

My ignorance wasn't NASA's fault. These aliens hadn't revealed much about this station. And until now, no woman, man, bug, animal, or plant from Earth had ever been invited here into the parent ship, although it had been right in our backyard, orbiting the moon for the last three years.

But I sighed with relief because no one greeted me. Among Traders, any welcome visitor was supposed to stroll into a Tsf dwelling as if they owned it. Should one of them have been waiting by the entrance, even holding out a Hawaiian lei, it would've meant I wasn't wanted, conceivably a fatal condition for a human dealing with this species. Unless said human had, say, a loaded bazooka. Some enterprising thieves had learned that the hardest way.

My case, unscathed, automatically unfolded into a multipurpose acceleration couch, slower than when I'd seen it demoed at the Kennedy Space Center, and began following me like a faithful basset when I ignored the implied invitation and staggered forward.

The room before me was an extremely long and rectangular box, rather tunnellike and mostly ivory colored, with blue and russet equipment or perhaps furniture laid along the floor in tidy linear patterns, everything fastened in place with bolts that could've supported the Golden Gate Bridge. I glanced up. The high ceiling held more equipment in similar patterns and with identical bolts. Interesting, I'd never thought of gravity control as a means to squeeze more use out of a room. Wall panels glowed, casting a bright, faintly pinkish illumination. I hoped my upgraded DM, its icon curled around my right ring finger, was functioning properly and recording every detail; I'd studied pictures of several Earthside Trading Posts, and they'd looked nothing like this. But then, they'd been set up for human esthetics.

I counted a dozen Tsf fifty yards ahead and was grateful to have a moment to adjust to their appearance before having to interact. They were more grotesque in the flesh than in photographs, which is saying something.

None were taller than me, most several inches shorter, but each took up more floor space due to having ten outer legs plus three central, somewhat hidden ones directly supporting the “gondola” containing their circulatory pump, cranium, and digestive mechanisms. They resembled neither spiders nor octopi. The jointless outer limbs were thin but muscular and descended in a smooth arc. Halfway down each one, a thick bundle of cilia wriggled, reminding me of those fiber-optic threads used for hokey Christmas trees. According to our science gurus, sensory organs tipped the medium-sized hairs while the longest ones were used as hands and fingers. The shortest and most numerous ones, only an inch or so long, made clicking sounds as they changed position, the Tsf way of speaking. I was the only person in the room wearing clothes.

So far everything was going by the book, line by paragraph. Sure enough, I could breathe the air, handle the gravity, and keep my lunch down. My only real problem, aside from anxiety enough for two cowards and the dissociative numbing to be expected in such a surreal situation, was that my mission still made no sense to me. I told myself that more experienced human heads than mine knew what they were doing.

It wasn't until I'd lumbered halfway to my alien hosts that my confidence in the experts nosedived. They'd told me, with a certainty only possible for people who planned to remain safe at home, that the Tsf would ignore my presence until I initiated conversation, but now, most of the medium-length hairs in the room pointed straight at me. And the clicking chatter sped up, evidently, every Tsf talking at once—foolish me, I'd thought they were loud before. Sounded like a thousand car mechanics ratcheting away. Next time, I promised myself, earplugs. Better yet, no next time.

My case-couch nudged the back of my knees, but I still didn't take the hint. I certainly felt the extra eighty-six pounds I carried at the moment, but I keep myself very fit, I have to, so I didn't need the support. Yet. But I stopped anyway. My hosts were turning back and forth in place, a dozen slow-motion ballerinas, while their sensory cilia kept themselves aimed at me with the steadiness of telescope clock-drives. My anxiety blasted off without so much as a countdown while my buck-fifty weight made me feel horribly weak. For the first time in my life, I had a visceral sense of what it might be like to be morbidly obese. Which was humbling, since I'd treated obese people and had pretended to understand them. But there's nothing like terror to deflect mere humiliation, and what scared the shame out of me was the two Tsf barreling my way in high-gravity-defying leaps.

They stopped nearby, distant enough so that I didn't quite panic and make a futile break for the airlock, but close enough to me to learn that they smelled like curry, which implied the burnt-vanilla odor wasn't coming off them. Each was distinct enough in shape and coloration for me to easily tell them apart, but all their fingers, their longest cilia, were lavender, so if my information was correct, they were both males at the moment. The smaller alien held a Tsf interpreter: a device shaped like a doughnut with bicycle spokes. The larger Tsf clicked away and the machine provided a running translation in a version of English that meandered from obsolete to bizarre, with frequent side trips to stuffy and obscure. Plenty of slang, most of it antique. Traders, I guessed, had done the cliché thing and had been monitoring our radio and TV transmissions. For at least a century.

“Our regrets and apologies,” the largest one chattered. “Our bad. We never intended such staring rudeness. Here's lies the skinny: each of us, unknown to each other, was so hot to see it happen. As true as I am called Deal-of-ten-lifetimes, which you know I am, and my comrade is known as Best-offer, which you know he is, we all hang our gondolas in shame.”

Hot to see what happen? And while Deal's words were disarming, the tenor voice the translator used for him sounded cold, almost sullen; I tried not to read anything into it. Still, as far as my fundamental expectations went, I was back on semi-solid ground. Deal's oblique introductions fit what I'd been told was the Tsf sense of propriety. The idea was that we were already familiars, making a straightforward exchange of names inappropriate.

Of course, NASA had already told them my name, but I was supposed to not-introduce myself anyway. I usually go by “Al” or “Doc” but had been told to use the official moniker for this first greeting. “As certain as my name is Doctor Alanso J. Morganson, I noticed no rudeness whatsoever.” I hoped their culture had no taboos against the paler sort of lie. “Um, if I may ask, what were you hoping to see?”

“You may indeed ask. Anything and always. Curiosity, as Traders say, brushes wisdom.” Again, the words were friendly if eccentric, but the tone came across otherwise. Deal, in a gesture lost on me, lifted a leg and lightly swept its tip across my forehead. Considering Tsf abilities, he could've poked a hole though my skull just as easily. “We believed you'd be altering your size to make yourself more comfy in this gravity field.”

“My size?”

“Isn't a human of your profession referred to as a ‘shrink'?”

“Ah. We seem to have a slight misunderstanding. What're supposed to shrink, if I do my job right, are my patient's emotional problems.” Didn't seem wise to tell these walking craniums that the term was short for “headshrinker.”

“Go figure. Our bad, again.”

I lowered my voice. “Is my patient somewhere in this room?”

That got a reaction; Deal shuddered all over. "Awkward,” he said. “We Traders maintain stable emotional orbits and suffer no mental flaws.”

“Sorry, I thought—wait! You mean my patient isn't a Trader?”

“Most assuredly correct. In fact, if you will forgive me for expressing it so harshly in your terms: no way, Jose.”

That “Jose” threw me. Why would they suddenly use my middle name?

“Doctor, I wonder if our interpreting machine is functioning with full propriety.” I was wondering that myself. “It seemed you referred to your patients in the singular.”

Uh-oh. “I've got more than one?”

“It is a unique happenstance, but we have recently collected a triad of beings, no two alike, and all unfamiliar to Traders. We cannot comprehend their behaviors nor have yet ascertained their points of origin.”

Three aliens utterly alien to these aliens. Oh—my—God. I'd never remembered to ask what NASA had asked in trade for my services, but hadn't much cared since I wouldn't be earning it. But now it dawned on me with that classic sinking feeling that if I screwed up here by doing some actual harm, my failure could jeopardize Tsf-human relations. And with three total unknowns, how could I even guess what would harm?

I tried to sound calm. “Please tell me more.”

“We have little to relate. We rescued two of your patients from damaged starcraft, the third was a chucknoland found on a world similar to your Mars.”

“I'm sorry. What's a chucknoland?”

Deal hesitated. “Our translator has failed? Let me elaborate. I refer to a being forced to abandon their vessel who attempts to thrive beyond civilization.”

I snapped my fingers and every Trader in the room clicked loudly. Had I made a faux pas? Or were they were all just saying, “bless you"?

“Sorry about the snap, didn't mean anything by it. And I don't know where the translator came up with chucknoland, but I think you mean a castaway.”

“Then we have attained a bitchin’ mutual understanding. Now, I must sound a klaxon. Shortly, within six of your minutes if we comprehend your temporal and counting systems, and we do, we must make all Trader occupants of this station four and three fifths times heavier for five and two thirteenth minutes.”

That news upset me and not because of the picky fractions. The Tsf had informed Earth about the periodic gravity boosts, but wouldn't say how much or for how long. My handlers had guessed light and short. They'd had no idea why the aliens weren't more forthcoming.

“Dig this,” Deal continued, “our muscles would soon atrophy and our skeletal fibers de-mineralize in this wimpy gravity without frequent relief.”

“Why not stay heavy all the time?”

“If only. That would be prohibitively energy expensive since each added dollop of gravity requires exponentially more power.” His translator coated the statement with condescension. “May I show you to your stateroom where we can send you real-time images of your patients while you remain immune from increased weight? Or would you prefer to see them directly? Or would you care to leave our parent ship and forget everything the Master Traders have employed you to do?”

“I keep getting the impression you don't think I'm up for it.” If so, Deal and I were in perfect agreement.

“I think you are wasting your time and mine. The finest Tsf minds are focused on these problems; what could a human possibly add? But my thoughts are weightless since I'm not in charge. So, of the three options I offered, and I do recommend the final choice, what's your cup of tea?”

So much for the famous Trader politeness, but the question was good. And so was another: could I handle the upcoming change? I'd trained on a scaled-up centrifuge, a carnival ride designed by sadists as I'd described it to my wife, working up to three minutes at 7g, which jacked my 172 lbs to about 1,200, double what my NASA coaches claimed would be “worst case” conditions. I was the only mental-care professional on their short list who could handle anything approaching that—ironic considering my condition—so I got hired. By hired I mean drafted.

But since the gravity here was already too strong for my comfort, the coming increase would leave me nearly as heavy as during my training and for almost twice as long. Even with a smartsuit cum g-suit, inflating as needed to keep blood from pooling away from my brain, the experience sounded ghastly. Also I'd “grayed-out” more than once during my carnival rides, temporarily becoming colorblind. What if color provided important clues concerning my patients?

What was I thinking? My patients? Was I really moronic enough to continue with this farce? I'd had no idea how I was supposed to provide therapy to Traders, and we knew a little about Traders. This would be a shot in the dark, blindfolded. Anyone with the intelligence of a squirrel on up would've chosen Deal's third option, pled incompetence, and bowed out fast.

I just couldn't bring myself to do it, not yet. Deal's contempt had invoked what my wife calls my “stubborn edges.” Foolish, I know, but sometimes I'm a fool. Still, I didn't have to be stupid and squished. I opened my mouth to accept the stateroom invitation and then had two nasty thoughts. What if one or more of the mystery aliens was in some sort of crisis and lack of proximity hid important cues? Also, it might be useful to learn how well I could operate under the extreme condition.

“I'll visit your guests in person. Could you let me know a minute or so before you turn on the heavy?”

“You bet your bippy. If you desire to experience failure, please follow me.”

Strange. Deal's hostility went against everything I'd heard about Traders. Also, what was a “bippy,” and why would I want to bet it?

* * * *

A large sheet of transparent material separated the large room and its two occupants from the rest of the station. That seemed a good thing, not only because one of said occupants appeared dangerous as hell, but because the yellow-brown smog tinting the room's atmosphere didn't look like anything I'd care to inhale.

“I suppose,” I said, “the big one's my patient?”

Deal waved a few legs around. “Yes, the other is a mechanical entity whose only function, to our knowledge, is disposing of the organic entity's wastes, a useful task since the organic refuses to utilize our lavatory facilities.”

“A sanitation robot.”

“An apt if redundant description. From its increasing torpidity, we believe its power is failing. Soon we will remove it and attempt to restore its mojo.”

The machine resembled R2-D2 from the antique StarWars movies so much, I would've laughed if the thing next to it wasn't so frightening.

My patient stood eight or nine feet tall, face like a tiger, but with steely spikes jutting from its scalp. A punk predator. The larger spikes on its back implied defense against something I didn't care to imagine. It had six limbs not counting its long flat tail, four of which served as arms with six-fingered hands, and an upright body that seemed equally feline and reptilian. No clothes, but short brown fur with variegated green stripes; no obvious sexual organs. Claws eased out of the fingers, gleaming metallically. The tiger-lizard stared at me with yellow, yellow eyes, then became anything but still, jumping every which way while providing a soothing accompaniment of God-awful howls and screeches.

“What's the gravity in there?” I asked.

“Presently, no different than out here.”

Yikes. Jumping that high under these circumstances was impressive. And alarming. The phrase “bouncing off the walls” popped into my head, which annoyed me; thinking in clichés in here could lead to a clichéd and utterly inaccurate diagnosis. Even with the glassy barrier in the way, the noise rattled my teeth and drowned out the distant clacking from the main room. My latest responsibility drooled.

I turned toward Deal, to my right. Best-offer flanked me on my other side. “You sure,” I shouted to be heard over the racket, “this ... individual is intelligent?”

The tiger abruptly quieted down; otherwise, I would've missed the translation. “Our guest,” Deal said, “is seldom this exuberant and may have been excited by seeing you.” Right, the way a lion gets excited by a gazelle. “We found him or her or it alone except for the robot in a damaged spacecraft with appointments and controls obviously designed for this specific species under microgravity conditions.”

“Why only under microgravity?”

“If the craft were logically oriented on a solid planetary surface, the controls would remain out of his, her, or its reach unless he, she, or it, constantly performed acrobatics big time. As you see, our guest has the requisite chops, but we feel such bouncing would be impractical for operating that ship's form of complex manually-controlled navigation system.”

“I suppose. Speaking of impractical, can we agree to use, um, ‘her’ as the pronoun?”

Deal and Best-offer exchanged a series of clacks that weren't translated. “A consistent gender-defining term would be groovy with us in the interests of efficiency, always bearing in mind that we dare not conclude childbearing abilities due to an absence of well-hung attributes. Consider my own presently subtle genitalia.”

That little speech seemed to rattle around in my head for a minute before it dropped into the comprehension chute. “Have you been able to communicate with her at all?”

“You are uptight that you may be in a first-contact situation rather than a therapeutic one, where we have no basis of communication?”

“Well, yes.” Deal understood me better than I'd expected.

He waved a leg expressively, or at least gracefully since I had no idea what the gesture expressed. “Chill out, Doctor, although in another of your cases your fears may just possibly have merit. We have deciphered this patient's language—logically, it must be hers—by the usual means, and have had similar success with the third patient you will see, but neither has been willing or able to speak with us. This is one reason we suspected emotional impairment in both cases, likely due to trauma, which impelled my superiors to request human assistance.” The tone implied, “Bad idea.”

Deal's clacking quieted as though turning confidential. I had to concentrate to catch the translation, which also grew quieter. “Your species reputedly suffers an astonishing array of such impairments, so our Council of Masters foolishly believes you must be the galaxy's foremost experts in the field. No offense projected.”

I fought back a grin. “None taken. But what is the usual means for figuring out an alien language?”

“You don't know?”

The superior tone galled me. “It's not the sort of problem we've had to deal with yet.”

“So primitive, and yet I am here to answer your every question. The technique involves activating and studying an instructional protocol imbedded in the alien vessel's data-management system. Of course we rely on our own data controller for initial deciphering.”

“Huh. Why would anyone put language lessons on their own ship's computer?”

Deal tapped one leg against the floor, I'd bet impatiently. “Most starfaring species capable of even rudimentary foresight will anticipate spacecraft failures and possible rescue by helpful but unknown aliens. Therefore they make it easy to open communications.”

I shook my head. “Easy? How's it even possible?”

Deal's tapping sped up. “If I must educate you, such instruction, usually visual, is typically activated when the potential rescuer demonstrates ignorance of the damaged vessel's operating systems.”

“You mean when someone starts pushing buttons at random?”

“If you mean ‘buttons’ in a figurative sense, Doctor. Instruction most often commences with simple counting of objects to reveal the numeration symbols and number base involved. Then the mathematical operators are defined through their operations, again demonstrated visually, which leads to an array of prepositions and predicates. From there, context supplies an expanding field of comprehension with ever more complex axioms. Often live actors or animations of living beings act out various—”

My patient emitted a particularly loud screech and began chewing on her own tail. I lost track of Deal's spiel although I'd already gotten the gist, but I noticed when he wound down.

“So to get back to my question, you haven't been able—”

“To communicate with her, no. Our exchanges have been limited to one success: by offering a variety of nutritional substances, solid and liquid, we have learned to feed her.” I got the impression Deal was embarrassed by their failure to do more. “Likewise, we have not yet found sufficient navigational cues in her starship's data array to identify her home world.”

“Hmm. Maybe they don't necessarily want strangers knowing where they live.”

“Spot on, although obvious. I have also been ordered to mention that this one has recently begun displaying an attribute we've never encountered before. My superiors think it best for you to see this for yourself and draw your own conclusions before we offer our more sophisticated ones.”

“Okay. What I need to take a stab at this job is some idea of what constitutes normal behavior for this species. If you found language lessons in movie format on her spacecraft, did you find any other visual recordings?”

Deal rubbed three legs together. “Gnarly logic, I must admit, and the answer is yes. A series of such recordings await you in your stateroom, frequency-shifted for the limited human optical range. Would you care to go there now, or would you prefer misunderstanding another of your patients?”

Mainly, I wanted to stop seeing patient one. She scared me. “Let's move on to the next. I'd like an overview.”

“Righteous. But I must warn you, as you demanded, that a therapeutic gravity bump is due in one minute.”

I nodded and lay down on my self-propelled furniture. “Thanks.” Now I'd find out just how therapeutic my acceleration couch was. I gazed at my Data Manager icon and muttered an activation phrase. The luminous ring uncurled and floated upward, expanding into a virtual touchscreen displaying a fisheye view of the area. My two flanking Traders neglected to gasp or at least click in wonder at this demonstration of human technology. But then, they couldn't see it. I reached up and pushed the target cursor onto the distorted image of Deal then poked a finger through the impalpable enter button. It was a relief to let my hand drop since my arm was getting very heavy.

“Lead on, please,” I said as my weight relentlessly increased. I ignored the prompt for continuance and after a moment the touchscreen shrank, curled, and resumed its post around my ring finger. “This contraption will follow you now.” So I hoped. The new CPU element of my Data Manager was far more advanced than any upgrade you'd find at Electronics-R-Us, and its increased features gave it more scope for errors.

Deal backed away, and, glory be, my craft rolled along behind him. Without turning, the Trader moved in a dead straight line down the middle of the hallway, a trickier feat for someone without a ring of eyes. My back support, which had felt delightfully comfortable when I lay down, morphing to match my contours, felt harder every second.

The smartsuit tightened around my legs and I helped by tensing my leg muscles; the brain, like Dracula, needs its blood. But everything was starting to ache. And I had nearly five minutes of weighing over 1,000 pounds to go.

“Do you remain in vibrant health?” Deal asked, the tone sounding bored.

“Yes,” I lied in a choked voice. It's hard to breathe in high-g, let alone talk; the diaphragm tends to clench as part of an overall Support-the-Spine-At-All-Costs instinct, a kind of hyper-Valsalva effort. I imagine one could experience something similar by lying supine with a hundred-pound Olympic weight or three on one's tummy. How, I wondered, did those rare unfortunates on the far end of the obese bell-curve manage? I've heard of cases where people weighed more than I did right now.

“Sadly for you, our science isn't yet capable of isolating individuals from the surrounding gravity without limiting their spatial movements.”

“I just ... wish ... we could ... control ... gravity ... at all.”

“Do you? Then why didn't your government require that information as payment for your ... expertise?” The translator did a fine job of expressing sarcasm.

I would've let my jaw drop except I wasn't sure I could close it again. “You'd ... trade—”

“Trading is what we do. Goods, services, information, anything. If you can deliver, and even you must know how probable that is. But bide! Look behind you. Your first patient is performing the unique maneuver I mentioned.”

“Walk back, please. Can't turn my head.”

“You are tragically weak.” Deal stepped around me and returned to the transparent shield. My go-cart spun around and followed. When it stopped, I ordered my DM to put the couch into voice-controlled mode. Although by then, I didn't have much voice to work with.

“Turn. Clockwise. Don't mean you, Deal. Stop. Still not you, Deal. Raise head.”

After all this hassle, I saw no change in my punk tiger at first. Then, slowly, its coloration intensified and kept getting increasingly vivid. The claws and spikes turned luminous, and the golden eyes blazed enough to resemble searchlights.

“What?” I croaked.

“Keep your peepers peeled, Doctor. Truly, I've never seen her perform this feat nearly so powerfully. She keeps improving at this and doubtless even a primitive will find the results totally rad.”

Rad? Short for radish? Or radium? And nothing happened except I began losing my battle to stay calm, and on two fronts. One was my growing irritation with Deal. The other and more immediate concern was air. I kept assuring myself that I was getting enough but didn't find me convincing. And sure enough, just then my peripheral vision flickered and went out and the blindness gradually crept its way inward. Which is why I thought my eyes were playing tricks when my patient became a ghostly shape, losing all color and most of her solidity. I could see right through her.

“There!” the Trader announced, clicking with extra force. “Isn't that special?”

“What—ah! That feels good." One point five g was easy now. My chest hurt, but it was lovely to breathe again. The tiger reappeared, but cloaked in no more than her initial glory. “What happened?”

“We resumed operating gravity.”

“I mean, what happened to my patient?”

“Consider that for yourself while we mosey to your next appointment.”

I hadn't a clue, and that statement applied to this entire fiasco. What the hell was I doing? I hated to admit that Deal was right, but I really was useless here. And still, my pride wouldn't let me call it quits. When I got home, I'd be sure to buy The Complete Idiot's Guide To Idiocy, if such a book existed. It's not that I wasn't doing splendidly on my own, but it's always good to sharpen one's game.

* * * *

We didn't have to “mosey” far, which was nice since my leg muscles trembled when I got off my couch and stood up. Patient two appeared comfortingly simian if you overlooked trivial details such as six arms, two thick legs in front and a scrawny one in back, mottled turquoise hair, and two pairs of surplus eyes. I guessed this one was male, judging by the way its tunic-like wrapping bulged in the front crotch area, and Deal agreed to use the masculine gender but grumbled that appearances among aliens not only could be deceptive, but usually were. At least I was no longer the only clothed person in this nudist colony.

I couldn't begin to interpret the ape's behavior. He stood calmly as he stared at us with the top two eyes, the brown and green one, while all six of his hands moved incessantly, flicking sideways as if pushing aside some little nuisance or flipping up and down at random. If this was some form of sign language, why didn't he stop and wait for some return gestures? And if the only signs were those of desperation, why was he obviously more focused on his hands than on us? The constant motion reminded me of water flowing down a steep streambed, cascading over the larger rocks. It also reminded me of something else I'd seen. I couldn't say what....

“This being is the one we found on an otherwise uninhabited planet and whose language we have been unable to unfurl through no fault of our own,” Deal said. His clicking had a stiffer and more precise cadence than usual, reminiscent of marching band snare rhythms. “The only spacecraft we could find was a miniature spiraling lander such as many alien voyagers use in emergencies.” Voyagers, I thought, who didn't get dizzy.

“No Berlitz lessons available, I take it?”

“Minimal electronics, but a sizable cache of consumables.”

“Does he stop gesturing when he eats?”

“No, but if you insist on hassling me with irrelevant questions, his paw motions diminish by one third because he requires two paws to handle his nourishment. And he constantly rotates the pair he uses.”

I observed the castaway for a few more minutes but learned nothing except that his gesturing became hypnotic after a while. I was surprised the Traders, with their super technology, hadn't been able to spot the starship he'd evidently had to abandon, assuming it was orbiting the world where he'd been rescued. Then again, without knowing the starship's shape, albedo, composition, or orbital distance, perhaps it wouldn't be easy to find.

Where had I seen hand movements like that before?

“Will I have time to see my next patient before the next gravity change?” I asked.

“Surely. Follow me.”

Deal's body posture had changed the instant I mentioned visiting patient three, and when I glanced over at Best-offer, he'd changed similarly. Both Tsf had pulled their legs in closer to their gondolas and stood taller. Their new positions struck me as defensive, but I didn't have quite enough arrogance to trust my ability to decipher an extraterrestrial body language.

* * * *

Still, something about my final patient clearly had a big impact on my tour guides. It—and we agreed that “it” was the bon mot in this case—sure had an impact on me. The two previous rescued souls had seemed highly exotic, but alike enough to terrestrial life so that I could compare them to Earth animals. I could relate. This new one was something else. Alien in the spookiest sense.

For one thing, it was flat enough to ooze out from under a door or a rock, practically two-dimensional. Talk about your flat affect. For another, it was unbelievably slow, creeping across the room with all the haste of a tired slug. It wasn't nearly as pretty as a slug, not with all those translucent, twisted protrusions placed seemingly at random on that nearly shadow-thin gray body; not with so many rotten-cucumber-green claws or hooks, most scattered over the protrusions, some projecting directly from its torso, the universe's ugliest picture hangers. Small discolorations that could've been sensory organs or ulcers completed the ensemble, and I'm embarrassed to admit that the sight of my patient left me nauseated.

On impulse, I decided to take a chance and turned toward Deal. “What makes this specimen more important to you than the others?”

The Trader went rigid. If I'd guessed right, this might help my reputation here, which just might prevent my stock from plummeting to zero point nothing when—not if—I failed at my main job. But Deal wasn't clicking and I started worrying. Then Best-offer spoke up, which startled me since he hadn't thrown a word in my direction until now.

“As my esteemed associate remains muted from his shock and disappointment, I will assume his diplomatic duties on the basis of a brief stewardship.” The translator device used a deep, raspy tone for Best-offer's voice. “Is that hunky-dory with you?”

“Um. Sure. Why's he shocked and disappointed?”

“I am honor bound not to spill the beans. Unless you have something worthwhile to trade for the legumes in question?”

At least I was consistent: I didn't understand anyone or anything on this station. But I had the feeling I'd just missed something significant. “I—just tell me about this alien.”

“Super. We found the dude adrift on the galactic attenuation adjacent to your planetary system. His ship, an organic-electronic, had been trashed by a collision and most of its atmosphere had flown the co-op.”

“The coop?”

“Whatever. The surviving data organisms, after some sweet-talkin', provided language instruction and some general information, but were too whacked to do their thing with navigation, life support, propulsion, and repair. We checked out the traces of atmosphere. Unique.”

“How so?”

“No trace of water vapor. Every intelligent life form we had previously encountered in our travels requires some amount of dihydrogen monoxide. There may be clever crystals or sentient flames hangin’ out somewhere, but we have never consciously crossed their paths.”

“So I imagine you're keeping my patient dry in there?”

“Duh. Water is almost certainly toxic for an entity adapted to such an arid atmosphere.”

Interesting, but were my hosts evading my original question? “And the importance of this species?”

Best-offer didn't go mute, but he spoke slowly as though weighing each click. “The ship's data organisms were royally screwed, Doctor. Aside from the abstract visual patterns automatically generated when we triggered the language lesson sequence, we could glom on to only one distinct image: a star map with a heap of color-coded connecting lines.”

“I don't—wait. You figure you've stumbled onto some galactic empire?”

“Not close and no cigar. We doubt it's coincidental that we use very similar maps.”

“Oh. Another species of traders?”

On my other side, Deal returned to life. “From the map and the starship's cargo,” he said, “we are confident they operate much as we do.”

“A rival.”

“Conceivably. But frankly, dear Doctor, we don't give a damn because that's not the big deal. Will you bite?”

“Will I what?”

“Are you hearing, language, or attention impaired? To rephrase, are you interested?"

Couldn't help it, I laughed. “Okay, I'll bite.”

“Their star map, however rotated, didn't match the configurations of our galaxy. Our guest, we believe, is a visitor from another.” Now his clicks came fast and loud. “I doubt you have the capacity to understand, but the trading possibilities are awesome. And a ship from even a relatively near island universe, perforce, likely utilizes propulsion techniques far in advance of ours and perhaps communication techniques equally advanced, although these issues are uncertain considering the time scale commensurate with your patient's movements.”

Strange to think of the Tsf faster-than-light drive being second rate to anyone's. My NASA advisors would've chewed off their own legs for a practical near light-speed drive.

I gazed at my patient with new eyes. How could a creature that moved like cold syrup, however technologically advanced, do business with faster folks? At least it wouldn't make any hasty bargains. “Do you know which galaxy the map shows?”

“We are working on that, but the project is complex since the image is limited and the map supplies no directional cues such as the position of what you humans call the Great Attractor.”

I had a thought. “It must've taken forever for the language instruction sequence to finish.”

“Hardly, the program was interactive. The student set the pace, and our student, this station's data controller, is a quick study.”

Damn. If it weren't for that interactivity, I'd have some notion of how fast this fellow should be operating. Still, I saw another possible angle. “Did the instruction include audio?”

Deal lifted several legs in sequence, another gesture that was lost on me. “You wish to know if we can produce the creature's actual speech.”

“Right.”

“An obvious question and the answer is yes, with the assistance of our translator doohickey.”

“Have you tried setting your translator to speak very slowly?”

“Certainly. And we have essayed communication in written form. Assuming our guest digs this particular language—and why provide language instruction otherwise?—it hasn't responded to us. Nor has it eaten, although we've offered it a variety of dehydrated substances. Thus we suspect some mental or emotional defect, perhaps stress induced, which may also account for its remarkably torpid movements.”

Following an old and bad habit, I tried to gnaw on a knuckle but tasted smartsuit instead. “I'm going to have to, um, chew on all this for a while. Could you take me to my cabin now? I'd like to see those movies you found on my first patient's ship.”

“Groovy. Walk this way.”

* * * *

The décor in my room was a bit loud. Literally. The Traders had arranged a fancy virtual Earth environment with all the comforts of home—if your home is set on the edge of a precipice with a view of a giant waterfall on one side and a forest on the other. All it needs for perfect corniness, I thought, is a unicorn and a rainbow. Then I looked more closely and by gum, found a rainbow lurking in the mist ahead. It was the waterfall, of course, that was so noisy.

But it felt like heaven when I stepped inside and the weight of a world seemed to drop off my shoulders. At first, Earth gravity felt trivial, as though I might float to the cloud-spattered ceiling. The room had been adjusted for human occupancy, or at least Inuit occupancy since it was no warmer than the rest of the station. Deal showed me how to summon a bed, which I wouldn't need thanks to my faithful couch. Likewise a chair, likewise unnecessary. And he explained how to access the “pantry” and a bathroom, which I definitely needed. This last required stepping off the precipice onto apparently empty air, and I was grateful that Best-offer demonstrated because otherwise I might've stalled until my bladder ruptured.

From inside, the open entrance to my stateroom was a rectangular phantom, visible through the virtuality, but I couldn't see an inkling of the actual walls. I was even more impressed by the bathroom when I excused myself to honor my kidneys. This room, too, had no door, but since I couldn't see the Traders waiting ten feet away, I told myself the environmental illusion gave me privacy. Everything from toilet to shower had been cloned from some four-star hotel. I opened a wrapped mini-bar of soap to wash my hands, stared into the mirror above the sink, and wasn't pleased with the face looking back, the tight lips and tighter jaw, the sunken eyes, that little bulge between the eyebrows.

Snap diagnosis: this subject feels an overwhelming sense of futility.

I didn't need a mirror to gather that. Even before I'd learned that NASA had so badly misunderstood what the Tsf expected me to do, I'd known this mission was absurd. How could I even begin to evaluate extraterrestrial problems? Despite all my training and experience, I barely understand my fellow humans.

To be honest with myself, I'd accepted this assignment out of curiosity and pride. I'd wanted to be the first on my block to see the parent ship and to visit with aliens on their station. I'd been attracted to the adventure despite my fears, and the publicity wouldn't hurt my business. But now that I was here and both the challenge and possible rewards were vastly more extensive than I'd thought, that face looking back at me was bad news. So what if I only had a microscopic chance for success? With my current outlook, I had no chance at all. Accurate diagnosis requires open-minded, clear-eyed observation on the part of the diagnostician, and constantly telling myself the job was impossible narrowed my perception and created a self-fulfilling assessment. If I wasn't going to pack up and go home, I needed a change of attitude.

I took a breath in and slowly exhaled, visualizing my certainty of failure dissipating in the frigid air. I repeated the procedure ten times. Mining just one useful insight about any of my patients would make me a winner. Suspend judgment and look, I told myself. For once, I listened. Returning to the party, it felt as though my personal magnetic poles had flipped.

An unfamiliar Tsf, not-introduced to me as Great-bargain, was waiting with my usual playmates in the main room, but he left after passing me a little coppery disk. Best-offer silently demonstrated how to use the thing, which proved to be a combo image projector and data-storage unit with virtual user interface. The menu presented a long list written in a Tsf script composed of Braille-like dots. Each item, Deal assured me, represented a video retrieved from my first patient's starship. I selected one haphazardly, and the menu screen displayed five tiger-lizards engaged in assembling something mechanical and intricate while a snarly voice apparently provided commentary. None of these engineers jumped around, howled, or performed a semi-vanishing act. Something really did seem wrong with my patient.

I had a question but Deal beat me to the punch: “Have you assembled a theory as to how your initial patient renders herself insubstantial?”

“Not really. But I have the impression she has to make herself more substantial before she can ... thin out.”

“An obvious observation, but at least you are following our line of thought on the subject. I doubt you will arrive at the correct destination. Now we will abandon you to your futile research. The pantry is stocked with human foods, both solid and liquid.”

“I appreciate your hospitality.” No sense in returning the rudeness.

“Courtesy is the parent to trade. Call out if you require anything.”

“Thanks. I will.”

My guides departed and I tried to think.

Two things we'd learned about Traders: they took verbal contracts very seriously, and they believed in the principle of mutual benefit. While they'd haggle and leave their customers responsible for understanding the details of any transaction, they weren't deceitful and never tried to cheat or gain unfair advantage. So it seemed at least theoretically possible for me to earn something incredible for the human race. All I needed was a miracle. I'd no idea what the Earth authorities had actually requested for my services, but surely, artificial gravity was worth far more. Did anyone back home even know that the Tsf would trade in knowledge? Was it possible the reason we'd learned so little about them and this station was simply that we hadn't offered to trade anything for detailed information?

I shook my head and turned my attention to the little disk in my hand. Impressive technology. Yes, an ordinary DM can appear to produce similar effects, but that's an illusion. The glow around the finger, the touchscreen, the responding voice if initiated, all are subjective. It's not my field, but I know how it's done:

After a customer provides blood samples, the “router-rooter,” a tiny piezoelectric capsule wrapped in a gene-modified stem-cell matrix, is surgically implanted near the customer's spine and attached to several multifidus muscles and the crura, which allows the capsule to be powered by simply breathing. Stem-cell filaments grow, seek out the spinal cord, and merge with it. That part is permanent without risky surgery. Then, the system operates by wirelessly networking the person's nervous system with an external CPU; in my case, a fist-sized CPU buried in my couch. The result: an interactive computer that's essentially a controlled-hallucination generator. And if several people have DMs and desire it, they can share hallucinations.

This disk was powered by God knows what, worked God knows how, and any seeing being could make popcorn and watch the movies it projected. I shook my head. No sense in getting bogged down in minor mysteries when bigger ones were more important. I didn't have any popcorn, but I sat down and loaded a video anyway.

* * * *

Four documentaries later—or soap operas for all I knew—I stood and paced around the room, or rather around the couch since I still wasn't comfortable stepping onto apparently empty air. I'd seen enough punk tigers to make up for a lifetime of having seen none. Thin ones, chubby ones, exceptionally muscular ones who probably spent hours in gyms pumping something heavier than iron. Maybe thorium.

Perhaps from too extensive a stay in microgravity, my patient appeared scrawny compared to most of the brutes I'd seen, but not uniquely so. And yet, and yet ... something was different about her, and I couldn't figure out what.

Sure, her peers didn't jet around like punctured balloons, but that wasn't it. I expected their behavior to be different than hers. While the Tsf had placed her in environmental isolation for her own good, she might not see it that way; simply being imprisoned could affect any being's psychology. And speaking of stress-induced quirks, I'd been traumatized by the big squeeze earlier and hated the idea of leaving this haven, but damn it, I needed to observe my patient again and compare....

I grinned because, having confirmed I was an idiot, it seemed better to be the grinning kind. Why leave my cozy cliffside retreat when I could study her right here? I called my DM into touchscreen format and played back that first encounter with patient one. Good recording: clear and seamlessly tiled although the subject had been shot from the low angle of the lenses set into my couch. When she jumped high enough, her head popped out of frame. The videos I'd watched earlier hadn't showed any tiger-lizards from so close up.

And the answer was right in front of me, I knew it, but couldn't see it.

“Dr. Morganson?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere, but it sounded deep and raspy.

“Best-offer?”

“Got it in one. What's happenin'? Your life-signs are wigging out a bit.”

Seemed odd not to hear any clicks beforehand. And I felt uneasy about being so closely monitored. “I'm fine, just getting slightly frustrated.”

“Stay cool. But there's been a change in your second patient. I could flip video your way, but would you care to check it out live?”

“When's the next gravity surge?”

“We'll wait until you complete your examination before applying therapeutic force. We observed how bummed out you got last time.”

“Thanks, but won't that hurt your health?”

“Our health will keep. If you can dig it, Deal-of-a-lifetime will meet you in the Arcade of Healing. Even-steven and Trader-joe shall join you ASAP. They're non-shrinking doctors.”

Even Steven? Trader Joe? Had the Tsf selected such names simply to make me comfortable? If so, it wasn't working. “Okay. I'm leaving right now.”

* * * *

Best-offer was right about patient two; the simian had certainly changed. He'd lost perhaps a third of his hair, and where his mottled skin was exposed, it resembled freshly plucked poultry. Diseased poultry. He'd stopped the incessant hand twitching; his lowest two eyes, the only ones open, looked as if they'd been whitewashed; and the way he sat slumped on his tripod legs practically screamed of despair through the body-language barrier.

“How long has he been like this?” I asked Deal.

“I am unsure of the precise time interval, but ahoy! Here come the medicos.”

The “medicos” were both currently female—green-tinged cilia—and they streaked down the hallway, arriving in seconds. Even without prompting I might've guessed these were doctors. No white coats or tongue depressors, but they had that harried, behind-schedule look. Each toted an arsenal of small but complex-looking devices. Diagnostic, I assumed.

“Trader-joe,” Deal asked the newcomer slightly in front, “when did this patient suffer a state-change?”

Trader-joe also carried a translator, so I got his answer in stereo. “In human time, nine minutes and eight-thirteenth seconds from when you finished asking me the question.”

Huh. The Tsf all seemed to have built-in chronographs and a savant's ability to instantly convert their time units into ours. For some reason, that notion struck me as highly relevant, and for an instant, I wobbled on the threshold of remembering exactly where I'd seen hand movements similar to the ones my patient had stopped making. The second medic, Even-steven, addressed me before I could fix the memory.

“We waited to learn if the aberration would resolve itself before subjecting this subject to the potential trauma of direct evaluation.”

“So you'll examine him now?”

“Only with your permission, Doctor. He is your patient. If you wish us to proceed and to accompany us, you must don your vacuum suit. His atmosphere contains enough chlorine to discomfort a human to death.”

“I think we should act immediately, so please go ahead without me.”

Both doctors moved to lean against the subtle barrier separating the patient's space from ours, and they seemed to slowly melt through and into the room. The three-legged simian didn't react, even when Trader-joe and Even-steven unfolded their machines and began attaching clamps and probes to and in him. Unipolar depression or possibly bipolar disorder, I thought, then reminded myself to distrust my instincts. But damn it, it looked like some form of depression.

“Cheese it,” Best-offer said, barely clicking. “The cops.”

I didn't get the cheese reference but the “cops” became obvious when two more Tsf joined us in the corridor. These two were the largest Traders I'd seen. They moved nearly in unison and neither was introduced to me, not even off-handedly. They halted behind Deal and lurked there, watching everything with presumably steely sensory organs.

“Why the company?” I whispered to Best-offer, but Deal answered.

“My whimsical associate misstated the role of the individuals who have joined us. These are Masters of Propriety here strictly to make sure our doctors follow established protocol in what is clearly a medical emergency. Should this subject kick the bucket, we might find it desirable to have evidence of our good faith attempts to preserve him.”

Right. If Traders ever located his species, they wouldn't want to alienate, so to speak, a potential trading partner. So no experimental neck-tourniquets. But the “cops” reminded me of just how deadly the Tsf could be.

Two years ago, a year after the Traders had put this station into circumlunar orbit and opened up Trading Posts near Beijing, Delhi, and Manhattan, there'd been an incident unreported in any human news media. I'd only found out about it myself two weeks ago. Some crime syndicate had tried to rob the Manhattan Trading Post, which was understandable considering all those exotic treasures just sitting there on all those shelves. This Post, like the others, was only open an hour at a time, three times a day. During those hours, its environment was adjusted for human comfort. At all other times, the environment was set to duplicate conditions on the Tsf's high-gravity home world. Which, from what I now knew, implied that it was more practical to increase gravity on a planet than on a space station.

The heist was perfectly organized, executed, and timed, and the eight hooded men who rushed into the open-for-business Post carried the most reliable and powerful automatic weaponry any mob could afford.

Until that moment, the Traders had seemed harmless, self-effacing, friendly, and unarmed. It hadn't occurred to many humans that ambulatory beings who'd evolved in high-gravity would not only be strong and tough, they'd also have reaction-times like oiled lightning. Maintaining balance under multiple gees, even with multiple legs, requires super-quick reactions because everything falls fast. And if you want to avoid a predator, or catch prey, or even catch a ball...

To make a long and gory story just gory, the three Tsf present in the Post moved like rockets and tore the eight men to bloody paste, bones and all. I watched the Trader recording of the event, which they released to the US Justice Department, who hot-potatoed it to the FBI, evidently with instructions to bury it deep and only decant it for intimidating psychiatrists. I'm fairly sure one of the Tsf got hit with a bullet or two, but it didn't even slow her down.

Yes, the Traders could've simply disarmed the bad guys, captured them, and turned them over to our police; and it says something about Tsf psychology that when presented with a clear threat, they obliterated it. Another point of interest was the method the Tsf used to clean up the mess: they released a cloud of blue gas. When it dissipated, the Post was spotless and only the carnage was gone.

I needed a distraction. “Why do you think,” I asked Deal, “your medical tests will be meaningful on a life form so unfamiliar?”

“The data now being collected can be compared to the data we gathered immediately after we rescued this individual. We expect to find significance, but aren't counting on it.”

“I—good Lord! Countingonit. That's the key!”

For a few seconds, Deal kept as still as the security personnel behind us. Then he clicked, “I fear our translator has failed. I failed to grasp the import of your last few statements.”

“My fault. I'm just—I think I know what my patient was doing with his hands before.” I had to fight off a childhood tendency to stutter. “Do you know what an abacus is?”

“Only if you refer to the counting frame referred to as a suanpan in China, a soroban in Japan, a—”

His condescension no longer bothered me. “That's the thing.”

“What about it?”

“Years ago, I visited a school in Tokyo where students were trained to perform all sorts of arithmetic calculations on, um, sorobans and do them in seconds.”

“I still await enlightenment.”

“Not for long. When the students got really proficient, their teachers took their sorobans away. After all those years of intensive practice, the students could visualize the beads perfectly, and I watched a roomful of kids multiplying four digit numbers, fast and accurately, on imaginary abacuses.”

“That what you talkin’ ‘bout.” The voice sounded worried. “You believe your patient was employing a similar technique. A curious notion, but what problem would require three separate counting frames?”

I nodded, relieved that Deal hadn't stomped on the idea. “You told me you'd only found his landing craft, so I'm guessing he was somehow keeping track of his main spaceship and trying to give you the coordinates. It would take three, right? Finally he gave up.”

Deal stiffened and I thought he was going to clam up on me again. “An improbable theory although it conforms to all known facts. But even given the numbers, how could we determine the zero point to which the coordinates relate?”

“I don't know. Or maybe I do. You found him on a planet? If I were him, I'd have used the spot where you found me as the reference point. Either that or the planet's center.”

“You foolishly assume he has unprecedented powers of spatial and temporal orientation. Please bide while I discuss this matter with my superiors.”

I expected Deal to go off to find these superiors, but he stood right there, clicking like a Geiger counter over plutonium. The Tsf way of speaking carried quite a distance because I couldn't see the Traders who began clicking back in return. The interpreting device ignored all this byplay, but Deal gave me a summary in his own sweet way.

“Here is our plan: We will play back earlier recordings of this being, magnify the image of his moving hands, and deduce the bead arrangements of the counting frames he was visualizing, and the three continual sets of results.” He made it sound as though the idea was his. “Then we need only vary dimensional axes and numeration systems until his results become meaningful and consistent in relationship to a moving object. If one of the logical zero points such as galactic center proves correct, a few sets of solutions will allow us to plot his ship's course or orbit. If this is successful, we will then retrieve his spacecraft. Personally, I very much doubt any of this will succeed.”

I had to admit that the Traders had evidently caught my insight and run with it farther than I could, all the way to the goal posts if everything worked out. “I have another idea. Do you have or could you build anything resembling an abacus?”

“Why?”

“I'll have to show you.”

Deal hesitated. “The project seems unnecessary. But I have been ordered to obey your whims. Certainly we have wires and beads. Hang loose, this won't take long.”

Deal leaped away, leaving me alone with Best-offer and two grim shadows until the medicos finished their research and squeezed back into the passageway. Without waiting for me to ask, Trader-joe began rattling off—it sounded like rattling—test results, all expressed in human measurements but too fast for me to follow. I interrupted to ask some questions, but just then Deal returned, passed me an improvised abacus, and everyone who wasn't already silent became so and watched to see what would happen.

I glanced at the toy in my hand. It had once been a Tsf translator, but the spokes had been ripped out, the frame bent rectangular and restrung with fifteen parallel wires. Each wire held fifteen hollow glass beads, all emerald green except for the black top two. Fast work, putting this together.

I hoped my patient would see it and realize that we'd caught on, but first I had to catch his attention; he seemed to have withdrawn a light-year into himself. So I stood in front of him and waved the impromptu abacus like a madman. Slowly, his eyes focused on it. I flipped a few beads, and all his eyes popped open, colors instantly replacing what had resembled cataracts. I'd never seen such a rapid, spectacular transformation. In that instant, he jumped to his feet, all three of them, practically radiating joy and health. I could've sworn his hair was already growing back on his bare spots. He pointed to the abacus and Deal took it and pushed it through the isolation membrane into his hands. The simian held it so that we could see the emerald beads and hid three of them under a hand.

Deal made an especially forceful click. “Base twelve, it seems,” he said, no pleasure in the tone. “Other possibilities exist, but this may save us time. Would you care to return to your stateroom now, Doctor?”

“Oh. Sure. Guess I've been holding up your gravity therapy.”

“You think? But apparently the Masters have found a champion in you. Come, I will accompany you to lightness.” Deal's legs practically dragged as we moved along but his partner seemed to skip.

“Doctor, you da man,” Best-offer click-whispered to me.

* * * *

My room hadn't changed, but I had. “Deal-of-ten-lifetimes,” I said, standing between Deal and the doorway, a joke if he wanted to leave. “You clearly have a problem with me, and I want to know what it is.”

“I will tell you, if you insist.”

Best-offer, who'd entered behind me, hopped onto my couch without asking my permission and rode it to its usual spot. I had the feeling he found this confrontation vastly entertaining.

“Here's me,” I said, “insisting.”

“Very well. I chose to wager against your success, which required a large amount of exchange credit to show any significant profit.”

I stared at him for a second. “Let's see if I understand you. You made a bet that I'd fail and had to bet a pile because the local bookies were betting the same way.”

“In essence, yes.”

“I, on the other hands,” Best-offer volunteered, “wagered against the odds, risking little and earning much exchange. Deal-of-a-lifetime should've hedged his bet with a side wager.”

Deal shook a leg at his partner. “Thanks for nothing, friend of friends. Your advice is as tardy as it is obvious.”

I held up my hands. “Okay. We've cleared the air. So how about we stop bickering and make the best of things?”

“I see no reason why we can't all just get along,” Deal said, his artificial voice expressing resignation. “I was only trying to ensure a positive outcome. For me, that is.”

“You weren't exactly encouraging.”

“Gave it my best shot. Now, my smug associate and I have duties and must leave you alone to enjoy your victory. I will not underestimate you again.”

The pair hurried off and I realized I was ravenous. So I unpacked some half-frozen krill-protein sandwiches on true whole-grain bread, and to wash them down, a chocolate soymilk drink—my couch's built-in refrigerator wasn't bothering to run. The stateroom pantry was stuffed with human snacks, but they were all high-glycemic-load items crammed with sugar and saturated fats. As biologists learned nearly a century ago, every meal counts. Since I was living on borrowed time and wanted to make it a long-term loan, I couldn't afford treats that would stimulate a cascade of inflammatory agents. But those damn chocolate-chip macadamia cookies in the pantry almost burned a hole in my will power.

Frankly, I felt damn good. Not only had I taken a large step toward solving patient two's problem, I'd earned my first gold star from my hosts. Moreover, I had a new hope. Perhaps I didn't stand a chance of resolving alien neuroses, but what if one or both of my other patients had a more ... mechanical sort of difficulty, the sort of thing only a technological primitive such as yours truly could spot?

Then I had to laugh at myself. From Doctor I-think-I-can't, I'd turned into a wild-eyed optimist when my success had really been the dumbest sort of luck. If I hadn't visited that school in Tokyo, I wouldn't have had a clue, and my chances for similar victories, realistically, were none to nil. But Deal's mention of magnifying the image of hands had given me a notion....

I hadn't wanted anyone who was monitoring this room to think I was talking to myself, but I'd reached the point of needing someone to bounce ideas off of, someone without hidden agendas. That left me one choice.

Putting my old DM into vocal-interaction mode had been fun because of a popular fantasy livewidget I'd downloaded and customized, ostensibly to entertain my son whose DM was, naturally, on my family-and-friends list. I'd say the codeword “Aladdin,” see and feel a lamp in my hands, rub the thing, and watch smoke rise up and congeal into Carl Jung. The system I now used had been designed originally for the military, and I doubted it would accept any fun control mods such as Aladdin or my wife's favorite, One Ring.

But my NASA handlers had waxed enthusiastic about its having new “bells and whistles” and then, perhaps suspecting that psychiatrists don't recognize metaphors, they explained that they referred to improved cognition and pattern-comprehension rather than to any annoying musical accompaniment. Also, my unit came with a choice of four designer personalities: Diana, David, Dane, and Doris. I'd had two weeks to get to know them all and to learn the control procedures.

“Diana, Diana, Diana,” I said quickly, the redundancy preventing accidental activation should some living Diana drop by. Right now, I didn't want David's philosophical ramblings, or Dane's jokes, or Doris's constant concern for my well-being.

“How can I help you, Al?” The alto voice, adjusted to my preference, sounded friendly but businesslike.

“Last time I was in this room, I watched some videos that the Tsf had retrieved from an alien spaceship. As I understand it, you're recording everything happening around me, so I assume you recorded the recordings?”

“If your rising inflection indicates a query, my answer is yes.”

“Great. When I say ‘go,’ please display random images of the aliens from those videos one at a time—just one image per second and on only half your screen, um, the left side. On the other half, show me the first patient I saw today, the one similar to the video aliens.”

“Do you wish to see your patient in real time or from my memory?”

I blinked twice. “How could you display my patient in real time?”

“I am receiving a feed from the parent ship.”

“Huh. Real time, then. Go.”

The virtual screen appeared, as did the images I'd requested. “Stay with this grouping,” I ordered after a minute. “Zoom in on the leftmost alien until it's the same size as the one on the right and put its actions on a ten-second loop.”

I'd chosen that particular tiger because its body posture matched my client's. I watched it reach out to adjust a complicated mechanism on a black stand and then watched the whole thing again three times. Damn. The two aliens had individual variations, plenty of them, but I saw no fundamental physical difference between my patient and, presumably, a healthy tiger-lizard. Yet I knew I was missing something.

Suddenly, a big difference. My patient started her intensifying routine. Only this time, she kept it up so long and became so vivid that I half expected her to burst into flame. Tyger, tyger, burning bright...

“Deal,” I shouted, “if you can hear me, I'm heading out to patient one. I think something's gone wrong with this one, too.”

I sprinted out my doorway, not thinking, and then the extra eighty-odd pounds hit me. I yelped from a horrible twinge in my right knee. That leg gave out and I slammed into the floor as if some steroid-bulked-up pro wrestler had thrown me down. I'd felt at least one rib crack and for far too long, I couldn't breathe. But I finally managed to gasp in a little air and struggled to my hands and knees, intending to crawl toward the hospital corridor if I couldn't stand. I was no longer proud of myself.

The DM screen reformed before me; I'd forgotten to close it, but Diana had minimized it while I'd been moving. An instant later, my couch tapped me on the ass. Dr. Dignity here. I glanced at the screen and forgot everything else. The left-side tiger kept adjusting that same machine every ten seconds; but on the right, my patient's room contained one robot and no patient.

To my far left, past the screen, Deal skidded into view, reached me in two giant bounds, and used four legs to set me on my feet. He'd only needed one, I'm sure, but the extras made the hoisting gentler on me. “Are you injured?” he asked, a bit late to earn his EMT merit badge, but it was strange to hear him express any concern for me. “We saw you fall.”

“I'm all right.” At least I could stand on my own. And breathe, sort of. “But look!” I pointed to the screen.

Yes, the kind of fool that would dash from one gravity field into a much heavier one is just the sort to point at a virtual object only visible in his head.

“Sorry,” I said. “You can't see what I'm seeing because—”

“Au contraire. Your data management system and ours have linked. Mine is showing me what yours is showing you.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, the original feed is ours, so I already knew of your patient's absence.” Now his words were smugger than his tone.

“Maybe she just ... thinned out to the point of invisibility?”

I could've sworn the translator prefaced his response with a brief raspberry. “We scanned her room for life signs. We doubt she has ceased processing gasses, ceased making even the slightest sounds of organic involuntary activities, ceased radiating and absorbing anything on the practical electromagnetic spectrum, stopped—”

Now that was the Deal I'd grown so fond of. “I get it. She's gone.”

“Also, we found ... traces of her elsewhere. You stand askew, are you certain your fall did not damage you?”

I shrugged and the tiny motion hurt my ribs. “Maybe a little.”

“Then return to your stateroom and recuperate; there's naught you can do at the moment to aid in searching for the ding-a-ling.”

“Did you say ‘ding-a-ling'?” If that was obsolete slang for a mental case, it made no sense to me.

“Yes. Perhaps this translator provided an inapt metonymy.”

“Let's just move on.”

“Done. If you need assistance in healing, our medical team trembles from readiness.”

I envisioned overeager “medicos” inserting their probes into me. “Thanks, but I'll be fine. Wait! Why should you have to search? Don't you have ... sensors or something that can locate her?”

Deal brushed his gondola with a leg in a thoughtful, jaw-rubbing kind of way. “They have, many times. But when we arrive, she has already relocated.”

“Good God. Teleportation?”

“We believe she becomes tenuous enough to pass through walls, explaining her escape.”

I just stared at him and after a moment he continued. “Frankly, we are surprised she can absorb our atmosphere. Yet she travels with great vigor.”

“Have you tried pinning her down with gravity?”

“You betcha. With no success. Don't assess her capacities by measuring yours. Before I rejoin the search for our rolling stone...”

He paused until I caught on and said, “That one works.”

“...may I assist you to your room?”

We all need someone we can lean on.

* * * *

My body hurt less the instant I entered my cabin. Deal galloped away, and I lay down on my couch, which as usual had tailed me in. The screen automatically reformed directly over my head because of my supine position, but I barely glanced at it.

How, I wondered, did the Tsf even recognize an alien distress signal? Was some kind of super-science aetheric siren the usual ploy? And on reflection, it seemed implausible that the Tsf had located three unknown, stranded aliens within a short period of time—Deal had claimed they'd all been recovered recently. He'd also referred to this triple play as a “unique happenstance,” but wasn't it far more likely that all the victims had been involved in a single accident? Perhaps they weren't unknown to each other and had been meeting to arrange a trade deal and something had gone wrong. Or gone sour.

Three travelers. One, judging by the strange star maps, from a distance even the Tsf couldn't reach; one capable of complex three-part running calculations; one who could drift through walls. All three appearing to surpass the usual three-dimensional limitations. A possible connection?

A spasm of honesty made me admit that all this speculation was largely my attempt to forget there was a crazed tiger-lizard wandering the ship. Get a grip, Al, I warned myself. You may be on to something, but it has nothing to do with why you were hired.

But if a trade deal had melted down like the standard TV drug deal, maybe patient one was seeking the others, and not to cheer them up. I sat up too fast and my ribs let me know. After a second, the screen reappeared but it showed nothing new.

“Diana, Diana, Diana. Can you communicate with Deal-of-a-lifetime through the ship's DM?”

“Yes. What do you desire to communicate?”

“Tell him patients two and three may be in danger from the first one.”

Deal's audio response came almost instantly. “Doctor, we already guard them. Rest yourself! Over and out.”

And a Roger Wilco to you too.

With that urgency off my mind, I thought of another kind of distraction, but a potentially useful one: studying Diana's video of patient three, the squeaky wheel who moved too slowly to squeak. “Diane, close all current images and show me what you've got on that flat alien with all those hook things.”

And there it was in all its repulsive glory. Its body design didn't seem functional. How could it possibly use those twisted, almost two-dimensional protrusions as limbs? For the first time, I noticed how it ... ambulated: by slowly rocking forward on its lowest protrusions rather like someone in a potato-sack race determined to lose.

“My problem,” I said, complaining out loud, “is that this thing is too alien. I've got nothing to relate it to, let alone compare it to. So how am I supposed—”

The question was rhetorical but Diana interrupted. “Physically, it relates well to tardigrades.”

That stopped me in mid rant. “What the hell is a tardigrade?”

“An animal. Tiny, segmented and invertebrate. Phylum Tardigrada.”

“From what planet?” Maybe the Tsf had supplied this information to human xenobiologists.

Something in her programming made Diana sound a tad disapproving. “From Earth, discovered in 1773. People trained in biological sciences should be aware of them.” Make that disapproving plus snooty. “Under conditions lethal for virtually all other species including hard vacuum, drought, and temperatures near absolute zero, tardigrades can survive by entering an extreme state of suspended animation called a tun. In this condition, they are nearly indestructible.”

“Huh. You learn something new every decade. Detailed pictures, please, with more info below in a fast crawl.”

I watched a parade of these weird little guys, most resembling a cross between a caterpillar and the contents of a tackle box, and the crawl mentioned that they were nicknamed “water bears,” and “moss piglets,” which didn't quite convince me the things were adorable and cuddly. When I read details about the tun state, I felt my eyes widen. Then I burst out laughing and couldn't stop despite the rib pain. If patient three's resemblance to tardigrades was more than skin-deep, and I had the strongest hunch it was, the Traders had made an incredible blunder. Admittedly, I was basing a lot on appearances. But what struck my funny bone so hard was how easily I could perform a second miracle “cure” if I was right. Hell, I could do it with both hands tied behind my back.

I stopped laughing when the lights went out along with the gravity. My virtual hideaway became as black as a subterranean cave, and I instinctively anchored myself by grabbing the first couch-strap my scrabbling hands could find. I was scared and it didn't help that in utter darkness, it felt like I was falling. Something was wrong—unless the Tsf enforced a weird sort of curfew.

“Use your DTB,” I said to Diana, faking bravado, “let there be light.” And there was light, but it wasn't good.

Even in my own home, having my civilian genie light my path, say, to the bathroom at night to avoid waking my wife, direct-to-brain illumination makes me edgy. After all, when a DM uses its DTB interface to provide the illusion of seeing, it's actually replaying visual patterns that have previously entered the eyes rather than present reality. So on my way to the toilet, the floor can appear perfectly clear of obstructions and then I can trip over my wife's shoes, or the wife herself if she happens to feel her own call of the bladder. It's a character flaw, I'm sure, but invisible objects and people tend to creep me out.

But in this case, my fancy-schmancy DM was only partly relying on my senses for information. Electromagnetic eyes and ears along with more ordinary lenses studded this couch like a dog collar. Calling up this unit's DTB vision without adding particulars gave me the entire optical recording. So when my stateroom turned visible, it looked bizarre and out of focus, the former virtual landscape superimposed over a moiré pattern of fine white lines projected onto gray walls, which shimmered with hints of colors beyond my visual spectrum. Dizzying.

Then I felt myself sink into the couch again, deeper than before, and the ceiling brightened a little with genuine light, which provided yet another layer of optic stimulation. Everything seemed to vibrate. Between the sudden weight and the visual weirdness, I lay down before I had to fall down.

“Diana, shut off your DTB now. Thanks. Much better.” The cabin had become simple but was still unfamiliar. Minus the faux landscape, it was far roomier than I'd thought, a cube about fourteen feet per side, which gave it a surprisingly high ceiling. “Okay, now tell me what the hell is going on?”

“My link with the parent ship's data controller has been severed, therefore I can only report on events prior to the disconnection.”

Enhanced conversational abilities, my sore ass. “So what happened?”

“Your feline client, in attenuated form, passed through the area housing the station's master CPU, generating an electromagnetic interaction. At that point, the controller went offline.”

That didn't sound good. The parent ship was so huge that it seemed unlikely my tiger-lizard would've accidentally stumbled across the controller. Which suggested deliberate sabotage....

A Tsf appeared in my doorway, and it took me a moment to recognize Deal in the dimness. He wasn't carrying a translator, so I gathered that system, too, was dependent on the master. Deal made his usual noises anyway, and I told him that I couldn't understand what he was saying, which I doubted he understood.

“Do you wish for me to act as an interpreter?” Diana asked.

“What? Do you suddenly ... read clicks?”

“I have gathered sufficient information through your previous communications with the Tsf to provide adequate two-way translation.”

I mentally withdrew my nasty comment about Diana's conversational skills. “Great! But how will he hear you?”

“He, too, has an internal DM, but unlike myself, his retains some autonomy even when disconnected from its controller. And while I cannot establish a conventional wireless connection because our frequencies are too disparate, our present proximity allows transmission via induction.”

“I get it. No long-distance calls. What did Deal say?”

“His remark was addressed to me rather than you. He asked if I'd gathered sufficient information to provide adequate two-way translation, and if I could use induction to transmit—”

“Stop!” I partly withdrew my withdrawal. “Please just tell him—”

“Your exchange will proceed more rapidly if you simply speak, disregarding my role in the process.”

The Diana personality reminded me of my first secretary. She, too, had been brusque, organized, and subtly scornful. “Fine. Deal-of-ten-lifetimes, I'm glad to see you.”

“Most understandable,” he replied via Diana. “I truly apologize for how long it took us to activate emergency energies. And I apologize more deeply that we can no longer isolate this room and have been forced to apply a degree of gravity to the entire station that you surely find onerous. This is the minimum we need to maintain our physical integrity on a long-term basis.”

I'd meant that I was glad to see him, but decided to let it go. “What do you mean, ‘long-term'?”

“Several of your hours, but it should not come to that. We seek your escaped patient with full diligence now and refined technique. Once we secure her and render her harmless, we will take our data controller out of self-protective mode. It will then re-coagulate and all systems will return to functionality. I suggest you find patience and remain here where you will be safe from potential violence.”

Diana's interpretations weren't nearly as colorful as those of the Tsf translator, but they'd given me a sickening premonition about what Deal intended. Evidently, I wasn't the only one to suspect sabotage, and I'd seen how Traders reacted to an actual threat. They hadn't even needed weapons to kill the thugs who'd tried to rob them in New York. Government analysts, who'd studied the massacre video in slow-motion, lucky them, had concluded that Tsf skin and certain fascial membranes could harden tremendously, turning limbs into triangular clubs or, with maximum tension, something very like knives.

My patient had become personanongrata, and soon would lose her persona status. I opened my mouth to ask Deal if his people might consider an alternative to lethal force, but the doorway was empty.

* * * *

I felt way too heavy. From the pressure on my back, I estimated my present weight at three hundred fifty pounds. Maybe more. Thanks to this and my rib woes, breathing wasn't fun. I tried shifting position to give my diaphragm a bit more freedom, but nothing helped. Then I remembered just how well stocked this couch was.

“Diana. Get me a pain pill, really strong, and some liquid to wash it down. Um, I'd better do my swallowing sitting up, so lift my back up, please.”

As I was hoisted into position, smartfoam arms handed me a pill and a small, straw-pierced container. The quick-dissolving pill felt like lead going down, and the liquid nearly choked me. But after only a minute or two, the agony in my chest began to drain away.

That's when I noticed the odor: part floral, part grassy. Not at all a scent I'd associate with a large predator. So when my striped client coalesced into visibility, I wasn't exactly prepared. The tyger eyed me for a moment, then screeched so loudly, I'd thought my eardrums had had it. What was it about me that got her so agitated? She jumped upward, banging her head on the ceiling as hard as a pile driver, and then hung there, suspended by her skull-spikes, until her weight in the new gravity pulled her free. Quite comical, really, but I wasn't chortling. She landed lightly on her feet and jumped again, but only high enough to brush the holes she'd left earlier.

Her huge body seemed to take up all the space in my cabin, and for the first time in my life, I was so damn terrified that I couldn't move or even yell. Something in the back of my heart begged me to spend my last moments remembering and appreciating my wife and son while I had the chance, but the only cogent thought in my head was a terrible regret that I'd failed to share my guess about patient three with Deal.

My visitor leaped sideways. I saw that this time, she'd be landing directly on me, surely crushing me despite my cushion. But as she fell, my couch, or rather my DM controlling the couch, acted. Four thick pillars of smartfoam, two above my shoulders and two below my feet, erupted from the mattress, catching my patient in midair at her chest and thighs.

She screeched, quietly for once, and it sounded oddly like a squeal of delight. For a moment neither of us even blinked as she gazed straight down into my eyes, her body suspended above mine but extending almost to the doorway. Then her claws slowly emerged. My body remained petrified with mortal fear, but my mind seemed to sputter, then catch, like one of those old gasoline engines; suddenly I blazed with insights, my thoughts rocketing along at an unbelievable rate.

At close range, I could see that only the final two-thirds of her claws were shiny. They seemed plated with actual metal. If this was natural, wouldn't a being with internal electroplating abilities have to be able to generate at least a mild charge? If she'd been holding any charge while drifting through the ship's master controller in some incorporeal form ... well, even the best shielding would be useless against direct penetration. And just maybe, this alien's ability to go intangible was also related to...

Lightly swinging one paw, my patient raked her claws down my torso, slicing through my smartsuit and the skin below, from my left nipple almost to my pubic bone. I didn't feel the claws sink in very deeply, but the cuts were long and the pain excruciating.

I yelled and my attacker added insult to injury by drooling onto my face; some of it fell into my open mouth.

An avalanche of nastiness. As I choked on hot coppery saliva and blood gushed from my wounds, sparks shot up from my torn smartsuit and its heating units failed. Some detached, observing part of my mind speculated on exactly what would win the race to kill me: bleeding out, getting my head bitten off, poison if tyger spit was toxic, or simply freezing to death.

Maybe the sparks scared her or she hated the scent of human blood. Whatever the reason, my patient stared at me for a second longer while doing her intensifying trick, burning bright despite the surrounding dimness. Then she jumped away, yowling, and leaped out of the room.

Feeling tremendous relief and damn uncomfortable, I swiped a hand across my chin before the alien saliva could freeze on. I glanced at my soggy hand, and just like that, I knew. None of the many tiger-lizards I'd seen in the videos had drooled. That's what I'd seen without seeing. And I knew precisely what it meant. I should've figured it out hours ago.

* * * *

Bleeding, chilled to the marrow, and crushed by my own nearly doubled weight, I desperately wanted to stay put and try to patch myself up. But I couldn't wait this out. The Traders were about to make a grotesque mistake, one that could never be undone. I pulled the torn ends of my clothing together, doing some weightlifting just moving my arms, and pressed the material down over as much of my wound as possible.

“Deal!” Squished by my own bodyweight, I couldn't manage much of shout. “Best-offer? Anyone? I need to talk to someone!” I listened and didn't hear the tap-tapping sounds of approaching Traders. No good.

“Diana, reshape this mattress so it covers me, neck to toes.” That should hold in my body heat. “Meanwhile, get this crate rolling down the hall toward the hospital corridor. Now!”

The were-foam neglected to shape-shift and my carriage didn't budge an inch. “Diana? Diana, Diana, Diana. Damn it, what's up? Get this bastard moving.”

“I cannot at this time. My CPU regulates your protective garment; the two form a unitary system.”

“So?”

“The damage to your smartsuit has evoked a safety protocol requiring a full diagnostic assessment, which will be complete in ten minutes and twelve seconds. Meanwhile, as a further safety measure, some of my functions have been disabled including control of your couch. I am currently seeking a workaround.”

“Oh, shit. Ten minutes?”

“And four seconds now. I may find a workaround earlier.”

“I can't wait that long. Don't suppose someone packed crutches or a walker in this stupid loveseat?”

“That would have been redundant since the couch itself possesses mobility.”

I kept my response to myself and levered myself upright as carefully as possible, but my wounds reopened, giving my belly and legs a fresh coat of blood. Just standing was a massive effort and as for getting enough oxygen, forget about it. I tried to use techniques I'd learned at NASA's training center, taking in only a modest amount of air at a time, and expanding my lower ribs in all directions at once, “three-dimensional” breathing. Thanks to my former injury, happy day, knives seemed to stab into my chest every time I inhaled.

I fought down panic and a growing urge to hyperventilate, which would only make matters worse.

Taking tiny, shuffling steps and leaving a little river of blood to mark my trail, I made it to the hallway. By then, my legs shook with exhaustion and I had to support myself against the walls to keep moving. I kept telling myself, just one more step, just one more...

The dim lighting to either side appeared to pulse in sync with my heartbeat. I glanced back and was horrified by how short a distance I'd come. And fuming because all this effort shouldn't have been necessary. Why in God's name didn't the Traders post a guard for me?

Maybe they had. In my mind's eye, I saw the tyger arrive as something less than a mist and drift through my wall while two oblivious soldiers played the Tsf equivalent of gin rummy outside my room. I saw my patient dashing past them, her claws dripping and red, and the guards chasing her until she faded from visibility.

It all seemed so real until I felt an extra coldness on my spine and realized that my eyes were closed and I was sitting, feet splayed out in front of me, back supported by the wall behind me. Scared alert, I forced my eyes open. I'd slipped into a dream without knowing it. How strong had that pill been? Or was the effect due to blood loss?

There was no way I could get back on my feet, but I kept trying and kept slipping back down. I had no breath left for even a groan let alone a yell and kept hoping someone would show up. No one appeared. I suppose they were all searching for my patient, minds fixed entirely on killing her.

Then I had as much inspiration as a dying man could hope for. I snapped my fingers.

Back in my intern days, I'd flirted with becoming a neurosurgeon and my resident advisor had me practicing surgical techniques on cadavers daily for a year, even after my most grueling shifts. The experience turned me off to anything involving sutures, but all that gripping gave me strong hands. So while I felt weak as a newborn possum, my snap was loud and clear. And it must've carried just fine because from a great distance, I heard what sounded like a million snaps in return.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them, Deal was bounding toward me with one of the medicos, Trader-joe, coming in a close second. In my fuzzy state, they seemed more like cartoons than living creatures, and I giggled upon imagining a screech of brakes when they came to a stop. My analgesic had kicked into fourth gear.

Deal splayed out his legs to lower himself to my level. “Doctor, you are impaired.” Impaired. Right. “You must allow Trader-joe to evaluate the damage.” He shifted aside and my new personal physician took over.

Should be Trader-josephina, I told myself, and the thought struck me as infinitely witty.

I have to admit she was competent, precise, and gentle, but her sensory cilia tickled when she pressed them against various parts of my anatomy. I got the impression she had built-in stethoscopes.

“You have the following injuries,” she reported. “Three shallow, parallel cuts traversing from your thorax to your abdomen.” I raised a mental eyebrow, in a humorous way, at Diana's fussy syntax. “Also two cracked thoracic bones, many exhausted muscles, and an increasing degree of hypothermia.” Shouldn't that be a decreasing degree? I snickered again at my cleverness.

She continued. “The hypothermia must be addressed, but none of your injuries are intrinsically life-threatening. Still, you have lost and continue to lose your vital nutrient-carrying liquid at a fatal rate.”

Deal started clicking, but he wasn't talking to me; maybe he'd noticed just how impaired I'd become. “How could the doctor have sustained such damage?”

“From the size and spacing of his cuts, I am certain our furred guest was responsible.”

Deal shook three limbs at the medic. “You are mistaken. When I left the human previously, the furred one had already been discovered in section three. Since then, our entire security staff formed a wide perimeter and has been gradually closing in, posting sentries with sensitive detectors in every room should she attempt evasion through walls.”

“I state the facts and have no responsibility to explain them. But you must have suspected my services could be needed when we heard the doctor's distress signal, or you would not have brought me here.”

“The cuts are facts, your conclusions otherwise.”

Trader-joe rose up. “If you feel better qualified than—”

“Stop,” I said as forcefully as I could, barely a whisper, which was as good as a shout with Diana doing the translating. The argument seized up nicely. “Maybe my patient can ... throw her magnetism or something. The doctor's right, she sliced me.” I smiled to show that I bore no one in the universe any ill will.

Deal had gone very still. “I fail to understand how that is possible, but she will do no more slicing. We do not permit one guest to harm another. And her life was already forfeited by the previous damage she caused.”

“You really don't understand. She isn't—oh, shit, she's rightbehindyou!"

My pill-induced euphoria popped like a bubble. My tyger stood, growling quietly, shifting her weight from side to side, turning her golden gaze on each of us in turn. Deal leaped at her so fast, it should've made a sonic boom.

She reacted almost instantly but still too late. Deal latched onto one of her arms by wrapping the end of a single leg around her wrist. I hadn't realized his limbs were so flexible.

The scene turned surreal. The tiger-lizard towered over the Tsf and looked to be twice as massive and ten times as powerful. But though she desperately tugged on her trapped arm and flailed at her captor with her three others and one leg, she couldn't budge him, lift him, hurt him, or get away. What I saw appeared physically impossible, even with Tsf muscles, until I looked down and saw three of Deal's legs splayed out and sunk far into the rubbery flooring material. He'd evidently turned his feet into stakes and anchored himself solidly. But damn, he only needed one limb to hold her.

When I looked up again, the Trader had become a living nightmare.

Four of his legs were raised high and angled toward the tyger's chest, their leading halves narrowed and hardened into organic swords. His entire body radiated tension and deadliness. For the first time, I saw a Tsf gondola clearly. It wasn't the blubbery, octopus-like head I'd imagined but more like a purple wrecking ball with crocodile skin, and had at least five ugly mouths, some vertical and others horizontal, one with three-inch fangs. My patient began making a noise like the keening of a housecat in terrible distress. Her body kept brightening and dimming a little, but didn't fade to mist. Something about the contact blocked her abilities.

God knows how I did it. I wasn't aware of making any particular effort although I heard myself grunt, but I was on my feet, grabbing one of Deal's improvised sword-arms, not too near the tip. Might as well have been trying to pull down a bolted-in steel beam. Could've done chin-ups on the damn thing had I the strength.

“Wait!” I panted. “She doesn't mean ... harm.” My voice was probably too weak to be audible even without the keening, but Diana would get my point across.

Using a spare leg, the Trader gently pushed me away. “You are unwell and thus confused.”

“No. You promised. Not to underestimate me. Look. Even now. She's keeping her claws in.”

In the background, Trader-joe sounded like a frantic chicken except clicking not clucking.

Deal lowered his blades very slightly. “This much is true. And unexplained. If she means no ill, why did she cut you?”

“Didn't mean to. See her fur? Not even an inch thick. I think she was only trying to ... groom me. Bet she got interested in me—” I had to pause to catch my breath. “—because I'm the closest thing ... she's seen to one of her own people. In a while. Damn. I'm not being clear. She's only a ... toddler, Deal, barely more than a baby. Still drools. Can't use a potty.”

“An astonishing theory, but experience contradicts it. Disabling our primary controller cannot have been accidental. Our safeguards are such that no fledgling could have disabled them. And you cannot believe that her finding our control center was coincidental.”

“Why not? On my planet, unlikely accidents ... happen all the time. But maybe something about your DM ... or the place where you keep it ... attracted her. Besides, you offered proof she's immature.”

“I did not.”

“You said the controls in the spaceship ... where you found her ... were set too high for her to reach. Without jumping. Word to the wise. Her parents may be ... on the large side.”

Deal's swords stayed just as sharp, but some of the tension went out of him. “You raise reasonable doubts. So now I am sorry, but she is too dangerous to release, yet cannot be constrained by any means known to us.”

Without warning, my vision blurred and the hallway seemed to dim. Bad news. It was clear what Deal had meant: he might feel regretful, but was still planning to kill my patient. It was up to me to save her, and I had a good idea how. But now I was running out of time....

I took as deep a breath as I could and willed the darkness away. “We can confine her. Can't you see? She'd fade out now if she could. All you have to do is hold her until...”

To my horror, everything went black and I felt myself falling. “Diana. The robot. Tell him.” I wasn't sure I'd gotten the words out. I prayed I had and that Diana had enough bells or whistles to understand. Then I was gone.

* * * *

Clouds drifted high above me when I opened my eyes, and a waterfall roar tickled my ears. Yes. I was in my stateroom, lying on my back, warm, comfortable, and feeling blissfully light. Sleepily, I glanced down at my body. The smartsuit was whole and obviously working. My skin beneath felt a little tight where I'd been cut, but pain free. I tugged on the valence zipper, opening the fabric just far enough to see the uppermost part of my wounds. The separated skin had been glued together. Nice.

Then memory flooded in and my heart seemed to lurch.

Deal's question seemed to come from nowhere. “How the heck did you know?”

“Deal-of-ten-lifetimes? I recognize your—the voice your translator uses for you.” Which was obviously working again since “heck” has gone the way of the stegosaur. “And I hear your clicks so you must be in here, but I don't see you.”

The Trader seemed to step right out of the landscape. “My bad. I've been here so long and kept so still, the controller blended me into the virtuality.”

“Oh. How's my client? The striped one?”

“Most excellent. Back in her room and we are providing her appropriate care. But how did you know the robot would restrain her temporal mass-shifting abilities?”

Relief is such an underappreciated emotion. My tyger was alive! Grinning from eyebrow to eyebrow, I opened my mouth to ask what the hell “temporal mass-shifting” meant but then thought better of it. It was time to start working for my own species. Seemed reasonable to expect the Traders to pay me more if they respected me more. Remuneration commensurate with reputation, as Diana might've phrased it. So I needed some pondering time.

“If you don't mind,” I said, levering myself off the couch. “I'll tell you after a short visit to the bathroom.”

“Be my guest, which you are.”

Felt a bit light-headed but otherwise fine as I walked past Deal, and moving must've oiled my brain-cells because I had my answer before I'd reached the bathroom doorway. Deal's people figured that the tygers possessed some extra-dimensional aspect that would allow them to withdraw their own substance from their future selves and concentrate it in the present moment. Then, when they'd caught up to that future, their bodies attenuated enough to move through solids. In a weird way, I suppose they could be considered time-travelers. Or time-borrowers. Handy talent if you make your living by stalking and pouncing. And ... yes! Maybe it even explained why my tyger cub got left behind.

I flushed the Earth-style toilet for realism, although I doubted Deal could hear it over the waterfall noise, and returned to the couch.

“How?” Deal prompted, in case I'd forgotten the question.

“Nothing to it. Once I realized that my patient was a toddler, the robot's role became obvious.” Time to make hindsight and guesswork look like brilliance. “Here's what I think happened: my client was traveling with only one adult. When the spaceship became disabled, the grownup had to use his or her time-phasing ability to seek help.” How, I wondered, does a disembodied body move itself? “Are you with me so far?”

“I have not departed. How could this person seek help?”

Improvise, Al, improvise. “I'm thinking an adult, but not a child, could move their entire bodies back through their timeline to the planet they left from. Or remain ... nebulous long enough to reach a civilized world.”

“Possibly. Or the adult might find another computer-controlled starship since these beings may indeed be cyber-tropic, as our master controller learned to our regret. But please explain your understanding of the robot.”

Good thing he didn't ask me to explain “cyber-tropic.” “Easy. If you had to abandon a child, even temporarily, wouldn't you make sure she was fed and kept clean? And if that child could walk through walls into vacuum and get lost, or killed after the mass-exchange thing wore off, wouldn't you make sure she'd stay put? I'd say you underestimated that robot far more than you underestimated me. And I'll bet momma or pappa is going to show up here when they find baby gone—uh, presuming you posted a star map in their spaceship showing where you took her?”

“Of course we did. And it may enhance trade when they learn we have not slaughtered their progeny. Most excellently reasoned.”

“There's more,” I said. “You told me my patient didn't start her vanishing act until recently. Isn't that when the robot began losing power?”

“So simple! Yet we failed to dig it. Alien doctor, you are a wonder.”

I studied him for a moment. “You're not angry any more about losing that bet?”

“I might be bummed out if I hadn't placed a whopping new wager on your continued success before the odds changed. Thanks to you, I am now glutted with exchange credit.”

“Look, maybe it's just the translator, but you don't sound all that happy.”

“That is because I must give you some sad news.”

Uh-oh. “Tell me.”

“When we found you, you were near exsanguination and required far more blood than your body could hustle up. Our medics took samples and gave you a transfixion.”

“You mean transfusion.”

“How are hyper-nuclear processes involved in this?”

“Never mind, go on.”

“I regret to report that your blood has been severely contaminated. We believe your patient was the disease vector although her claws are currently free of the contaminant.” Deal's body practically drooped. “We dared not attempt to rid you of the infection because the organisms involved, which appear to be synthetic, are unknown to us. Also, samples were unaffected by our finest antibiotics and antivirals. We fear disastrous consequences for your health in the near future and suggest you hasten back to your own medics, who may be of more assistance. Again, my most sincere regrets. It has been an unexpected pleasure knowing you, and quite profitable. Please have a good death, and I must congratulate you again. Your successes have been phenomenal. As you people say ‘two out of three ain't bad.'”

This relief thing, I could get addicted. Keeping a straight face I said, “Actually, three out of three is better.”

“You understand your third patient's needs? You blow me away. In fact, you qualify for whatever is the grandest compliment among humans. I am asking my DM to search out the appropriate phrase.”

“Can't wait to hear it.”

“So what is your solution to the final problem?”

Okay Al, I told myself, grab every inch of credit you can steal and pretend your victories weren't part luck, part Trader insight, and the rest Diana's doing. “Solution indeed. As it happens, we've got tiny creatures back home with a strong resemblance to your flat guy. If the similarity means anything, here's how you fix it: just add water.”

“I don't understand. We found it in an atmosphere devoid of moisture.”

“That's the point. You described its starship as ‘trashed,’ right? On Earth, the miniature look-alikes go into a special dormant mode when the environment turns hostile. They dry up, and in that state they can endure almost anything. I bet the DM on Mr. Flat's inter-galaxy cruiser dehydrated the vessel after the accident to save its life. So hydrate the poor fellow, but slowly in case I'm wrong.

I laughed. “And don't worry about my blood. I've got a condition called leukopenia, which means my bone marrow can't make enough white blood cells to fight off infection, and the disease, as my doctors put it, hasn't responded to conventional treatments. So those little biomechanical bugs you found in my blood are all that's keeping me alive—them and an unpleasant amount of clean living.”

“Cool. I'm pleased as punch. As to patient three, I have relayed your instructions and technicians are already following them. I am delighted to report that patient three already appears to be inflating. And I have garnered that ultimate human statement of admiration: Doctor, you are the bomb.”

I stood near the airlock and fidgeted. Every Tsf I'd met, and many I hadn't, waited to see me off, and no one had brought up the delicate subject of remuneration. I wasn't even sure what to ask for or how. A crazy idea had gotten into my head and, like a bad houseguest, wouldn't leave.

Perhaps Deal read my mind. “Before you depart in glory, Doctor, have you decided on your fee or will you cling to Earth's initial bargain of simple trade goods?”

Oh hell, everyone said the Tsf were dead honest. “I'm not sure because I don't know how much I've earned or how much the things I want are worth.”

“The solution is simple. Tell us what you want and we will assess their value against your performed services. I suggest you not be penny wise and Euro foolish as your saying goes.”

“Okay. Gravity control, as you suggested?”

“Done. That technique plus the original trade goods still leaves us mucho in your debt due to the unprecedented opportunities you've opened up.”

“Really?” I took a breath. Shoot for the stars, Al. “Then I've got a big one: faster-than-light propulsion.”

He waved a leg. “Too big. FTL entails not only technology but astrophysical information still unknown to human science. And it involves a small risk to us. Eventually your kind may become trading competition.”

“I understand.” It had been so much to ask for that I was surprised at feeling a pang of disappointment. How greedy could I be? Wasn't the secret of generated gravity enough for a day's work? And the thought of someone in my soft field bringing home the hard-science bacon tickled me immensely.

“But your surplus,” Deal continued, “will make a handsome down payment.”

“What?”

“Should you choose to earn the balance, we have a proposition. We will set up a clinic with various controllable environments, provide you a staff of various useful beings, and bring you only the most interesting patients. Certainly, you can treat your human patients there. If you do a fraction as well as you did here, your species will soon be flying high and fast.”

“You plan to add my services to your ... trading portfolio?”

“Right on.”

A fantastic offer, a thrilling offer. But I saw a personal pitfall ahead that could make me one miserable shrink, namely helping the human race at the cost of losing my family. “Where,” I asked slowly, “would this clinic be located? Could I bring my wife and son along, or at least have them visit frequently?”

“They could visit with ease. Why not set it up on Earth near your residence to maximize your convenience? Does the proposition appeal?”

Psychiatrist to the stars.

“Appeal? My God, yes.” I was flying so high and fast myself that I forgot the one cautionary note about dealing with Traders: make sure you understand every detail of a transaction. I didn't ask what Deal meant by “staff of useful beings” and the thought of my neighbors’ reactions to such an institution on their turf never crossed my mind. But I wouldn't discover my mistakes this day.

I smiled. “I can't promise anything close to this success rate, but I'd love to try.”

“Then this could well be the start of a symbiotic friendship.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Science Fact: NEPTUNE, NEPTUNE, NEPTUNE ... BUT NOT NEPTUNE
by Kevin Walsh

We now know of many extrasolar planets, but we actually know very few....

We are now at the beginning of a new era in the exploration of the solar neighborhood, the part of the galaxy reasonably close to the Sun, say within 100 parsecs or so. The discovery of new worlds orbiting stars in this region has revolutionized our understanding of the evolution of our own solar system. Stars like HD69830 have become almost household names....

But they haven't really, have they? Outside of a small, specialist group actually working in the field of extrasolar planetary exploration, there would be few who could name a single extrasolar planet, let alone discuss its characteristics. Partly this is because extrasolar planetary exploration is a new field. As a result, the information required to obtain a straightforward synthesis of knowledge about a particular planet is scattered across the scientific literature and is often fairly impenetrable except to working scientists. Another reason is nomenclature. Often, stars with extrasolar planets are too faint to be among those bright stars that were given names long ago—bright stars like Sirius, for instance. They are also often too faint to have been designated more recently using the Bayer-Flamsteed system—using this convention, Sirius is called Alpha Canis Majoris. Instead, these stars usually have snappy monikers like HD69830, which doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Even worse, their planets are termed HD69830b, HD69830c, and so on (for historical reasons, there is no HD69830a). Thus what we have here is an image problem: fascinating new worlds have been given really boring names. This is intentional. Long ago, the International Astronomical Union decided that objects outside of the solar system would not be named, partly because there are just so many of them. This strategy is understandable but makes the new solar systems hard to remember, as well as being, shall we say, lacking in star quality.

Take the HD69830 system, for instance. In 2005, Christophe Lovis of the Geneva Observatory and his collaborators announced that HD69830 had three Neptune-sized planets in orbit around it. The masses of the planets of HD69830 range from about 10 to about 20 times the mass of the Earth, or about the same size as Neptune (17 Earth masses) and Uranus (15 Earth masses). This was a groundbreaking discovery partly because of the quality and sensitivity of the observations, but also because it implied that multiple Neptune-sized objects exist in other solar systems, just like in our own. Most previous work had found extrasolar planets that were considerably larger, often more massive than Jupiter, which at about 300 Earth masses is much bigger than Neptune. Moreover, despite the difficulty of finding and observing these new worlds and the meager observations that have been taken to date, we are able to deduce a surprising amount about the HD69830 system, thanks to numerical simulations of planetary formation and evolution, a technique that is helping us unravel the history of stars in the solar neighborhood.

* * * *

The neighborhood

Like the gods, the stars are known by many names, and HD69830 is no exception. The prefix “HD” refers to the Henry Draper star catalogue, a list of all stars down to about 10 times dimmer than can be seen with the naked eye under ideal conditions. HD69830 is also called Gliese 302 in the Gliese catalogue of nearby stars, BD-12 2249 in the massive Bonner Durchmusterung, and HR 3259 in the Harvard Revised catalogue of bright stars. It is quite bright as stars go, of visual magnitude 5.95, although bright is a relative term and most people would have difficulty seeing it without a pair of binoculars, even in the dark sky of a wilderness area. It is a star of above-average mass, only slightly cooler than the Sun and about 60% of its luminosity. Like most stars of this type, estimates of its age vary: it is often difficult to assign a precise age to a star that, like our Sun, is on the very slow climb toward red giant status and has few distinguishing features that tell us exactly how long it has been doing so. One recent paper gave a range of 0.6 to 4.7 billion years, so it is probably younger than the Sun, whose age of 4.6 billion years is well determined by radioisotope dating techniques. A likely age for HD69830 is about two billion years.

At only 12.6 parsecs away, HD69830 is very nearby by galactic standards. It is in the constellation Puppis, so it is very roughly in the direction of Sirius, although about four times as distant. It is also a little farther away from the galactic center than Sirius and is farther galactic north, a direction perpendicular to the plane of the galaxy; the closest bright star to the galactic north pole is Denebola (Beta Leonis), although Arcturus is fairly close also. The stars nearest to HD69830 are typical of those in the solar neighborhood, in that they are the usual collection of the bizarre and the unbelievable. Within about five parsecs of HD69830, there are the following systems, among others. There is one with two Sun-sized stars separated by a few hundred million kilometers whose planets, if they exist, would have a second sun, sometimes by day, sometimes by night. There is an average-sized white-orange star that noticeably waxes and wanes as its huge sunspots grow and decay. And there is a UW Ursa Majoris type variable star, two suns orbiting each other so close that they are almost touching and so fast that they orbit each other in less than one day.

So as I said, a typical stellar neighborhood. In addition, about three parsecs away from HD69830 is the very Sunlike star HD76151 (alias GL327, HR3358 etc.). Its status as a solar twin has been officially recognized: according to one study, it is the 14th most Sunlike star in the immediate galactic vicinity. It is probably younger than our Sun, and no planets have yet been found orbiting it. What has been discovered is that it is emitting an excess of infrared radiation, more than would be expected from the typical spectrum of a solar-type star. Stars with extra infrared emission have been noted many times before. One of the first to be discovered was Beta Pictoris, a young, hot star about 17 parsecs away. Extra infrared radiation has also been found in the spectra of similar nearby stars, like Vega. The radiation excess is interpreted as coming from a large amount of rocky or icy debris circling the star and being heated as a result. Theories of solar system evolution suggest that this debris disk represents the early, planet-forming stage of a system, when small rock and ice particles were plentiful at first but gradually disappeared as they collided and coalesced into larger, planet-sized bodies.

The debris disk of HD76151 is different, however. Because of the long wavelength of the detected infrared excess—and therefore its low temperature—it appears to originate several billion kilometers away from the star. If similar measurements were made of our solar system, this cool radiation would originate from the Kuiper belt, the collection of comets, planetary fragments and general wreckage left over from the formation of the solar system, located outside the orbit of Neptune. But the Kuiper belt of HD76151 appears to be about 100 times as bright as the Sun's. It must be truly massive, consisting of hundreds of objects the size of Pluto and millions of bodies over 100 km in diameter. With so much junk floating around in the outer stellar system of HD76151, some of it would probably find its way into the inner part of the system from time to time, maybe a lot more often than comets wander past the Earth. This might have a serious effect on the habitability of any Earth-like planets in this system. It is well known that if large comets strike a world, they can have enough explosive power to disrupt the evolution of life—or end it.

Like HD76151, the star HD69830 has an infrared excess in its spectrum, but this time the excess is hot, implying that it originates from dust orbiting relatively close to the star, probably within about one hundred million kilometers or so, or closer to the star than the Earth is to the Sun. In fact, the inner part of our solar system is still permeated by a similar dust disk: it is called the zodiacal cloud and is created by the tails of short-period comets and occasional collisions between asteroids. It can be seen from the surface of the Earth as the zodiacal light, a faint glowing band sometimes observed following the Sun near the horizon after the Sun sets. But the dust disk of HD69830 is about a thousand times as bright as the Sun's zodiacal cloud. To create this amount of dust by collisions, an asteroid belt in the HD69830 system would have to contain more than 10 times the number of large objects that there are in the asteroid belt of our own solar system. Because so many collisions are needed to explain the observed density of hot dust in the HD69830 system, the asteroidal objects would also have to be more tightly packed than in our own asteroid belt.

Hot dust is rare: a survey of 69 Sunlike stars showed that HD69830 was the only one to have it in measurable amounts. More recent work by Meyer and collaborators has clarified the situation a little. By observing a large sample of over three hundred Sunlike stars, they conclude that most very young stars have hot dust, but that it almost entirely disappears with age. This is completely consistent with the usual understanding of how the solar system evolved: the formation of planets in the inner solar system was accompanied by a decline in the collision rate, and this, combined with the Sun's radiation pushing the smaller dust particles farther out, caused a large decline in the amount of dust close to the Sun.

So one conclusion that can be drawn from Meyer's work is that because hot dust disks around the youngest Sunlike stars seem fairly common, this means that many Sunlike stars are likely to have planets. This result, although obviously important, is not surprising either to working scientists or to readers of speculative fiction. Meyer's study also suggests that the dust surrounding HD69830 is due to its extreme youth. Nevertheless, the star can't be that young: HD69830 probably formed about two billion years ago and so is too old for a planet-forming, hot, dusty disk to be still hanging around in its inner stellar system. The dust could also be created by collisions in a super-massive asteroid belt, but Wyatt and coworkers recently suggested that this is unlikely. Their numerical simulations showed that the amount of dust produced by such a belt actually decreases as the star gets older. This is because collisions in the belt grind the dust down into particles that are small enough to experience something called Poynting-Robertson drag[1] that causes them to fall into the Sun, thus gradually removing dust from the belt. For a star as old as HD69830, simulations show that the observed amount of dust is too large to be produced by a giant asteroid belt that has been around since the formation of the system. So Wyatt concludes that the dust is temporary: some kind of collisions have occurred relatively recently in the HD69830 system, within the past 100 million years, and have produced the hot dust. What type of collisions? To explain that, we first have to describe the planets of HD69830.

[FOOTNOTE 1: A result of the absorption of radiation by small particles, causing them to gain mass-energy. To conserve angular momentum, they must fall into a smaller orbit. It affects particles a few micrometers in diameter. For smaller particles, radiation pressure is larger than drag and so they move outwards.]

* * * *

The planets

The three Neptune-sized planets in this system have been designated HD69830b, HD69830c and HD69830d, and have distances from the primary of 0.08, 0.19 and 0.63 AU (11, 28 and 94 million kilometers), respectively. They were discovered by the radial velocity method, where the gravitational attraction of orbiting planets causes slight back-and-forth movements in the star that are detectable in its spectrum because of the Doppler effect, like the change in pitch of a racing car's engine as it flies past. Examination of the radial velocity variations has ruled out the presence of planets of Saturn mass or larger within four AU (600 million kilometers) of the star.

Strictly speaking, the radial velocity technique only measures the minimum mass, not the actual mass. To explain this, we first note that the radial direction is the direction along the line of sight from the Earth to the star. Let's assume that the orbit of a large planet around a star is seen exactly edge on from the Earth, so that if the planet were observed in a telescope, it would appear to wander from side to side, traveling in front of and behind the star as it circled around. This orbit would give good radial velocity variations, as the planet would tug on the star from both in front and behind, causing changes in the star's velocity along the radial line-of-sight direction. On the other hand, assume that the orbit is seen exactly face-on, so the planet appears to be traveling in a circle around the star, sometimes above, sometime below, sometimes to one side. This orbit would give no radial velocity variations at all, as the tug of the planet would always be exactly at right angles to the radial direction. So a big extrasolar planet in an orbit that is seen almost face on from Earth could cause the same radial velocity variations as a small planet in an orbit that is seen edge-on, a simple fact of geometry. The masses given for the planets of HD69830 assume that their orbits are seen exactly edge-on, so their actual masses could be somewhat bigger.

Even if they are really about the same mass as Neptune, though, their compositions may be quite different from Neptune and from each other. We can speculate about the makeup of these planets based on our knowledge of planetary formation. Neptune has a gas fraction, or hydrogen and helium content, of only about 10% of its total mass. The rest of Neptune is made of rock and “ices,” what planetary scientists say when they mean water, methane, ammonia and so on, compounds that are normally frozen at temperatures typical of the outer solar system. For this reason, the term “ice giant” has come to be used for bodies like Neptune, to distinguish them from the real gas giants like Jupiter and Saturn that are mostly composed of hydrogen and helium. The composition and structure of Neptune is reasonably well known and so may tell us something about the makeup of the three new Neptune-sized planets around HD69830. Neptune has a hot interior, so its “icy” component is really a superheated ocean made mostly of water. Above the ocean is a crushing atmosphere consisting mostly of hydrogen and helium, although it is likely that the density of the gaseous atmosphere just above the ocean is similar to that of the liquid ocean just beneath it, so it would be hard to tell where the atmosphere ends and the ocean begins. Temperatures at the “surface” of the ocean are about 2,000K and atmospheric pressures are about 100,000 times that at the surface of the Earth, or about 100 times the pressure at the bottom of the deepest regions of Earth's ocean. Neptune is an extreme example of a giant water world. Smaller water worlds are likely to be very common around stars in the solar neighborhood, as simulations of planetary formation produce them routinely.

These simulations also show that there are often big changes in a stellar system over geologic time. There is always a tendency to assume that large objects like planets and stellar systems have always been as they are at present. But this is not the case, and like all stellar systems, the system of HD69830 has evolved since its formation. Firstly, the three planets probably were not always in their present-day orbits. One of the most shocking discoveries of the early period of extrasolar planet exploration has been that Jupiter-sized planets are often found very close to their parent stars, sometimes with orbits of days rather than years. Simulations of planetary formation find it difficult to produce large planets in these close-in locations. So the hypothesis is that they formed farther out but then migrated inwards over a period of millions of years, due to their orbital speed being slowed down by the drag of the remaining dust and gas left over from planetary formation. Some of them would have migrated all the way into their stars and been quickly vaporized; others stopped migrating agonizingly close to the stellar surface and so are being slowly vaporized, their original gaseous envelopes being blasted away by the intense radiation, the molecules boiling into space like the tail of a huge comet. The three planets around HD69830 are close enough to the star to be strongly heated; the evaporation process may have affected the innermost planet HD69830b significantly, with a considerable fraction of its original gas disappearing.

Simulations of the migration process also tell us something about the interior compositions of the three planets and their structure. As the planet closest to its star, HD69830b would have originated inside the so-called “iceline,” the distance from the primary where water ice is stable indefinitely in full sunlight. Inside this line, ice evaporates instead of accumulating into larger bodies. This means that ices are not a major constituent of HD69830b, so it is likely mostly rocky. Its remaining atmosphere after evaporation is probably still quite thick, with a size of a couple of Earth masses, giving a surface pressure of about 100,000 times the surface pressure of Earth. Just like Earth, it might have a global ocean generated by the emission of water from volcanoes, and it might have some land areas as well. The outer two planets, though, likely formed outside the iceline and thus have a substantial component of ice in their makeup, making it very likely that they are completely oceanic, more like Neptune. Due to their greater distances from their star, they did not undergo substantial evaporation and so have retained thicker atmospheres.

All three planets, though, must have substantially different climates than the Earth's. Calculations suggest that the habitable zone of this system, the region where the climate of a planet is hospitable for life over periods of billions of years, is centered approximately on 0.8 AU from the star. All three planets are closer to their star than this distance. The innermost two planets are far too hot to be habitable: the surface of HD69830b would be a boiling cauldron of superheated water or glowing rock, and HD69830c likely has no real solid surface. HD69830d is closer to the habitable zone but again is Neptune-like: if there is any life there, it is airborne and hydrogen breathing. But the three planets discovered so far are unlikely to be the only ones in the system: there are almost certainly a number of smaller bodies as well. Current observational techniques cannot resolve Earth-sized planets around stars as big as HD69830, although this will change in the near future as new observing systems come online. In the meantime, simulations can give us an idea of where to look for smaller planets. They tell us that planetary orbits are stable between 0.3 and 0.5 AU from the star, and again between 0.8 and 1.2 AU, or within the habitable zone. Thus there is room in this system for a terrestrial planet with a reasonable climate. There is also another stable location in the so-called “Trojan” region of HD69830d, two zones in the same orbit as that planet but ahead of it and behind it. These areas are named after small asteroid belts in similar stable regions of Jupiter's orbit in our system. Whether a terrestrial planet in this part of the HD69830 system would have a good climate or not is highly debatable, as a planet at this distance from the primary would receive 50% more radiation than the Earth gets from the Sun, or about the same as Venus, and Venus is not a pleasant place.

Whether potentially habitable worlds exist in this system remains to be seen. Nevertheless, their presence or absence depends to a large degree on the history of the system, particularly if the migration of the three Neptunes has affected planetary formation. Planetary migration also provides a possible way to resolve the mystery of the hot dust, a phenomenon that has implications for the habitability of planets around Sunlike stars, including our own.

* * * *

Bombardment

The habitability of our own solar system has varied over geologic time. For example, the distribution of the age and numbers of craters on the rocky planets and moons in our system indicates that there was a period lasting for about 100 million years, ending about 3.85 billion years ago, when there was a sudden jump in the number of impacts in the inner solar system. This period of time is known as the Late Heavy Bombardment (LHB): it was the last gasp of planetary formation before the cratering rate settled down to roughly its present value. One possibility is that the LHB was caused by the migration of Jupiter and Saturn. Migration could be caused by two possible processes: in addition to the gas drag mechanism already mentioned, it can also be caused by the gravitational interaction between a planet and the millions of smaller bodies still lurking about after the formation of the solar system. Because of Newton's laws, if one of these fragments were tossed out of the solar system by a large planet, there would be a countervailing change in the planet's orbit. This is a small effect, but if it happened many times there would be a cumulative impact on its orbit that would be substantial. This may have caused Jupiter and Saturn to migrate until the periods of their orbits became exact multiples of each other, in this case 1:2. This so-called “resonance” effect, combined with the mysterious phenomenon of chaotic motion, then made the orbits of Uranus and Neptune unstable and tossed them into the Kuiper belt. At that time, the Sun's Kuiper belt was much more massive than it is today, more like the present-day giant Kuiper belt of the very Sunlike star HD76151. The gravitational attraction of Uranus and Neptune subsequently tossed a large number of Kuiper belt objects into the inner solar system. The collisions of these bodies in the inner solar system would have temporarily raised the dust level, creating hot dust just like that observed around HD69830. So it is proposed that we are today witnessing an LHB in the HD69830 system, caused by the migration of a planet into the Kuiper belt of that system.

If this planet exists, it hasn't been discovered yet. Calculations suggest that the three Neptunes now have stable orbits but that there is a region between 0.3 and 0.5 AU from the star that is much less stable. Perhaps in the relatively recent past a large body located at this distance from its star was perturbed by the three Neptunes into a wandering orbit, tossing comets and asteroids about and creating an LHB event. A disturbing thought is that this is happening to a star that is about two billion years old. The implication is that LHB events could occur quite late in the evolution of a stellar system. Simulations suggest that the timing of an LHB event depends on the rate of migration of the planetary orbits, the masses of the planets and the distances between them and their proximity to the system's Kuiper belt. So it is conceivable that LHB events could be delayed until a very long time after the birth of a stellar system.

If life had already started to develop on a planet in the habitable zone around HD69830, it would have been unlikely to survive the current LHB event, if this is indeed the correct explanation for the hot dust. On Earth, life may not have started to develop significantly until after our LHB was over, as during the LHB there would have been a number of impacts large enough to cause global environmental catastrophe. In contrast, a planet as old as the HD69830 system can have abundant life. By this age, Earth had considerable single-cell life of different types, possibly including eukaryotes, the ancestors of animals. So in the HD69830 system, we could be observing, at a distance, the destruction of evolution on a life-bearing world. And some systems could go for even longer times before an LHB event. Why not three billion years? Or, for that matter, even 4.6 billion years?

Not that another LHB event is going to happen in our solar system: the orbits of our large planetary bodies are likely to be stable at present and our Kuiper belt has already been depleted. All of this speculation assumes, of course, that the scenario that has been put forward to explain our limited observations of the HD69830 system is the correct one. Many of these conclusions have been derived from simulations that always are based on numerous approximations and assumptions. We will only know what the real explanation is when we have much improved telescopic observations of that stellar system. For instance, in the near future we will have more sensitive infrared observations that will be able to detect dust disks similar in size to that of our own solar system. This will answer the question of whether the disk of our solar system is typical or rare, and thereby tell us a lot about the ways in which planets and planetary building blocks interact during stellar system evolution.

But there are bigger discoveries to be made. It may be that one day we will find a warm, Earth-sized planet in the HD69830 system. Probably it will be called HD69830g or something similar, but this awkward tag hardly seems adequate. Like the other potentially habitable planets that we will find, it really should be named, because, as Carl Sagan once said about the planets of the solar system, the planets of the solar neighborhood are not just dots in the night sky. They are places. They have history, geography and maybe even biology. And they are largely unknown and very far away; but people have always been interested in tales about mysterious, faraway places.

Copyright © 2008 Kevin Walsh

* * * *

Acknowledgments: The author would like to thank the administrators of the invaluable star catalog and reference web site Simbad (simbad.u-strasbg.fr/simbad/).

* * * *

Further Reading:

Alibert, Y. et al (2006) “Formation and structure of the three Neptune-mass planets system around HD69830.” Astronomy and Astrophysics, 455, L25-L28.

Gomes, R. et al. (2005) “Origin of the cataclysmic Late Heavy Bombardment period of the terrestrial planets.” Nature, 435, 466-469.

Lovis, C. et al. (2005) “An extrasolar planetary system with three Neptune-mass planets.” Nature, 441, 305-309.

Wyatt, M.C. et al. (2007) “Transience of hot dust around Sun-like stars.” Astrophysical Journal, 658, 569-583.

* * * *

About the Author:

Kevin Walsh is an associate professor in the School of Earth Sciences, University of Melbourne. He has interests in climate change, climate variability, and planetary science.

* * * *

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[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: ZHENG HE AND THE DRAGON
by Dave Creek

* * * *

Illustration by John Alllemand

* * * *

You might think first contact would occupy a prominent place in history. But not necesarily...

* * * *

Zheng He's exploits numbered so many! I, Ma Huan, served as his translator during his later voyages and, years after, as the chronicler of his travels in the Western Ocean. By the emperor's command, the admiral headed up the treasure fleet, which included as many as sixty-two nine-masted treasure ships, each as large as a sizable village, and nearly two-hundred smaller vessels—supply ships, troop transports, water tankers. His crews amounted to nearly twenty-eight thousand men.

Through Zheng He's accounts and others, I heard of his earlier voyages—tales of silver and silk, tea and wine, oils and candles offered for trade. Of diplomacy that led to the sacred gilin, once thought a myth, becoming a gift for the emperor. Of pirate ships burning and their commanders executed.

I'd heard or witnessed all the stories, or so I believed.

But it seemed Admiral Zheng kept one story untold. It remained the stuff of rumors during his voyages, and I believe in times to come even those rumors will fade.

Once Zheng He captured a dragon.

* * * *

Zheng He kept the story of the dragon to himself for many years.

We shared many exploits during his later voyages. I watched as the sultan of Aden bartered pearls, gems, amber, and rose water for our gold, silver, porcelain, and pepper. On a trading and diplomatic mission to Siam, I heard the faint ringing of bells as men strode past, the sound emanating from tiny beads implanted in their scrotums. I stood in witness as Zheng He snubbed the rebel leader Sekanda, so that when he became enraged and attacked us, the admiral possessed a reason to capture him and take him to the emperor for execution.

Finally, he called me to him during his seventh voyage, which would constitute his final one, and said, “I must tell you this most fantastic tale. You may even write it down, though it may never enter your chronicles of my voyages.”

Eager to hear any story Zheng He might describe as “most fantastic,” given the many wonders he had experienced, I readily agreed.

* * * *

It happened during the first voyage of the treasure fleet, in the fifth year of Emperor Yongle's rule, which the Westerners know as 1407. Zheng He visited the kingdom of Champa to trade porcelains and silks for a rare wood that yielded an expensive and prized incense. His great ships demonstrated the might of Chinese sea power by their mere presence off the countries of Aru and Semudera and Landri, and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. And in Calicut, which I have referred to in other writings as “the Great Country of the Western Ocean,” he established stable prices for our goods.

Then Admiral Zheng's countless ships set sail for home. He could stand at the square stern of his flagship's observation deck and look back at the wakes of his nearly three hundred vessels and consider himself safe in the knowledge that in springtime, the strong winds and rains of the monsoons traveled to the southwest.

So imagine his astonishment one clear afternoon as he heard a gigantic roll of thunder, long and loud. In the instant before he looked skyward, his anger flared—he and his crew had scrupulously offered prayers and incense to the Celestial Consort, Tianfei, to protect the fleet from such sudden storms.

But as Zheng He gazed past the flagship's red bamboo sails, he saw a dragon half the size of his ship leaving a trail of smoke and descending directly into the center of his fleet.

Years later, Zheng He told me he would never forget the smallest detail of the dragon's approach—it must have ceased breathing flame the instant he looked up, he insisted, because its smoke trailed behind in such a way that it gave the illusion of discharging from the beast's dark blue belly. And he wondered why the dragon's wings, also blue, remained spread wide, without flapping even once. He perceived one more detail—the dragon's snout seemed altogether too blunt. He wondered if the dragon had somehow suffered an injury to its face, because Zheng He looked in vain for evidence of its pointed ears or even of its eyes.

But somehow the dragon realized its course bore down upon one of the fleet's water tankers, because at the last instant it swerved in midair, still without a single flap of wing, before splashing into the waters of the Western Ocean. A great plume of water rose into the air, and the ocean churned as Admiral Zheng ordered the fleet to halt—a complex process involving flags and banners, drums and gongs.

Zheng He's flagship circled the area where the dragon had fallen into the sea. Mists lingered in the air, but try as he might, Zheng He failed to sniff out any odor unique to a dragon.

But Zheng He's vision ranked among the best, and leaning over the bow, he quickly spotted movement beneath the ocean. The dragon rising from the ocean's depths?

No—the dragon's wings spanned at least half the length of Admiral Zheng's flagship. Whatever object or creature rose toward the surface, it had no wings, and its span amounted only to about two zhang—about the same as four tall men lying in a straight line.

As it neared the surface, the object revealed itself as a sphere of the same dark blue shade as the dragon. It propelled itself upward with such force that it popped completely out of the water, only to splash down again and bob on the surface.

Those who served under Zheng He learned then why Emperor Yongle had chosen him for such an important command despite his lack of naval experience. Certainly a eunuch had never received such a large responsibility. The emperor's decision came after counsel he received from a court official who spoke well of Zheng He's rough skin and sparkling eyes, who compared his eyebrows to swords and his forehead to a tiger's.

Now the emperor's wisdom displayed itself for all to see as Admiral Zheng's eyes sparkled anew and his forehead wrinkled with determination. “Break out the nets! Bring that dragon's egg aboard,” he commanded, and as he watched as several of his men gathered giant nets suspended from a wooden frame and tossed it into the ocean. More than one exclaimed his admiration at Zheng He's insight that the sea, having swallowed a dragon, had coughed up one of her eggs. They scooped it up as fishermen would their catch and Zheng He watched as his men strained to lift the egg to the deck.

Within moments, the dripping egg stood on the wooden deck of Zheng He's flagship, its two-zhang height towering over him and his crew. “Excellent,” Zheng He told his men, and strode forward to examine the sphere—for this egg truly manifested itself as such, not the expected oval shape. Zheng He ran his fingers across the smooth surface of the blue egg. He told me these many years later that it did not feel proper, having none of the slightly bumpy texture of a hen's egg, for instance, but rather the utter smoothness of one of his flagship's bronze cannons.

As Admiral Zheng's examination of the egg continued, several of his men eased forward, their own curiosity overriding lingering fear.

But then! The dragon's egg began to rumble, a low sound that insinuated itself through the ship's deck. The crewmen who had drawn close exclaimed in fear and many tripped over each others’ feet in their desperation to escape.

Zheng He, as befitted his position and courage, stepped back in a more leisurely fashion. He stared impassively at the egg as it began to rock back and forth. He could easily imagine the baby dragon inside, frightened or enraged, determined to crack open his shell and strike out against those around him.

“Archers,” Zheng He ordered, and the word passed quickly through the ship and the bowmen arrived within mere heartbeats. They took up position to one side of the egg, bows drawn, awaiting the order to fire should the baby dragon burst forth.

But the egg's rocking motion halted, and its rumblings from within subsided. Even Zheng He later admitted to me what happened next left him without speech for a time.

At first he perceived a vertical line of some sort drawing itself down the side of the egg. Then realization came—not a line, but a seam.

The seam etched itself down nearly half the egg's circumference. Then it created a right angle and traversed the egg horizontally. Another right angle formed, and another, until a square chunk of the egg moved to one side, as if animated on its own. It halted, still somehow attached to the side of the egg.

Then Zheng He caught his first glimpse of the baby dragon, as its blue, lightly scaled hands grasped the edge of the opening. Crewmen raised a great alarm and scrambled across the flagship's deck in confusion. Zheng He concentrated on the dragon's face as it left the shadows of the egg's interior. Its snout appeared much less pronounced than Zheng He expected, and its eyes stared outward through narrow lids. He did not see the pointed ears he expected; indeed saw no evidence of ears at all. Even the light scales of the dragon's upper body faded out as they approached its face. Zheng He hoped to perceive the dragon's personality and intentions with his examination of its features, but he could not just yet.

Admiral Zheng's men quieted as the dragon stared out at them, but when it raised a foot and began to climb out of the egg, they began to shout again. Several of the archers grew noticeably nervous, and a couple of them drew back their bows even more, clearly ready to loose their arrows.

But Zheng He commanded, “Hold!” The archers eased the tension on their bows. For Zheng He noticed what no one else did:

The dragon wore boots.

Zheng He felt that the dragon seemed weak and listless. It proved difficult for the creature to pull itself out of its egg, and the admiral said the prospect of helping the dragon emerge tempted him. But concern for his safety overcame even him, and he stood and watched as the dragon strained to pull itself up and out of the egg. As more the dragon's body became visible, Zheng He saw that it wore a long tunic of some sort that came down past its knees. The light blue garment contrasted with the dragon's dark blue skin. It featured no belt or pockets or any adornments.

But two vertical slits in back allowed the dragon's wings to move freely—or would have, if the dragon could have mustered enough energy to move them. Instead, they fell limply on either side of the dragon's body. They extended from just above its shoulders to just below its waist, but seemed strangely thin. Zheng He wondered how such feeble-looking wings could lift this creature, which, if it ever got to its feet, would stand twice as tall as a man.

A baby dragon would not emerge from its egg fully clothed and dry, Admiral Zheng realized. And the closer he looked at the “egg,” the more it resembled something made, not a natural phenomenon.

Yet the large dragon had clearly tumbled from the sky, releasing this one into the ocean. A mystery, Zheng He thought. Perhaps a dangerous one.

The dragon tumbled onto the deck and landed with a heavy, meaty sound. It raised its head to try to take in its surroundings. Many of Zheng He's men remained frightened even of this weakened creature and told him the archers should fire immediately, that they would find no better moment to destroy the dragon before it took flight and breathed fire and destroyed them all.

“You disappoint me,” he told them. “We serve the Emperor, who sits on the Dragon Throne. We know dragons represent goodness and intelligence.” He pointed at several crewmembers in turn and commanded them, “Take the dragon below. Four of the archers will accompany you.” To one of his commanders, he said, “Summon doctors. Send them down, as well.”

Even the most loyal of men might have taken another look at the dragon and hesitated to obey such an order—except from Zheng He. Even so, a couple of men failed to step forward in a lively manner, only to have their superiors beat them bloody, so they would fear them more than the dragon.

It took considerable effort, but eventually the men managed alternately to carry or drag the dragon down into the hold. They cleared a space among the porcelain and gems and the many gifts for barbarian leaders and placed the dragon among them. They tried to place it sitting up at first, then gave up that goal and allowed the dragon to lie upon its left side, careful not to let it crush those thin wings with its own weight.

Admiral Zheng told the men who had brought the dragon that they had served well and could leave. He positioned the archers in shadowed areas around the hold, so they would not unnecessarily frighten the dragon.

At that moment, the doctors arrived, and upon seeing their patient, stopped abruptly, eyes wide, mouths agape. Zheng He told them, “You represent my wisest medical men. I give you the challenge of your lifetimes—heal this dragon.”

The doctors looked at the limp form of the large creature before them, then at one another, and their silence broke apart into half a dozen overlapping conversations, each doctor proposing a course of action to his colleagues, each contradicting all the others.

Finally Zheng He had heard enough: “Silence!” He pointed at one of the doctors immediately before him, an elderly man with grizzled whiskers, but whose eyes remained keen. “Tell me how you would treat the dragon.”

“Typically I would conduct an interview,” the old doctor said. “I would ask the patient about his sleep habits, what he has eaten, whether he has a stressful life. But I can do none of these things with this patient.”

Zheng He indicated the doctor standing next to the old man—a younger fellow with an unlined face and a demeanor suggesting an inordinate curiosity. He said, “I would try to find one of the six pulses in the wrist. But the arrangement of this dragon's wrist must surely differ from yours or mine. How can I find such a pulse?”

The third doctor Zheng He bade speak suggested, “I would examine the tongue, if this creature has a tongue. I would check for the red tongue that would tell me of an inflammation. Or the white tongue that would show that the dragon lacks energy. But a dragon—surely to make such an inspection involves risking the dangers of its fiery breath.”

Then the dragon began to stir, and it uttered low moans that began deep within its chest and rumbled outward to rattle boxes and barrels next to it in the hold. Even Zheng He felt suddenly aware of the creature's size as it struggled to rise up on its arms. Once it sat upright, it appeared strangely human in its deportment. It sat with its right knee raised and right hand upon that knee. The left leg stretched out before it and the left hand hung to its side.

Then, for the first time, it looked directly at Admiral Zheng with awareness of its surroundings. Zheng He had always felt himself an excellent judge of men; now he found himself attempting to perceive the nature of this very strange creature, so different from a man yet also at variance from his conception of a dragon.

Zheng He's voice, even after all these years, trembled a bit as he spoke to me of the dragon's discerning gaze. He told me of the intelligence he saw in those eyes, and the gentleness. Others might think the dragon a beast; he rejected that. He realized he stood before a creature that might legitimately consider itself a near equal to a man.

That realization, he said, represented for him the dragon's most frightening aspect.

* * * *

At this point in Zheng He's tale, I told him that I did not mind him mocking my trusting nature, but that he did not have to continue his jest. He knows I believe in such things as ghosts and vampires, and I declared myself willing to believe in dragons, as well. But I knew he did not believe in such things.

Admiral Zheng laughed and insisted upon the truth of every word. “But I did not wish this tale told before I wanted it told.”

“What makes this that time?” I asked.

“Let me tell more,” Zheng He said. “Then you will realize on your own.”

* * * *

Zheng He decided he should set aside his status as commander in chief of the treasure fleet and adopt that of ambassador. As the doctors watched in wonderment, Zheng He spread his arms wide and bade the dragon greetings: he spoke in praise of its wisdom and strength and inquired as to any service he might provide, perhaps a particular herb or a soothing tea. Then he lowered his hands and bowed his head slightly.

The dragon, of course, showed no sign of understanding Zheng He's speech. He chose this time, however, to utter another low moan. The doctors, as one, took several steps backward; the archers raised their bows a bit higher.

Zheng He raised a hand waist high to indicate that the bowmen should relax their stance. Zheng He did not know whether the dragon's moans represented an exclamation of pain or an attempt at communication. He must know more. And another thought occurred to him—he had spent this voyage demonstrating Chinese might to the barbarian countries of the Western Ocean. Here sat yet another opportunity to show that might, this time to a supernatural creature!

First, he must make sure the dragon survived. He commanded the doctors: “Fetch fresh water for the dragon! Then, offer it as wide a range of food as you can, whatever your judgment tells you a dragon might find appropriate—pork and fishes, turnips and mushrooms, apples and plums. We must hope the same foods that nourish us provide it with sustenance, as well.”

The doctors began to leave, but Zheng He stopped them all with a raised hand. “Then, once you have fed the dragon, you may conduct the interviews and examinations you spoke of.”

One protested, “How may we conduct such an interview when the dragon cannot speak to us?”

“Think of him as you would a patient too injured to speak. Also, you mentioned the six pulses and the tongue as providing clues. I trust you possess other ways, as well, to convince a patient's body to give up its secrets. I suggest you employ them.”

Admiral Zheng watched for a few moments as the doctors scurried about the hold for provisions appropriate for a dragon. Then he returned his attention to the creature itself, which continued to sit and stare and utter the occasional moan. Zheng He felt for the creature, as he realized it had no way of knowing whether it had found itself among friends or enemies. It may believe, he thought, that I intend to impress it as part of the crew, or that I consider it a mere beast and wish to discover whether its flesh would constitute a delicacy! But a beast doesn't possess the dragon's obvious intelligence. I suspect we could even teach it civilized speech.

Such a possibility heartens me. After all, it requires a certain intelligence for the creature to understand it must acknowledge my sovereignty over it.

I will demand that most precious treasure of all for the sake of the emperor!

* * * *

Zheng He watched as two of the doctors, using all their strength, scooted a large barrel of water toward the dragon. It apparently understood the nature of the offering immediately, as its powerful arms easily lifted the container to its mouth. It drank about half the water and placed the barrel next to it. One of the doctors approached the barrel as if to retrieve it, and the dragon emitted a loud hissing sound. “I will admit,” Zheng He told me all these years later, “that my bowels stirred when I heard that sound, because I believed it certain that flames would engulf the doctor and perhaps all of us within seconds.”

Yet still the doctor stood, and not even a hint of smoke appeared from the dragon's mouth. All the same, the doctor backed away from the creature.

Of all the foods the doctors offered up, the dragon accepted only various fishes and apples. It did not try to stand for the better part of a day. Zheng He made sure only he and the archers attended as the dragon lifted itself up on two arms, then one, then rose on wobbly legs. “Surely no man has ever stood next to such a formidable creature,” Zheng He told me. “Certainly no creature as intimidating, indeed frightening, as the dragon.”

Now the dragon looked around, as if searching for something familiar. Then its gaze caught a shaft of light from a porthole just over his head. It turned slowly, took the several steps it required to stand in the light, and slowly spread its thin, translucent wings.

Zheng He saw that the span of the dragon's wings amounted to a distance barely longer than the dragon's height. How, he wondered, can such small wings support this creature in flight? But, he reasoned, perhaps this baby dragon's wings will grow larger in time.

The dragon stood at such an angle as to receive the light over as much of the area of its wings as possible. The admiral felt his own body grow chilled at the thought that the dragon might accept the warm rays of the sun to power a previously dormant fire-breathing capability.

But after a few minutes, the dragon folded its wings, returned to its previous position, and sat again. It did not breathe fire. It did not appear to provide any threat at all.

Zheng He decided his determination to assert himself over this creature could not flag. He stood straight and tall, spread his arms wide, then clapped his hands against his breast. “Zheng He. Zheng He.” Then he reached his arms toward the dragon, bidding it to say its name, if it had one.

Another grunt from the dragon, but this one came out more quietly, more like that of a man wondering how to interpret something than of a creature in pain. The dragon tilted its head much as a curious dog might, then placed its hands on its own chest and said, in a deep but clear voice, “Merabor. Merabor.”

Zheng He felt as if his heart would burst from his chest.

* * * *

In the days afterward, the dragon, Merabor, astonished Zheng He with his healing abilities. The doctors’ interviews and examinations proved unnecessary. Perhaps, he reasoned, the dragon had only needed food and water. But another aspect of the creature suggested itself—its apparent need to stand in the sun several times a day. Upon those occasions Merabor seemed renewed, as if the sun provided nourishment food and water could not.

The “egg” also impressed him—after Merabor's exit, it had closed itself up sufficiently that neither Admiral Zheng nor anyone else could perceive that an exit ever existed. He ordered it stored in the hold, but far from the dragon.

Zheng He felt, however, that Merabor's greatest accomplishment remained his swift learning of the rudiments of the Chinese language. “His,” not “its,” for the dragon informed Zheng He of its maleness early on. The admiral asked whether Merabor had spoken with people before. The dragon insisted he had not, which the admiral found at best confusing and at worst suspicious. How had it learned civilized speech so quickly?

Admiral Zheng also maintained his fascination with the dragon's clothing. Whoever created it did not appear to have sewn or woven it in any familiar manner. To the unaided eye Merabor's long tunic appeared to encompass a single unbroken piece of cloth. Its sleeves and its neck and wing holes did not even end in hems, nor did the very bottom of the garment; the material simply ended, yet showed no sign of fraying. Zheng He asked Merabor if he may touch the tunic, and the dragon relented easily. The admiral slid his fingers over the tunic, and he gasped as the cloth imparted a minor shock similar to static electricity; the shock did not cease, however, but continued as Zheng He rubbed the cloth between thumb and forefinger. Its texture felt similar to silk, but he could not perceive threads, no matter how fine. Yet the cloth seemed to possess the strength and elasticity of leather without the accustomed thickness.

Zheng He realized his fingers still fondled Merabor's tunic and he released it, wondering at the reluctance he felt as he did so. “It felt as if it holds the spark of life itself!” Zheng He muttered. But the admiral set this idea aside as unworthy of someone of his logical nature.

Zheng He tried to decide what kind of dragon Merabor represented. He knew none that wore clothing, for instance. The admiral stood before Merabor one day as the dragon sat and ate. He'd dismissed the archers earlier, feeling that he could trust the dragon—also, that if Merabor truly wished to burn them all and destroy his flagship in the process, likely the archers could not prevent it.

Zheng He told Merabor he believed him less logical than the Wood Dragon, nor as competitive as the Fire Dragon—not as diplomatic as the Earth Dragon, nor as ruthless as the Metal Dragon. “I believe you represent a Water Dragon,” the admiral said. “You seem less selfish, more inhibited. You appear more able to accept defeat.”

Merabor tossed two apples into his mouth as a man might a couple of cherries, and ate them in two gulps. He replied in his deep yet halting voice, “Not ... defeated. Not ... dragon.”

“Not ... a dragon?” Zheng He asked.

Merabor placed his hands on his chest as he had when he'd first said his name. “Oldavar. Oldavar. Name of my people.”

Zheng He couldn't hide his confusion. “You mean, perhaps, your tribe? Do dragons organize themselves into tribes?”

Merabor tilted his head, doglike, once more. “No understand.” Hands on chest again. “Oldavar. Only Oldavar.”

“Ah!” Zheng He said, nodding his understanding. “'Oldavar’ means ‘dragon’ in your tongue.”

Merabor stopped with another pair of apples midway to his mouth. “No dragon. Oldavar.”

Zheng He folded his arms on his chest and frowned. How, he wondered, can a dragon sit there before me and call himself something else? I might as well refer to myself as something other than a man. “A more vexing creature may not exist,” he told Merabor. “How might I learn more about you?” He reasoned that for the dragon to acknowledge the emperor's sovereignty over him, he must understand the true nature of his ruler. But to do that, Zheng He must first understand the dragon. The gift, he reasoned, must match the one who receives it.

A moment's thought, and the admiral had his answer: “All things in life express themselves through opposite principles—yin and yang. In order for me to learn more about you, you must learn more about me. Such an opportunity approaches.”

Merabor's eyes spoke of an intelligence that sometimes intimidated even Zheng He. The dragon rumbled, “How may I learn more?”

“I have remembered a more vexing creature than you. Someone who may indeed provide you a better understanding of men. You must witness my encounter with the pirate, Chen Zuyi.”

* * * *

Days later, the treasure fleet approached Palembang, in Sumatra, where many Chinese merchants and their families lived. Chen Zuyi had taken control of the city and begun raiding ships in the Strait of Malacca.

This pirate did indeed vex Admiral Zheng, and he had grown determined to root out this menace. First, however, he must gather information about the pirate's intentions.

Zheng He wanted Merabor to witness as much as possible of his encounter with Chen and with his own informant, the merchant Shi Jinqing. However, he knew he dared not display the dragon before men who did not serve him as crewmembers. He could order his own men to remain silent about Merabor, knowing that some would speak of him anyway. He could address that problem by punishing severely the men who spoke, while dispatching senior officers to discredit their words.

But the admiral could not effectively silence or discredit those who lived ashore, at least not after the treasure fleet departed.

So Zheng He, under cover of darkness the night before his meeting with each man, instructed trusted members of his crew to clear the path from the hold to an upper deck where the meeting would take place. The admiral escorted Merabor to a small alcove adjacent to the meeting room and secreted him there.

Merabor grumbled about the cramped surroundings, but Zheng He promised him the first meeting, with the pirate himself, Chen Zuyi, would take place in less than an hour, at first light. “You will learn much about how men deal with one another,” he told the dragon. “Then you shall learn about how men deal with pirates.”

Merabor gave another grumbling response, which Admiral Zheng interpreted as the dragon conceding the point. “I realize you will not understand much of what you hear,” the admiral said. “I will explain more afterward. I will also allow you a lengthy time outside on my observation deck to bask in the sun.”

“Then I wait eagerly,” Merabor said.

Satisfied with the dragon's response and with himself, Zheng He started sternward toward his quarters, but a crewman ran up to him, bowed, and pointed excitedly at the ocean's waters just to one side of the treasure ship's wake. The dim rays of the sun shone obliquely on the calm waters, but just enough that Zheng He made out a dark shape beneath the surface—a shape familiar enough that a sense of wonder and awe gripped him.

The shape of the dragon's mother.

And it moved, pacing this very ship.

Zheng He's first instinct told him to rush back to Merabor and demand to know how the dragon mother had survived and whether she meant his ship harm. But as he admonished the crewman who'd warned him of this possible danger to speak of it to no one else, then dismissed him, a second thought came to him.

He reasoned that Merabor either did not want him to know of his mother's survival or did not know of it himself. Either way, Zheng He possessed knowledge the dragon did not—and knowledge often represented advantage.

The admiral continued toward his quarters, consciously refusing to glance again at the dark shape.

* * * *

When Admiral Zheng's flagship docked in the Old Harbor in Palembang, he sent a messenger to Chen Zuyi and his associates, requiring them to submit to his sovereignty.

Zheng He believed the pirate would attempt either an attack or an escape upon this summons. To his surprise, however, Chen Zuyi soon appeared at the Old Harbor to speak with him directly. The pirate came aboard Zheng He's flagship and allowed the admiral's men to direct him to the meeting room. Chen Zuyi bowed deeply and spoke quietly but confidently: “I have appeared as you requested, Admiral.”

“So you have,” Zheng He said. He offered the pirate nothing, neither food nor drink nor an offer to sit. “Do you then submit to me?”

Chen Zuyi bowed again. “I have no other choice before such powers as you command.”

Zheng He thought of the dragon deep within this very ship. Soon I may have many other powers, he thought. But none to boast of just yet. “Prepare your men,” he told Chen Zuyi. “Your days of piracy end here.”

The man left, having seemingly acknowledged and accepted Zheng He's sovereignty. If only, he thought, the dragon would accept such so easily. He considered canceling his appointment with his informant, Shi Jinqing, but decided the proper political course meant hearing whatever he might have to say.

First, however, the admiral stepped into the alcove adjacent the meeting room and looked in on Merabor. The dragon still stood silently. Zheng He asked, “Did you gain any insight into people as you listened?”

Merabor's voice rumbled even lower than usual in such close quarters. “You would kill him. The ... pirate.”

Zheng He displayed his best diplomatic smile. “If he refused to acknowledge my powers and sovereignty, of course I would.”

“The pirate ... barbarian?”

Admiral Zheng's smile widened into a natural one. “Yes, I consider the pirate a barbarian.”

Merabor aimed that piercing gaze at the admiral. “Zheng He ... barbarian?”

Admiral Zheng told me, these many years later, that he would have personally beaten a man who said such a thing to him. But the admiral knew he must force down his anger—how could a dragon know what made a man a barbarian? He also admitted that part of him remained concerned regarding the dragon's potential powers, which he feared might lay dormant, awaiting Merabor's full recovery. He told the dragon, tersely, “I do not consider myself a barbarian. You should never utter such words again.”

Zheng He expected an apology, but Merabor simply stood mutely once more. He could not help but wonder whether that stance expressed the dragon's own anger or whether he did not have the words allowing him to respond.

The admiral chose to believe the latter and went back into the larger room to await his informant's arrival.

* * * *

Shi Jinqing bowed deeply, respectfully, as befitted his status aboard Zheng He's flagship. The admiral, in turn, respected Shi Jinqing's counsel and greeted him warmly. Servants surrounded them both and provided soft pillows for them to sit upon, hot tea to sip, and fresh fruits to eat. Zheng He wasted little time in preliminaries, asking Shi Jinqing, “What do you know of Chen Zuyi's intentions?”

Shi Jinqing took a long sip of tea and said, “The pirate came here to speak with you, did he not?”

“He did.”

“And pledged he would submit to you?”

“He did.”

“He lies. He intends to attack you here in the strait by bringing his forces quickly from the river channels where they wait. But I know how you may best deploy your great forces to prevent such an attack.”

The admiral leaned forward. “Tell me,” he commanded.

Shi Jinqing told. And Zheng He remained aware of the dragon listening.

Once his informant departed, Zheng He went to Merabor again. The dragon stretched its wings and asked, “You will kill the pirate now?”

“I intend to,” the admiral said. “He lied before. He does not acknowledge my sovereignty.”

“You consider it more valuable than his life.”

“He must realize my emperor's powers. He steals from my people and laughs at my fleet.”

Merabor remained silent for a long moment, leaving Zheng He to wonder what line of thought it pursued. Then Merabor said, “On my world ... this does not happen now.”

Zheng He blinked in confusion. “Your ... world? Only the one exists.”

Merabor stretched up to his full height and looked down upon Zheng He. At this moment, the admiral told me, the dragon frightened him, though Merabor made no threatening gesture. Instead, the admiral said, the dragon assumed a superior stance he'd never witnessed previously. Zheng He had considered Merabor dependent upon him since his arrival aboard his treasure ship. He provided him fishes and apples and water, after all, and in a sense represented the dragon's only access to the sun itself, which seemed to revitalize him in a way the admiral still struggled to understand. Zheng He asked, “What other world do you speak of?”

“A light in the sky. So far away you cannot see it.”

“We steer our ships by such groupings of stars, such as the Weaving Girl and the Lantern. But surely you cannot live on a point of light.”

“Other worlds circle them, just as this one circles your sun.”

“Merabor, you speak more confidently than I have heard before. And your vocabulary has grown.”

The dragon's wings folded against his back. “You believe me an animal, despite my obvious intelligence. Such a mistake carries dangers.”

“I and my crew saved your life. Why would you make such threats?”

“I would never threaten. But I must explain. I violated my orders when I allowed you to rescue me. My society says I must not speak to humans or even allow them to see me or my ship.”

“Ship?” Zheng He asked. “I've seen no ship—only your mother as she crashed into the sea.”

“Another mistake. You saw my ship—it contains what you call ‘the spark of life,’ although one cannot call it truly alive. But it did not give birth to me. I travel in it as you travel aboard this treasure ship. But it grew ... ill ... unexpectedly and crashed here.”

“Enough nonsense. I have dealt with you honestly. Do the same for me. Will you remain and learn more of civilized people? Or do you wish to leave us? If so, will you do so peacefully or by using your great strength and breath of fire?”

The dragon regarded the admiral through those narrow lids. “I will remain to witness your civilization.”

Zheng He still felt uncertain of Merabor's intentions, but kept those thoughts to himself as he had his observation deck at the stern of the ship cleared and escorted the dragon there personally. A commander, Zheng He, knew, must make promises sparingly but must always follow through on them once made.

He watched as Merabor stood with arms widespread and unfolded his wings toward the sun. Those wise, knowing eyes closed and Zheng He felt as if he viewed the earthbound dragon floating free above them all, as if Merabor's freedom of flight might assert itself at any moment.

The dragon's long blue tunic flapped in the breeze as he stood as unmoving as a monument—Zheng He's mouth turned up in a wry smile at that thought, as if Merabor stood there proclaiming his own self-worth simply by maintaining such a stance.

Then the admiral's smile faded. This dragon does indeed hold such self-worth—such self-importance—within. I recognize that emotion in him because I recognize it within myself.

Only one of us may entertain such feelings within this fleet, however. Merabor must learn his place.

Zheng He could not help, though, but remain aware of the many eyes aboard other ships that took in the dragon's form and stared in wonderment, even as he himself had stared when he first glimpsed Merabor.

It does not matter, Zheng He thought. I will tell them what they have seen and what they have not. One day I will command a chronicle of these voyages, and if I wish it to contain tales of a dragon, it will contain them. If not—Merabor will remain a rumor, a legend, the talk of drunken or delusional seamen, perhaps with only his unnatural egg and any knowledge we might gain from it remaining.

* * * *

Zheng He positioned his larger ships in the Strait of Malacca to bottle up Chen Zuyi's craft within the river courses from which they would attack. His smaller craft rushed down those courses to engage Chen's ships. Archers aboard those craft, making sure they traveled safely upwind, launched many flaming arrows into Chen's ships, quickly setting them aflame. Still more of Zheng He's craft deployed troops to attack Chen's ships from land.

The battle raged for many hours, well into the night. As the day's last rays faded beyond the horizon, Zheng He ordered his ship positioned broadside to the shoreline. He had the rear observation deck cleared again and brought Merabor there. The admiral stood in silence as ships burned on those inland waterways and explosives rumbled. The smell of gunpowder wafted across the deck. The shouts of victorious men and screams of maimed ones carried across the water to their ears.

Zheng He watched little of this; he focused mostly upon the dragon, wondering what it made of this battle. Does he think us truly barbarians? the admiral wondered. If so, what gives him the right? His people have little to recommend them—Merabor, after all, has allowed me to master him, with barely a protest.

Finally the dragon turned away from the shoreline and looked down upon Zheng He. “Your skills impress me. Oh, your technical abilities stand far below those of my people, of course. But you and your commanders possess a genius of sorts for organization and tactics.”

“'Of sorts,’ you say?”

“Look far inland—two of your boats and dozens of your troops coordinate themselves in an attack on one of Chen Zuyi's craft—masterful!”

Zheng He narrowed his gaze, but saw no such drama playing itself out. “In the darkness, my eyes can make out but little beyond the mouths of these rivers.”

Merabor's wings fluttered. “That explains much.”

Zheng He waved that assertion away with a gesture. “A trifle. Yet in many ways you present me with difficult truths.”

“I have another difficult truth for you—have your astronomers perceived an extra star in the sky—one which moves even more quickly than the planets do?”

Zheng He said, “They've told me of no such star.”

“Look now in the northern sky.” Merabor pointed just about halfway between the horizon and zenith. “Even your eyes should see that star now.”

Zheng He placed a hand across his forehead and squinted to help himself focus on that star. “I do see it. And it passes quite quickly.”

“As it does several times a night.”

“Do your people live there, as well?”

“Imagine another ship, much larger than the one that crashed here, larger even than your ship of the sea. It allows us to travel between the stars. I must return there soon. What you call my ‘mother’ brought me here. It will take me back.”

Blood rushed to Zheng He's face, and for an instant he wondered whether the dragon could perceive that, as well. If he can, the admiral thought, then he hides it well. “How ... soon?” the admiral asked.

“I do not know. Before months pass, certainly. Perhaps weeks.”

Zheng He decided upon his plan at that moment, especially as it occurred to him that if Merabor could see so well in darkness, perhaps he could see his mother—his “ship"—when he and his men could not. Perhaps, he thought, Merabor even speaks with it somehow without us realizing.

But I cannot allow this dragon to leave. He must remain here and return to China with me as the most fabulous prize I or any other admiral might present to the emperor.

For that prize, I will risk my ship, my very life.

* * * *

Admiral Zheng's forces killed five thousand of the pirates, burned ten of their ships, and captured seven more. Chen himself would travel with them as their prisoner to the imperial capital in Nanjing to face execution.

The pirates dealt with, Zheng He ordered a select group of his men to begin work on a special room for the dragon, in a corner of the hold several bulkheads away. His next thought: This room will house a dragon, not a fool. I must push the men to work quickly, and never allow Merabor to witness their work. As the proverb states, talk does not cook rice.

Zheng He gave considerable thought to his plans for Merabor as he dealt with the aftermath of the battle with Chen Zuyi's forces. Those thoughts inspired action; action transformed itself nearly into obsession.

The dragon would acknowledge his sovereignty.

* * * *

So the night arrived that Zheng He cleared the observation deck once again and invited Merabor to watch the passage of that swift star in the northern sky. The dragon kept his wings close to his body here on the windy deck—they served no purpose without sunlight, and Zheng He perceived they could easily catch the wind and throw Merabor off balance.

Admiral Zheng peered to the northeast and saw Merabor watching the same area of the skies. “You keep watch for the first sign of your star.”

“Of course,” Merabor said.

“I stood here at dusk,” Zheng He said. “I saw dark skies in that direction. It means we will see rain by midnight.”

“I must warn you. You will see much more than rain. This ship—all of your marvelous ships—may find themselves engulfed by a storm you cannot comprehend.”

Zheng He fought back a smile. “You hope to teach my people meteorology now? If you indeed come from another world, how do you know so much about this world's weather?”

Merabor stared down at the admiral through those narrow lids as he had so many times before. “I still have many surprises to present you.”

Zheng He had only known Merabor these short weeks since he had arrived from the skies, but he felt he knew the dragon as well as he did any of his crew. Merabor speaks on many levels this night, the admiral thought. He works to deliver a message to me without saying it outright. This makes him dangerous. I must take that advantage back.

Merabor pointed to the northeastern horizon. “Look! My ship.”

Indeed, the moving star rose quickly from the horizon, headed toward northern skies. “You wish to return to your people,” Zheng He said to the dragon.

Merabor didn't take his gaze from the swift star. “As a sailor, you must often miss your homeland.”

“I consider that I take my homeland with me on this journey. As I will on those that follow. My emperor has commanded me to allow as much of the world as possible to witness the glory of his reign.”

“A goal you have fulfilled honorably, as I have seen since my arrival here. Now—do you wish to show me your own surprise?”

Zheng He's face felt warm despite the cool wind that swept across the observation deck. He hoped only a quirk of the dragon's wording made it sound as much like an order as a suggestion. I have decided correctly to act on this night, he thought. “Yes,” he told the dragon. “I wish to show it to you now.”

* * * *

Zheng He admitted to me he felt fear as he followed Merabor down into the hold. The dragon always stepped cautiously down the stairs, because his feet easily extended to a length twice their width. He also kept his arms and sometimes his wings extended to maintain his balance. Admiral Zheng could not help but watch the muscles of the dragon's great arms as they flexed. He feared what those arms might do if they snatched up a man or hurled a heavy barrel.

Finally Zheng He and the dragon reached the floor of the hold and walked most of the length of the great ship to arrive in a section Merabor had never been allowed into before. His private room stood against one bulkhead of the ship, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that the admiral hoped obscured the fact that darkness claimed most of the rest of the hold.

The room revealed a simple design: smooth, even flimsy-seeming wood with a tall doorway the only entrance. The door, closed for now, towered over Zheng He's head, but he knew Merabor would have to duck slightly to enter. The dragon's fully extended wings might barely touch either side of the room.

“I know these amount to small accommodations,” Admiral Zheng said. “But I've not explained their special nature.”

Three dozen archers stood amid boxes and barrels throughout the hold, each aiming at Merabor.

The admiral's heart hadn't beat as strongly during the battle against Chen Zuyi. He watched as the dragon turned its attention to him. Merabor said, “You cannot call this the gift of a friend.”

Zheng He hardened his soul against Merabor's words. “I call it the proper gift for a barbarian.”

The dragon said, “You told me I should not utter that word to you. Yet you say it to me?”

“Only a civilized man may decide who deserves the title of barbarian.”

Merabor leaned forward, and Zheng He fought with every bit of courage and honor he could muster not to take even a single step back. He heard the muted wooden sound of arrow against bow and the soft rustle of clothing as the archers made ready to fire.

Zheng He had convinced himself that this dragon, for whatever reason, did not possess the power to breathe fire. As Merabor stared him down, however, doubt arose within him. He realized the dragon could easily burn him down, however quick his archers’ reactions, however sure their aim.

But Merabor did not even open his mouth. Instead, he went to the door of his special room, pulled it open, and walked inside.

Several of the archers cast aside their weapons, slammed the door shut, and thrust a broad wooden bar across the doorway, trapping Merabor within.

Zheng He expected to hear a loud protest from the dragon at this point, but he heard none. For whatever reason Merabor does not resist, the admiral thought, I must take advantage of this. He motioned to the archers and they detached the flimsy wood facades from the exterior of Merabor's room, revealing that the dragon stood within a room of thick reinforced timbers.

Merabor told Zheng He, “So now you consider me your prisoner.”

“You will arrive in China as the honored guest of our emperor.”

“And if I decline this honor?”

“I hope you do not. I respect you, Merabor. I believe once you understand the glory of my emperor's civilization, you will remain of your own free will. But I must insist you give me that opportunity. Several of the archers will keep watch at all times, in case we have underestimated your strength.”

Merabor went to the far side of his room and stood with his back against the ship's bulkhead. “We understand one another,” he said. “Do what you will.”

Zheng He motioned for the archers to stand down for now, thankful for his luck that Merabor did not resist, thankful as well that the dragon's strange egg remained secured in another corner of the hold. He would have his most skilled artisans find a way to crack that egg and allow his astrologers and doctors to examine its contents soon enough.

Yet as the admiral stared into Merabor's features, he grew concerned. He felt he knew Merabor well enough to read those features—and he perceived only peace and calm reflected there.

So I cannot help but wonder, Zheng He thought, which of us might truly consider himself victorious.

* * * *

Zheng He soon found himself rushing to the observation deck again. Merabor's words had proven themselves correct—he would soon see much more than rain. Approaching clouds made the skies grow darker by the moment, even as ocean waves grew taller and the treasure ship rocked more and more.

The admiral knew typhoons could arise here in the Western Ocean without warning, but when he demanded information from his astrologers and diviners, they told him but little. They insisted that the sky and seas appeared to act independently of one another rather than in concert. They could provide no explanation for the phenomenon.

When pressed for even the smallest detail, they told him only that the seas churned more restlessly than the skies would indicate—that something other than the winds drove the waves to such heights.

Zheng He's mind sped to the image of the dragon's mother—or “ship,” as he insisted upon calling it. Its dark presence had concerned him profoundly the only time he'd glimpsed it.

Could it have returned?

As if summoned by the admiral's remembrance of the dragon's mother, a series of waves just ahead and to starboard of the treasure ship began to spin around one another, as if attempting to create a waterspout from the bottom up. The ocean all around began to roil.

Zheng He told the astrologers and diviners to sound the alert throughout the ship. He ordered the great vessel's pilot to steer sharply to port, and its signalers to command the gigantic fleet to do the same—in the darkness, with the other ships unable to see flags and banners, drums and gongs alerted the other ships of the sudden change in course.

As the treasure ship veered, Zheng He rushed to the starboard side of the ship—he had to know whether it would clear the violent upwelling of water successfully.

As the admiral described it to me later, in that moment, the ocean exploded! Its waters lifted up as if a giant hand had swept across the surface of the sea.

Those waters hurled Zheng He against a bulkhead, and awareness fled for several seconds. It returned only reluctantly, with a vague impression of the sea casting the treasure ship from side to side, punctuated by deafening blasts of thunder and blinding bursts of lightning. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and reached back with his hand. His hair felt sticky. When he looked at his hand, rain washed blood down his fingers.

As he sat up, Zheng He saw crewmen running to bring down the bamboo sails before the storm could rip them from the masts. He heard them crying out the name of Tianfei, the patron goddess of sailors. Zheng He forced himself to his feet and looked across the windswept ocean. The ships of his fleet, which normally sailed in an orderly pattern, now found themselves cast about at random.

A commotion behind him, and Zheng He saw crewmen staring into the sky in disbelief. His gaze followed theirs, and it took him a moment to admit the reality of what he saw:

Merabor's mother had taken to the skies again, her blue wings that never flapped spanning half the length of his treasure ship as she hovered to its rear.

The very sight of her threatened to cripple Zheng He's reason, and the moment lingered until he made himself turn back toward his crewmen, intending to issue a command. That he had no concept of the nature of that command did not worry him—not Zheng He! His faith in himself told him the words would come.

When he completed the turn, however, he found Merabor towering over him, silhouetted against a series of lightning bolts.

Zheng He admits words left him at this moment, and he cursed his own failure more than he did the dragon or the storm.

Merabor's words rumbled louder than the thunder: “You have much wisdom, Zheng He. But you have found its limits.”

Now words released themselves into Zheng He's mouth again: “You dare insult me?”

“Not at all,” the dragon said. “You said it properly: ‘Only a civilized man may decide who deserves the title of barbarian.’ Yet I have seen how you would bring civilization to me.” Merabor held his arms up and indicated the storm all around them. “See how I bring it to you, instead!”

Then Merabor's arms reached down, quick as a viper, to grasp Zheng He by the shoulders. The time has arrived, the admiral thought. Finally the flame or the crushing hands.

Merabor used neither. He lifted Zheng He up before him, the admiral determined not to show fear even with his arms pinned to his sides, his feet dangling. The dragon brought him close to his face and spoke in as quiet a voice as Zheng He had ever heard: “Barbarian.”

Then Merabor tossed him to the deck, but Admiral Zheng forced himself to his feet just in time to see Merabor dive off the rear of the observation deck. Zheng He never saw him strike the water—a series of lightning flashes and Merabor disappeared.

The admiral thought the lightning had incinerated Merabor in mid jump. But the dragon's mother took this moment to rise higher into the sky, and Zheng He knew she would never abandon him so easily—somehow she had absorbed her son into herself again.

The admiral stood there as the dragon mother vanished into the low clouds. Those clouds soon dissipated, and within moments Admiral Zheng found his fleet sailing across calm waters beneath blue skies, and he heard his crewmen offering up prayers to the Celestial Consort, Tianfei, whose protection had saved them all.

When Zheng He turned from those smooth seas and clear skies and rushed down to the hold, he found the dragon's cage shattered like kindling and the archers lying unconscious. When he went to inspect the dragon's egg, he found it reduced to dust.

Zheng He did not travel on the second voyage of the treasure ships. Instead, he remained in China and traveled to the birthplace of Tianfei, the goddess of seafarers, to repair her temple. After all, the admiral's crewmen believed the violent flashes of light that consumed Merabor represented a “magic lantern” whose illumination banished the storm. Western sailors call such a light “Saint Elmos's fire,” and believe only natural forces and not supernatural ones create it.

Zheng He believed neither explanation. “I held a complete lack of faith regarding Tianfei's intervention,” he told me. “I also realized my own error in believing a natural form of lightning had struck. My intellect, informed by my emotions, told me that Merabor's mother had generated that lightning—the spark of life, indeed!”

Once again, during his last voyage, Admiral Zheng insisted every word of his tale represented utter truth. But only now could he force himself to tell it.

I asked again the question I'd posed earlier: “What makes this that time?”

“A tale,” he said, “should carry a moral. This one does not. I had hoped you would find one within it.”

Yet I have not. Zheng He's exploits numbered so many, yet those of silver and silk, tea and wine, diplomacy and burning pirate ships did not consume his thoughts as did this single tale.

The proverb tells us a bird does not sing because it has an answer—it sings because it has a song. What then, constitutes Zheng He's song?

Only this—despite his failure to bring Merabor to the emperor, despite having to hear the unwarranted insult in Merabor's last word to him, a single fact remained, a single accomplishment no other man could claim.

Once Zheng He captured a dragon.

Copyright © 2008 Dave Creek

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: TO LEAP THE HIGHEST WALL
by Richard Foss

Some things transcend national borders—but that doesn't mean the borders can or should be ignored.

The coffee mug embossed with the NASA seal danced as Dan Mc Cauley banged his fist on the Mission Control instrument panel. “Three months! Another three months and we would have beaten them there. Ten years we've been racing the Soviets to the Moon, and they beat us by three months.” He turned away from the panel and started to pace angrily, pausing only to kick a chair that rolled away on rubber wheels.

“We ran a good race, Mac,” said Frank Conley in a slow Georgia drawl. The lanky chief engineer stubbed a cigarette out in the ash tray that sat atop an instrument console, looked in the coffee mug, and grimaced at the layer of sludge on the bottom. “Matter of luck, partly. We hadn't had that fire on the launch pad back in ‘67, we'd have been on the Moon last July. Our technology's better, no question on that. Their designers build a cat, it would have three hind legs.”

“Three hind legs must be what's needed, because right now their guys are in lunar orbit and we aren't.”

Frank scratched his head thoughtfully. “D'know. If there are, they're keepin’ quiet. The spooks say they're pretty sure this bird is manned, but who can tell with the Russkies? Even if there are guys in that tin can, we don't know if they're going to land or not. Doesn't matter much anyway. I won't be happy if Leonov or one of his boys is the first to walk on the big green cheese, no sir, but bein’ first isn't everything. I hear tell that Vikings were the first to sail to America, but last I noticed there's a real shortage of them around here now.” With that, the southerner ambled to a nearby workstation where a technician was fiddling with a meter and looking concerned.

“I always thought the first man on the Moon would be an American,” Mc Cauley muttered at his back. He paced for a moment, then kicked the radar console. The coffee cup trembled again, and the nearby communications specialists looked up from their instruments, not sure what to do when their boss flew into a rage. Embarrassed, Mc Cauley retreated into his office and started shuffling through some paperwork, only to have some of it fall to the floor. As he knelt to gather it up, a shadow fell over him.

“Can I have a word with you, Mac?” Conley asked softly. Mc Cauley followed him through the two doors and past a security station, and the humidity hit them like a stifling blanket as they went outside. They walked out on a grassy area, and the cicadas that had been calling into the Houston night fell silent. The engineer gazed into the distance, inhaled deeply, and then let his breath out in a long sigh. “Ahhhh, a perfect April evening. Nine thirty P.M., ninety degrees, and 95 percent humidity. Jes’ like home. I do dislike that canned air in there.”

Mc Cauley relaxed a bit, unable to stay mad while talking to his calm, easygoing friend. “The computers like it cool and dry. If it gets hot in there, your boys will be crawling through cabinets of electronics replacing transistors.”

“Integrated circuits, these days. A hundred transistors on one chip, do you believe it? My daddy's still listenin’ to the news on a tube radio that heats up the whole corner of the room. The old stuff runs hot and slow, the new stuff runs cold and fast, but it doesn't make me like the cold any better. Like a hospital or a morgue in there, and I make it a policy to stay out of both places.” He paused for a moment and turned to face Mc Cauley. “You've been runnin’ a little hot yourself the last few days, and I'm not the only one who's noticed. You got a responsibility to your crew there—a man's boss stays angry, complains all the time about us losin’ to the Russkies ... well, it's bad for morale. Makes it hard to focus on things that go right, longer term goals. More than that. If there's really three guys up there, they aren't the ones who are our enemies. They're probably a gaggle of hotshot pilots just like our rocket jockeys, and they'd ride with anybody who might give them a lift. Us, the French, the British if they ever get their Black Arrow booster working. Heck, they'd take a ride from the Chinese on the back of a skyrocket.”

Mc Cauley laughed at the idea of a Chinese space program. “Hope they don't confuse the main boosters with New Year's fireworks.”

“Well, the Russkies and us have sent up a few fireworks ourselves,” reminded Conley somberly. “Some good men went up and didn't come back down.”

They both were silent a moment, remembering a flare in the sky and the brief screams in the last transmission from Apollo 8. “God rest their souls,” said Mc Cauley quietly.

“Their guys and ours, even if theirs didn't believe in God,” replied Conley.

“They knew it was dangerous, all of them. Now we've retrofitted our capsules with better escape systems and added fuel cutoff valves, and blown a two-year lead doin’ it. D'know what they've done over there. The way they've kept launching, probably just gave their guys a couple of extra pillows for hard landings.”

“You really think this one's manned, instead of another test?”

“Yeah, I do. Friend of mine who teaches political science in Savannah has been predicting something like this for a while, on account of the Soviets are just nuts on commemorating anniversaries. Lenin was born on April twenty-second of 1870, and they want a great big hundredth birthday present to prove he's still god. I figure this is it. At the very least, they're going to have some guys up there to sing ‘happy birthday, dear comrade.’ If they can upstage the capitalists by landin’ somebody on the Moon tomorrow, they will. It's dead certain they're gonna try.”

“With their lousy equipment.”

“It's primitive compared to ours, but it does work sometimes. For now, all we can do is watch and see if it does this time. We gotta go back in there and observe, and even help with telemetry data if Moscow asks us nice. The stakes are high, and not just for the flyboys up there. If someone on the duty crew slacks off and doesn't record everything that happens, I think I can imagine which Mission Control officer would have his ass in a sling for not catchin’ it. Anyway, the day will come when the shoe is on the other foot and it's our guys up there and them watching from the ground. We're building better stuff than they are, and you know it.”

“They sure seem to be able to do some things right.” Mc Cauley replied, gesturing toward the rising Moon. The haze tinted it a light orange, but the dark patches of the Mare Imbrium were still clear.

“Well, I see it as our turn to do some things right for a change. Things had gone a little different, it'd be an Apollo rather than Soyuz up there. Heck, if Congress hadn't gotten in the act demanding investigations and redesigns, it'd be our guys circling the Moon. If the Soviets go for the gold this time, it's still a human getting off the planet, and we'll run laps around them puttin’ a base up there. The long term, we got ‘em beat. For now, let's prove that we can handle our part of it.”

“Fair enough.” Mc Cauley checked his watch. “Maybe we can overhear some transmissions and prove there's someone in that capsule. Let's get to it.”

The southerner nodded. “Let's go run a railroad. We'll ride it later.”

Even before the two men made it all the way inside the cavernous mission control center, they could hear the sound of a loud argument.

“You can't tell them that! That's revealing capabilities they don't know we have!” barked one voice.

“It's standard procedure to reply as soon as we receive any distress signal!”

“From a friendly or neutral, not the enemy!”

“What's going on here?” Mc Cauley interrupted as he strode through the door. He saw two men almost nose to nose, a tall, bulldog-faced man with a graying crew cut facing off against a shorter man who glared at him intensely. Mc Cauley pointed at the smaller of the two. “Bob Butler, isn't it? What's this about?”

“We have received a message from the spacecraft, asking to talk to the head of NASA about plans for an emergency landing if needed.”

“From the spacecraft? You're sure?”

“It came in on our highest-gain receiver just as the communications window to their orbiter was disappearing. They were just about to go behind the Moon.”

“For us. Asking about emergency recovery. Not from Moscow.”

Conley moved to his elbow. “Moscow hasn't confirmed that it's a manned launch yet,” he said softly. “At least, not as I've heard. This could be on their own.”

“You sure this wasn't a message for Moscow? What did they say, something like ‘Houston, we have a problem?'”

The sarcasm had no effect on the small man. “It came in on our emergency frequency, not one they use. It recorded automatically, and I listened as soon as I saw that there was activity. I have it right here.” He stabbed at a button, and they strained to hear a heavily accented voice through layers of crackle and static.

“To NASA Houston, this is Volkov of Soyuz 11. Please advise ability to recover capsule from parachute landing in California or Arizona desert. Will await communication ninety minutes from now for reply, this frequency. Over.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to background hiss on the tape. “It's a trick!” announced Butler suddenly. “That signal came in on a system that is better than anything they have, better than anything they're sure we have. If we reply, they know our capabilities.”

The larger man broke his silence. “I was in the Navy for six years, and we learned a few things. You don't ignore a distress call, not ever. You don't make a frivolous distress call, not ever, or real ones get ignored. The North Koreans didn't do it back during the war. Even the Nazis didn't do it. The Russkies would be fools to break that protocol now. We have to treat this as real!”

Butler looked ready to argue with him again, but Mc Cauley held up his hands to shush them both. “This is too big for us. I'm going up the chain. Transcribe that message and log it, and give me a copy within five minutes. Nobody in this room is to leave this building, and outside lines are to be shut off now. Got that?” Both men nodded. “I'm getting on the phone to Washington. Frank, you come with me.”

The two men walked rapidly into Mc Cauley's cramped, cluttered office. “Thoughts?” asked Mc Cauley after a moment.

“Got lots of ‘em. Bet you do too.”

“Some kind of equipment failure. Tight window for the return trip, maybe fuel too low to make an extended burn. They have to land wherever they're aimed.”

“And Moscow hasn't told us because they're real bad at admitting when things go wrong. Brezhnev's boys probably don't think they'll make it, so they'd rather have us think their bird is empty.”

“Fits with something else.”

“What?”

“They sent the message just before they go behind the Moon, out of contact with us and Moscow for about an hour. They know we have to contact Washington, and they're probably going to be in contact with Moscow. If Moscow doesn't have a solution, they'll want to know if they can land here as a last resort.”

“So we have about ninety minutes to figure out if we're willing to have some very unwelcome temporary guests,” Mc Cauley finished. “Not much time to get a decision from the politicos. I'm calling Washington now.”

Conley turned to leave. “Reckon I don't have the security clearance to listen to this call, much as I'm dyin’ to.”

“Sit down, Frank. You know too much already to go anywhere, and anyway, I want you in on this.” He picked up the phone and told the operator, “Administrator Low, top priority, secure line.”

“That's actin’ administrator, isn't it?”

Mc Cauley covered the phone with his hand. “Yeah, I'm sure he wants to be reminded of that. He and Von Braun don't get along, or he'd be confirmed by now. I hear President Nixon has a permanent appointment in mind, but...” He sat up straighter in his chair and stopped covering the handset. “Hello, Administrator Low, this is Dan Mc Cauley in Mission Control, Houston. We've received a transmission from the capsule the Soviets launched a few days ago ... Affirmative, sir, there is strong evidence that it is manned. No, sir, they're not gloating, we think they may be in trouble. They've asked about assistance in case of an emergency landing on US territory. Affirmative, sir, they mentioned the California desert. We suspect that they had to make some unexpected maneuver that used up fuel, and their only landing window is somewhere on the West Coast. We're plotting out their orbits right now to see when they'll be lined up for that region. Transmission was very brief, and they're out of contact now. They expect an answer in about ninety minutes. The President? At this time of night? Yes, sir, I'm aware that this could be an international incident. Will do, sir.”

He hung up the phone, looking slightly dazed.

“Well?”

“Don't just sit there, start doing what I told him we're already doing.”

“Checkin’ trajectories, right. Anything else?”

“Coffee. Real coffee, which means somebody other than you making it.”

“Awww, Mac, you cut me deep. I'm on my way.”

* * * *

The next twenty minutes was a flurry of paperwork and phone conversations—the report received and double-checked, confirmation calls from State Department functionaries with increasingly impressive titles, some of whom had obviously been rousted out of bed, and the consumption of a full pot of very bad coffee. If Conley hadn't made it himself, he had managed to find someone else with an equal lack of skill. Mc Cauley was ready to kid him about it until he saw the look on Conley's face when he entered the office again.

“It's more complicated than we thought,” he said without preamble. “If they're just gonna orbit, they can go around one more time and slingshot back clean as you please to a hunk of Siberia that they've used for landings before. Next straight shot to California after that isn't for almost a day.”

“You're sure?”

“Ran the numbers past one of your pet eggheads twice. Ran it past another one to be sure. Got the same answer each time, which is enough of a miracle that I pinched myself to see if I was dreamin'. Only one way I can think of that it makes sense, and I've got both of them calculatin’ to see if I'm right.”

“Which is?”

“They used more fuel than they expected gettin’ to lunar orbit, but they have enough to swing around the Moon a few times and trot back home. Or they could make a landin’ and get back to Earth, but just barely. They'll have no control over where they'll come down, but the Southwest is a likely spot. They're up there right now tryin’ to make a go/no-go decision, and they want to know if we'll help.”

Mc Cauley sat completely still for a moment and then nodded. “That fits,” he said slowly. “They have two choices. They can play it safe, make the birthday broadcast, call it a successful science mission, and land anywhere they want. Or they can go for the gold, do the landing, and come down wherever chance puts them. Odds are better than even it will put them somewhere inconvenient. Do you remember the most recent briefing we had on the capabilities of the Soyuz capsule?”

“Yep. Our guys say they're kinda marginal for a splashdown. Darn silly way to build a spacecraft. Two thirds of the planet is water, and they design a craft that doesn't float much better than a brick. Ours sit up on the water like fishing bobbers, even look a lot like ‘em.”

“And their navy doesn't have a quarter the coverage area of ours anyway, so if they have to splash down anywhere, we're likely to get there first.” He thought a moment. “If you're right, then if we say no, they won't risk the landing. We still have a chance to be first.”

“If things are as we think, and if they think the way we think they think, then maybe.”

“That's got to be the least definite thing anybody anywhere ever said.”

“We're making a lot of assumptions from two sentences. Based on the data we have, I think we understand the situation they're in. When it comes to the choices they're making, we're on shakier ground. What would we do if the first men on the Moon landed here on their way home? Shoot ‘em, arrest them for trespassing, or give them a parade and send them home in first-class style? I can't predict it myself, so it's darn sure that they don't know. They may be scared. If it was me landing in Russia after twisting the bear's tail, I'd be pretty pessimistic about my welcome. Remember the U2 incident, when they shot down Gary Powers? What was it they sentenced him to, ten years at hard labor?”

“This is different....”

“How? To who? They could come down anywhere. Can you guarantee that some hick sheriff wouldn't shoot a guy in a Soviet uniform on sight?”

“Well, no, but...” The argument was interrupted by the phone ringing, and Mc Cauley snatched it up. “Hello? Yes, it is ... Yes, sir. A conference call with the President? Of course I'll wait.” He covered the phone with his hand and whispered to Conley. “That was Administrator Low. He's at the White House now briefing the President, and they have questions. Sit right there and don't move.”

“Nowhere else I've gotta be,” Conley drawled as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

“I can't believe it, I'm going to talk to...” His voice returned to his usual volume level, but higher pitched than usual. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Gentlemen, Mr. President, less than an hour ago we received a very long-distance call...”

It took about ten minutes for Mc Cauley to get through the explanation. His sentences were interrupted by long silences and then explanations, each prefaced by “Yes, Mr. President,” or “No, Doctor Kissinger.” When he finally hung up the phone, he was sweating and looked exhausted.

“Just a casual little chat with a couple of buddies,” observed Conley cheerfully. “What'd they say?”

“President Nixon told me to tell them we'll help. Administrator Low didn't sound too happy about it.”

“Nope, he wouldn't. He's got no use for the Russians, none at all. I met him once when he was visiting the missile test range down in the Bahamas, back when I was launch supervisor there. We had a subcontractor engineer from GE down there, guy named Olenikov or something, from New York City, but his parents came from somewhere near Moscow. It got Olenikov's goat that I kept calling his company Generally Hectic, and one time he grumbled something at me in Russian that I'd imagine wasn't too complimentary. Well, Low overheard this and just about came unglued. He ordered the guy out, and as soon as he left the room, changed every security code on the base. Olenikov had every clearance in the book, checked and double-checked, but Low didn't want him near those missiles. Too bad, because as GE techs go, the guy was pretty good, actually fixed some problems instead of always explainin’ how they were caused by somebody else's equipment.”

“Well, Administrator Low was probably just concerned about security....”

“I think he just hates the Soviets, individually and collectively. He's from Austria, but he's got relatives right across the border in Czechoslovakia. He hasn't heard from some of them since the Soviets rolled tanks last year to smash that Prague Spring thing. He seems to have taken it personally. Wouldn't bother him a bit if those guys in the capsule returned to Earth without slowin’ down.”

“He did argue with Dr. Kissinger a lot. Henry is all for it, sounds like he figures it's going to happen anyway, so we might as well make it so they owe us some favors. Low thinks it's a trick, same as that communications tech, what's his name?”

“Robert E. Butler, named after a certain citizen of Virginia. I'd have liked Bob even if he wasn't named after a southern gentleman, because he's a good man. Solid as a rock. Only one of the four comm guys on duty that kept his head about him when Apollo 8 went up,” He paused a moment, as everyone did when they mentioned that day. “Brought his kid to visit last week, and the brat was all over the place, trying to touch everything. Kept two men busy tryin’ to stop him, and I was findin’ greasy fingerprints on the equipment for hours. Kid must eat nothin’ but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day and never washes his hands.”

“We'll have to reexamine that policy about allowing children here on visiting days.”

“You're a born administrator, goin’ from talking with the President one minute to petty personnel issues the next.”

“Maybe I am. I'm stuck in the details these days. I used to dream about going up myself.”

“Like we all have,” observed Conley. “I reckon it's the reason we're here. For now, it's about someone else coming down instead of us going up.”

“And in about ten minutes they'll be in range again, and we can tell them the welcome mat is out. Let's go stand by our end on the phone.”

* * * *

Despite the order not to tell anybody about the message, the Mission Control center was packed with people who all had that look employees only get when the boss arrives suddenly. Heads were down, men shuffled from place to place with papers clutched in their hands, and technicians peered intently at meter needles that weren't moving and screens that were blank. Conley snorted and Mc Cauley almost laughed. What did he expect? The word was out. There was no putting the cat back in the bag, so he might as well make sure that they all knew where things stood.

“All right, gentlemen, listen up!” The room went quiet and every head snapped in his direction, eyes wide with interest. “I just got off the phone with President Nixon. The President of the United States directs that if the Soviet spacecraft needs to make an emergency landing, we will give any assistance needed.” There was a sudden buzz of conversation, and he noted that some faces looked relieved, others blank or stubborn. What the heck, tell them the rest.

“Gentlemen!” he said again louder, and the room was still again. “You know that there has been speculation that the Soviets were going to go for a Moon landing on this trip. Well, we're not certain yet, but it seems likely that they will, and they'll be setting down here in the US after they do it. I know that you all have been working for years so an American will set foot on the Moon first. Well, I want that to happen, too, but if the Soviets make it before us, we must consider how our children's children will see it. They'll remember it as the day a man landed on the Moon, not a Russian or an American, a man, and they'll ask what you were doing on that day. You will say that you remember, you were where you could help, and you did your part. That's what will matter.” He was silent for a moment. “Gentlemen, to your duties,” he said in a low voice that carried through the huge room. Mc Cauley walked over to the console where Butler, the man who had received the first message, was staring at an electronic clock. “How long, Bob?” he asked.

“Four, three, two, one...” the senior communications tech counted down. “Ready to broadcast, sir.” Butler handed Mc Cauley a headset, then looked at him questioningly. Mc Cauley pointed at the switch that would broadcast the conversation throughout the room, and Butler flipped it.

“This is Houston Mission control, over.”

The answer came back a few seconds later through a crackle of static. “To Houston, this is Volkov of Soyuz 11. Please advise if assistance will be forthcoming.”

“To Volkov, this is Mc Cauley of NASA mission control. The President wishes me to assure you that we will help in every way possible. Over.”

Despite the growing interference as the craft went out of range, they could hear the relieved tone in the Russian's voice. “My friends Patsayev and Dobrovolski, and of course I myself, are grateful for your offer of hospitality. We will not be arriving for some days yet, so you will have a little time. We know the weather is nice in California, because we are looking at it right now, and we see only a few clouds.”

“There are no clouds where you are going right now.”

“Yes, but the weather there is not so good for a barbecue. Colder outside even than Siberia in winter.”

“We promise a good barbecue as soon as you're safely down.”

“This cheers us. We are bored with the food we have brought with us, and have heard that American steaks are the best. We will remain in contact. Thank you, or as we say, spasibo.”

“You are welcome, gentlemen. Safe voyaging. Over.”

There was a brief, unintelligible noise, then only a hiss of static. Mc Cauley put down the microphone and turned to the communications tech. “They're going for it,” he said to himself, then turned to the technician.

“Butler!”

“Sir.”

“Please contact our tracking stations in Hawaii and Australia on secure lines. They'll be able to see them for a bit longer. Tell them I need to know about any change in the orbit of that Soyuz. Tell them to start right now.”

“Yes, sir!”

Conley followed him back into his office.

“You're looking for a burn this soon?”

“If they're short enough on fuel and oxygen that they're talking to us in the first place, they're not going to waste what they have. It'll take them half an orbit for that little toy lander of theirs to separate and decelerate, so if they start the process now, it'll be almost on the ground the next time they're in radio range. I figure they'll want to do their broadcast in the afternoon, Moscow time, so they've got to drop their lunar module soon. I need to call Administrator Low now.”

Just then, the phone rang. “Hmmm, seems that Administrator Low can calculate orbits too,” Conley observed. “Wouldn't have thunk it with him out of school so long.” Mc Cauley picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.

“Yes, sir, we told them we will give assistance. They said they won't be arriving for some days yet, so they evidently plan to come here after a landing attempt.” He listened for a moment. “They have? About time. Probably wanted to make sure the guys up there were okay before they admitted they were there in the first place. Yes, sir, I will. I anticipate that they'll broadcast about one thirty in the morning, my time. Yes, sir, I'll still be here. Yes, sir, I'll let you know if anything changes.” He hung up the phone and exhaled a long breath, the tension visibly draining out of him. “I think I'm actually getting used to the idea of calling the White House to brief the President.”

“So what did they say this time?”

“News from Moscow. Premier Kosygin just confirmed that it's a manned mission, but didn't say anything about fuel shortages or emergency landings.”

“So what's new? If they launched the thing and it went straight into the Marianas Trench, they'd call it an oceanography mission and claim it was a success.”

“Hell of a way to run things.”

“As opposed to dithering for a year while congressmen who flunked high school science tell us how to redesign our escape procedures?”

“I'm willing to bet that they've got dumber bureaucrats who have flunked worse science classes.”

“They just know not to listen to them. Or to shoot them when they're wrong, which means they don't make that mistake twice.”

“And now I'm beginning to think we should learn something from them.”

“Nah, you really shouldn't start shooting people, in case it becomes a habit.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a respectful knock at the open door, where the tall, crew cut communications officer was waiting respectfully.

“Honolulu reports a burn, sir. Timing is right for lunar module separation.”

“Darn it, I didn't bet any money on this, when I probably could've gotten two to one. Another wasted opportunity,” mused Conley into the silence. Mc Cauley ignored him.

“That's as expected,” said Mc Cauley crisply. “Contact NASA Edwards in California and don't tell them why, but tell them to run a full dress drill of their search and rescue teams three days from now. And ... what's your name again?”

“Yeager, sir. Bill Yeager.”

“You're ex-Navy.

“Ensign, sir.”

“Sounds like you dealt with some dicey situations in Korea.”

“A few, sir.”

“And you were arguing with Butler over what to do about that distress call.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you think you two disagree?”

“He's a Marine, sir.”

“And?”

“They're trained to think they can beat anything, sir. Don't like it when they can't.”

“And?”

“Spend a bit of time at sea, sir, and you know the ocean's bigger than anybody. Soldiers on opposite sides don't help each other, mariners do. Space is even bigger than the ocean.”

Mc Cauley and Conley waited for a moment, but the tall man didn't say anything else. “Thank you, Mr. Yeager,” said Mc Cauley finally.

“Sir,” he responded, made a stiff turn, and walked away.

“I think you made a heap of points with that man when you said we had to help those Russkies,” observed Conley after he was gone. “You've gone from being his boss to being his commanding officer, and he respects that a lot more.”

“We're civilians, Conley. I am his boss.”

“We've sent people out to explore or die, Mac. Civilians don't do that much.”

“True enough. Now it's their turn over in Moscow, but we're doing our bit. I was less certain about that than you were. Washington could have said no, and then they wouldn't have made the landing and you'd have lost your bet. I didn't want to help them myself, at first, but I'm glad we're doing it. Somehow when you've talked to someone, joked about having a barbecue with him, it all becomes less abstract.”

“And it all comes down to you making the contact. Ironic, ain't it? If our side had a bird flying, Low would be standing here making sure it was him handling the communications, bossing everything, on television every day. Since the shot wasn't ours and we didn't expect to talk to anybody, Low gets to hear about everything secondhand. I wonder when he's just gonna tell you to route all calls to him, and he rolls in the TV cameras.”

“Probably not long.”

“I dunno. Come to think of it, this is a pretty weird situation, contact being not exactly official. He may like to keep it at one remove, so if it all goes wrong, he has somebody to blame it on.”

“You've cheered me up so much by saying that.”

“Well, now you get to figure out what to do next.”

“Yep, we do.”

“We? I'm just a country boy who keeps this chair from gettin’ all dusty by sittin’ in it.”

“So sit in it and tell me what you think we ought to do to get ready.”

“How about asking the President to find some excuse to get the Army to do training in the California desert, so they're where we need them? Maybe explain it as emergency practice of some sort. They just had an earthquake in a place called Sylmar a few months ago, maybe they can practice in case another one comes along.”

“Nah, they wouldn't call out the Army, they'd muster the National Guard for that. We'd have to go through the governor, and he's that actor that used to be on Death Valley Days. I can't remember his name, but he was pretty good in Bedtime for Bonzo.”

“Reagan. Ronald Reagan. I liked him better in Cattle Queen of Montana. Forget him, those Hollywood people are too unreliable. See if you can find an excuse to get the Army out instead of the Guard. They just got a delivery of new choppers, and the next time you call the White House maybe you can ask them to schedule some training.”

“The next time I call the White House,” mused Mc Cauley. “I had almost managed to forget for a minute that I could do that.”

“I reckon anybody can call the White House. The difference is, when you do it, they pick up the phone.”

The two men laughed for a minute, then Mc Cauley made a face like he'd eaten something sour.

“What is it, Mac?”

“I'm putting my career on the line to help three guys I've never met, and I've never even talked to two of them. And they're Soviets, and about to land on the Moon ahead of us.”

“And, as you reminded a passel of folks out in that mission control center, they're people. Humans. From this planet, never mind which chunk of it. And sixty years ago the Soviet Union didn't exist, and sixty years from now something else might be there.”

Mc Cauley was silent for a moment. “I've got to believe that something else will be there, because I don't want to believe their system can go on that long. Turning a country into a cage.”

“Yep. Even allowin’ for a little exaggeration on the part of the journalists who go over there, that seems to be the size of it. They haven't been able to squash the spirit out of people, though. Look at the Hungarians in ‘56, the Czechs last year, those Germans that try to get into West Berlin any which way they can. The Russians build a wall around the place, but they tunnel under it, climb over it, or swim around it. Won't be long before they decide to make pole vaultin’ the national sport so they can all defect to the West. I can't see how the Soviets think they can keep people in line forever, much less why they think it'd be a good idea. I guess they've got propaganda tellin’ people it's for their own good.”

“Well, it looks like tomorrow they'll have one more piece, because their guys will be on TV singing ‘Happy birthday, dear Vladimir,’ from the Moon.”

“And if they need our help to get back home, everybody will remember that they couldn't do it themselves. It ain't all bad. We'll get a good look at their equipment as soon as it hits our turf, a fact that probably hasn't escaped the folks back there in Washington. Won't surprise me if there's a slight shipping delay in getting’ it back to them due to unexpected circumstances. I'll bet they're roundin’ up every expert on Soviet technology they can find and getting ready to go over that capsule with a fine-tooth comb.”

“You're not going to get any takers on that bet either.”

“Shucks, if everybody keeps declinin’ my bets, I'm gonna have to give up gamblin'.”

“You win all the time, so people stop playing.” He yawned, then glanced at his watch. “Almost one A.M., and another half hour before we get to watch their dog and pony show. Think I'll walk around a bit.”

* * * *

The big mission control center was even more crowded now, since new people had come on shift and the old ones hadn't left. A few of the specialists and technicians who were assigned to other areas looked at Mc Cauley with concern, but he waved his hand dismissively. “Relax, I understand. I'd want to be here too. Anything urgent that needs to be done at your station?”

Most of the men shook heads no, but one thought for a moment and started walking quickly toward the door. Mc Cauley had a sudden idea and pointed at a weather forecasting team.

“You! Who in your unit makes the best coffee?” When three people pointed at the same man, Mc Cauley addressed him. “Go make as much as you can and bring it here. Just make sure one cup of it stops at my desk.” He glared at Conley. “We have an excess of engineering talent and a shortage of culinary skill around this place.”

Conley smiled back at him, unfazed. “Wasn't hired for my looks or my cookin',” he said mildly. “Not that either one is my strongest point, I'll grant you.”

Mc Cauley didn't answer, as something had caught his eye. In the midst of the crowded, noisy room, Butler was writing in a notebook, the spacing of the lines making it clear that it was a poem. He paused in mid-line to glance at a clock and flip a pair of switches, then went back to his writing. Mc Cauley walked silently to his side.

“What do you have there?”

“Oh, just an idea that came to me.”

“May I see?” He picked up the notebook and read out loud:

* * * *

“Ours was the time when dreams were spun

In sculpted shapes of shining steel

And trips to distant worlds begun

Where strange configured starfields wheel

So when our lives are long forgot

Remember we in pride did say

We visualized the ships you fly

As first we launched ours on their way.”

* * * *

There was a long moment of silence, and then Mc Cauley asked, “Is there more to it?”

Butler shrugged. “Is there more that needs to be said?”

“No, I think that about covers it.” He contemplated the room full of people who awaited a landing on the Moon and then gave the notebook back. “The important stuff is all there.”

The cup of hot coffee arrived at the console just as a phone rang. The engineer at that desk picked it up and gestured to Mc Cauley. “Call transferred from the switchboard, sir. It's Washington.”

Mc Cauley took the receiver and listened for a moment. “Yes, sir, we'll watch for the feed.” He listened for a moment, looked at some papers that a mathematician had just given him, then spoke into the phone again. “We have the numbers, sir. If he only stays down for one full orbit and then fires the lander's engines for rendezvous with the Soyuz, they'll rendezvous about four hours from now. If they're low on oxygen, that's probably what they'll do. If their problem is fuel, he could stay there for another orbit, so call it six hours. After that, two and a half days to touchdown. Yes, sir, thank you.”

He hung up the phone and glanced at Yeager. “Channel eight, large screen, all non-critical stations. It's a news feed.” The tech nodded and started flipping switches on his console. About half of the flickering screens that lined the huge room went momentarily blank, then lit up with pictures of a huge parade float traveling a snowy street. On the front was a huge statue of Lenin on a red carpet emblazoned with the dates 1870-1970. Thousands of people in overcoats and hats clapped obediently and cheered, and the tinny sound filled the Mission Control room. Over the faint music of a military band they could hear the voice of the translator, obviously from the Radio Moscow English language service.

“Here, the Soviet people show their solidarity with the workers of this world, at the same time as they explore a new world, inspired by the glorious thought and irrefutable logic of Comrade Vladimir Lenin....”

“Turn that down, please,” Mc Cauley requested, his voice flat. At Conley's questioning look, he explained, “Administrator Low said that there's going to be a live broadcast from the Moon in a few minutes. We might as well watch it.”

At a nearby console, Butler jerked in his seat and adjusted his headphones, then turned to Mc Cauley. “Sir, message received from the Soyuz orbiter.”

“For us?”

“In English, two words. ‘Please record.'”

“Reply, ‘Affirmative, Luna.'” He swallowed hard. “And tell them congratulations.”

“Sir.”

“They've been having communications problems with their own station, probably want to make sure the moment gets preserved,” observed Conley. “Well, the day will come when it's our turn. When our guys are up there, we'll want a nice clean signal relayed via Moscow.”

“Not Moscow, Baikonur,” corrected Mc Cauley. “That's where they launched this bird from....”

“Well, knowin’ the Russians, if sending the message through bacon-ear is the right thing to do, they'll send it through Moscow.”

Everyone in earshot laughed at the joke, even as the screens showed high-stepping soldiers with the Kremlin in the background. “An early lead ain't everything,” continued Conley. “The South won all the early battles in the War Between the States, and look how that turned out.”

“With the United States’ centers of space operations in Florida and right here in Texas, both loyal states of the Confederacy,” added a nearby man whose accent proclaimed him a local. “Next time we feel like leavin', we'll have the high ground.”

“Let's not start that again,” intervened Mc Cauley. He was interrupted by a blare of trumpets from the tinny speakers, and the screens showed a solemn group of elderly men in dark suits sitting next to a podium. A jowly man with thinning silver hair walked ponderously to the microphone while everyone else applauded stiffly.

“Workers of the glorious Soviet Union, oppressed peoples of the world...” the translator began.

“Turn the sound off,” ordered Mc Cauley. “It's bad enough to watch this, but listening to Brezhnev is too much. It makes about as much sense with or without the translation.”

The camera cut to a picture of Lenin's tomb in Red Square, then of the embalmed corpse in its glass case, then back to Brezhnev.

“That last one looks deader'n the one that came before it,” observed Conley.

Mc Cauley was about to fire back with a smart remark, but the action on the screen caught his attention. Brezhnev made a gesture toward a huge projection screen, which suddenly came to life. There was a gasp throughout the control room as a barren landscape of small craters and distant mountains came into view.

“Turn up the sound,” yelped several voices immediately, and Yeager twisted the volume control.

“...this live broadcast from the surface of the moon, from a camera mounted on the Lunniy Orbitalny Korabl, the jewel of Soviet technology and proof of superiority over the efforts of the decadent capitalists of the United States.”

“Turn the sound back down,” complained a couple of voices, but more people shushed them.

Butler jerked in his seat again. “Message incoming from the orbiter, sir. I am recording.”

Mc Cauley nodded, still transfixed by the image on the screen. A suited figure came into view from the left side, moving slowly down a ladder while carrying something under his arm. The image seemed to blur, and Mc Cauley reached for a handkerchief to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Oh ... my ... God,” he heard Butler gasp. He heard the sound of other men sobbing, muttering curses, or praying. Even the pompous English translator had shut up in that majestic moment.

The suited figure paused on the last rung of the ladder and unfurled a Soviet flag, the hammer and sickle bright even in the foggy TV picture from the moon. He announced something in Russian, held the flag outward in salute, then dropped it. It took a moment to fall to the ground in the feeble lunar gravity. The cosmonaut stepped on it, then took another step onto the surface of the moon.

The picture suddenly cut away to a view of the communist party functionaries, one of whom had fallen over and was receiving medical attention. Brezhnev's mouth was moving, but either he wasn't actually saying anything or the translator wasn't translating. Butler flipped a switch, and though the picture stayed the same, the Mission Control room was filled with a different voice, intelligible despite the speaker's accent and the distortion from the great distance.

“...have decided we cannot celebrate the lies of Lenin, who promised prosperity, while fifty years after the revolution of 1917, the only ones who are well fed are the apparatchiki and the generals. Lenin promised peace between all communists, but on the border with the Chinese we await a war. Lenin promised freedom, but the walls and barbed wires keep our people in cages.”

“That video feed is still coming from the moon. Get it for me,” Mc Cauley demanded. While Butler flipped channels, the speech from the orbiter went on.

“We therefore will do what other Soviet citizens can not, which is to make our own choice of where we will travel.”

“Got it!” shouted Butler, and the screens around the room showed the lunar surface again. A piece of paper with a hand-drawn American flag was on a short pole, and a man in a pressure suit was saluting it.

“We have decided that we will not be landing in the Soviet Union,” the accented voice continued while shouts and cheers rang out in mission control. “We will try life in a new country.”

“You got your wish, Mac,” marveled Conley from somewhere just behind him. “The first man on the Moon is an American. Unless you think that the State Department will refuse his citizenship request.”

“That paperwork is going to be processed faster than any other application in history,” exulted Mc Cauley.

“Meanwhile, you have any friends in Southern California? I think you might want to call and tell them you'll be visitin’ real soon, and they should stock up on charcoal, beef, and liquor. Our friends expressed a wish for a really good steak, and I think you have about three days to develop a taste for vodka.”

Over the noise in the room, Mc Cauley could hear the line from Washington ringing. He ran to answer it.

Copyright © 2008 Richard Foss

Author's note: The poem “Apollo” was written by NASA Mission Control technician Robert E. Butler in 1969, and was previously unpublished. Thanks are due to Chris Butler and the late Robert E. Butler for technical assistance with this story.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: ENERGY CRISIS *REDUX:* A POLEMIC
by Jeffery D. Kooistra

I got so angry when I drove into the service station and saw the price on the pump. I needed gas so I couldn't just drive away, but this was ridiculous! Gasoline should not cost this much! As I was pumping fuel, I groused about the cost some more, and wondered if I should fill up or hope the price would go down in a few days and only fill the tank half way. I was very frustrated with “our leaders"—those people in business who run energy companies, and in government those whom we elect to anticipate and solve problems before they occur.

They'd all failed me. They'd failed us all. It had been obvious to everyone for at least 25 years, I thought, that oil would one day run out, that gasoline could not always be cheap, that we could not forever rely on other countries to supply our energy needs. And yet not one damn thing had been done in all that time to guarantee that our energy future would be secure.

I resolved immediately to walk more often to the places I wanted to go. However, living in the Midwest, a place laid out in just such a way as to make driving an absolute necessity for getting around in ordinary life, this was not much of a resolution. In practice, it was impossible to stick with it. I think I walked from home to my friend's apartment twice. I lived too far away from work to walk there even once.

By the way, did I mention this happened 30 years ago?

* * * *

What had so incensed me at the pump that day was that gasoline had shot up to the unheard of price of, I think, 77 cents a gallon. To fill my 20-gallon tank it was going to cost me about what I made in five hours, before taxes. Although it costs me less, measured in hours worked, to fill up today, my minivan tank doesn't hold 20 gallons. I also make a lot more per hour now than I did then with my barely-over-minimum-wage job and I didn't have the expenses of a mortgage, utility bills, and children. What has not changed is that, as I thought 30 years ago and never would have thought would still hold true today (if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes), not one damn thing has been done in all that time to guarantee that our energy future would be secure.

I don't know if it's tragic or just funny that many of the same “fixes” from back then are being suggested for dealing with the current energy crisis. It was true back in the ‘70s and it is still true today that we don't have an actual energy crisis. We're awash in energy and the world is not running out of oil anytime soon. The crisis is in our wallets in that we don't want to (or for many of us, cannot for much longer) spend as much for gasoline (or heating oil, or natural gas, or diesel fuel, or electricity) as we are spending now.

This financial crisis is a serious problem for everyone. Though it is easy to pick on people who are driving big SUVs that they suddenly can no longer afford to keep on the road (gas prices went up between 25 and 30% in one year), and laugh at their supposed vanity for owning them in the first place, their money problems propagate through the entire economy. Many can't sell that SUV because the car shoppers who can still afford to own one don't buy used cars, especially when dealerships are trying to unload new ones at bargain prices. Everyone else out car shopping is also looking for something small and energy efficient, which means there is also a shortage of small, energy efficient cars, at least for a while. This means most current SUV drivers are stuck with their big vehicles. This means that money will be spent on gasoline that otherwise would have been spent on clothes, or computers, or refrigerators, or TVs, or on trips to the restaurant, or on subscriptions to Analog, or dues to SFWA....

And this means that even a Green waitress—who would never own an SUV, who takes the bus to work, who recycles, who supports saving the rain forests, and who just bought her first little energy-efficient house a year ago—will default on her mortgage when she gets laid off at the restaurant because SUV owners can't afford to eat out as often.

The national economy will continue to weaken one falling liberal and conservative, red and blue state, Green and non-Green, domino at a time.

As I write this in the summer of ‘08, there is talk about reinstating the 55-mph speed limit, a less than perfect idea from 30 years ago. I have myself voluntarily started driving to work with my cruise control set at 60, just to save gasoline. I don't need any more incentive than the high price to give it a try, and I only lose a few minutes both ways by going slower. However, having lived in New Mexico for a few years back in the ‘80s ... well, I would never want to try to force someone who has to drive 150 miles to and from work each day to spend an extra half-hour or more on the road. If he's willing to pay for the gasoline so he can continue to spend that half-hour at home, I think that is his right. It is true that if everyone drove 55 on the highways instead of 70 or 75, it would conserve gasoline. But that would only put off the inevitable day of reckoning a short while. And the simple fact is that, if history is any guide, most people will not keep their speed down to 55, and the nation cannot conserve itself into either prosperity or energy independence.

* * * *

Just as we heard back in the ‘70s, once again we are being preached the virtues of clean renewable energy—solar power, wind power, and geothermal power (hydropower, not so much this time around, since no one wants to dam anything anymore). But it is also just as true today that there isn't enough solar, wind, or geothermal power around to meet our energy needs, nor is there likely to be.

No one disputes that a solar power station big enough to supply the energy we get from a typical coal or oil-fired power plant would have to be huge. The back-of-the-envelope calculation is simple. Assume about one kilowatt per square meter as the energy flux for sunlight at the Earth's surface. But at 10% efficiency, ten square meters of solar cells are needed to obtain one kilowatt. To get one gigawatt of power, you need one million times that area. That's a square about two miles on a side. The sun doesn't shine at night, so figure eight hours a day of useful sunshine—now you're up to twelve square miles of solar collector to average one gigawatt of continuous power. Even the desert gets clouds, so we'd better double the size again (and that's being optimistic) to make up for losses we can expect from less than perfect weather. We're now up to 24 square miles of solar collector for that one gigawatt. A typical power plant supplies about five gigawatts. That means we need 120 square miles of solar collector to equal one typical fossil-fuel power plant, a square eleven miles on a side.

Of course, we're not going to cover 120 square miles with one enormous solar collector. We're going to get our huge solar collector by using a whole bunch of smaller arrays all operating together. There will be space between those units with utility roads, junction boxes, and service buildings. The sun will have to be tracked so the rays will come in perpendicularly. An array with moving parts will tend to break down unless it receives regular maintenance. So either from failure or just to receive scheduled care, some areas of our solar power array will always be out of commission at any given time. To compensate for that, it needs to be bigger still.

I could go on, pointing out that such a huge structure is bound to run into trouble from really bad weather, like tornadoes and hail storms and lightning strikes, and maybe snow and ice storms. Even in mild weather, the damn thing is still going to get dirty and will need to be cleaned frequently. I haven't even touched how much time, manpower, concrete, steel, gasoline and diesel fuel will be needed to build it in the first place.

All of these aspects were known decades ago—they are among the reasons why it was hoped back then that we'd be building solar power satellites in space and beaming the energy back via microwaves.

You can do the same sort of back-of-the-envelope calculation for wind power. No matter how you do it, if you use anything like realistic numbers, you rapidly discover that solar and wind energy will never be more than adjunct sources of energy. I have nothing against either of them in their proper place and under favorable circumstances. Indeed, geothermal power works well for Iceland. But we're not Iceland. Touting solar and wind power as the answer to our long-term energy needs is simply nonsense.

* * * *

This brings us to the elephant in the room—nuclear power. Just how in the hell did scientists and science fiction writers allow the promise of clean nuclear power to be stolen from us? Because it wasn't so clean? Compared to what? Coal? Oil? The very stuff we're now told is bringing on catastrophic climate change?

Was it the fear of terrorism, that having too many nuclear power plants around would make it too easy to steal nuclear material to make nuclear bombs? But weren't the planes flown into the World Trade Center powered by fossil fuel? Haven't the so-called “rogue states” been making their own nuclear bomb stuff with centrifuges anyway?

Was it the waste that won't be safe for ten thousand years? But haven't other nations been producing waste anyway, and dealing with it? And why does it have to be stored safely for ten thousand years? Can't we settle on a scheme that will serve for fifty or a hundred years, and revisit the problem later, just like we do with absolutely everything else? Are there any “permanent solutions” put forward in 1908 that we still follow today?

My solution to the energy crisis? Nuclear power. We already know how, it is less dirty than fossil fuel, power plants require only acres of land, not square miles, and the US has all the uranium she needs inside her own borders. Forget trying to store the waste forever—settle for a century. We should also drill offshore for more domestic oil since nuclear plants can't be built overnight, and the American automobile fleet won't be all-electric for some years to come. And we can use wind and solar power where it makes sense.

Oh, and since candidates for president can spend a hundred million dollars to get us to vote for them, maybe we can spend the same to undo the 30 years of anti-nuclear nonsense that brought us today's energy crisis in the first place.

Copyright © 2008 Jeffery D. Kooistra

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: ROCKS
by John G. Hemry

History progresses by building higher and higher on the accomplishments of forebears—but how high can it go?

The huge rock spiraling into the planet's atmosphere, leaving a fiery trail in the sky as friction vaporized its outer surface, didn't know that the area where it would soon strike would millions of years hence be called Yucatan. It didn't know that its impact would vaporize countless living things, that the wave of heat and debris hurled outward by the collision would incinerate an incalculable number of other plants and creatures, or that the dust it threw skyward would create a sudden winter of long duration that would spell the doom of many species, including the dominant giant sauropods. The ecological niches opened as a result would be filled by other creatures, including one that would someday evolve toward humanity.

But the rock didn't know that, either. It was just a rock.

* * * *

Angry and getting madder by the moment, Tak glared toward Hok. The bigger Hok had just mated with the female whom Tak had wanted. Tak had no way to strike at Hok without being beaten in the fight.

Tak's hands, covered with hair like much of the rest of him, scrabbled in the soil where he crouched. One hand curled around one side of a rock. Tak stared at the rock, feeling its weight. Rocks were used to crack open nuts and the bones of animals for the marrow.

An idea came to him. Tak rushed over to Hok and swung the hand holding the rock. It struck Hok in the head and the bigger hominid fell heavily into the dirt. A friend of Hok's howled and came running toward Tak. In a panic, Tak threw the rock. It struck the arm of the other with a sickening crack and that one fell, too, screaming with pain, his arm bent at a strange angle.

The others were angry with Tak at first, but they examined the hurt done to Hok and his friend.

Some of them picked up rocks.

* * * *

Yana watched the members of her tribe scouring the ground for good rocks. She knelt near a rocky ledge, gazing at some rocks broken and split by the ice that came in the cold times. The split rocks had sharp points and edges, but were much too large to be used.

Why couldn't she do what the ice did?

Gathering up a couple of smaller rocks, she slammed them together, trying to get them to split right. A pile gradually accumulated near her, mostly of rocks broken too small to be useful. Some kinds of rocks seemed to split better than others. Her hands ached and bled from the force of her blows, but by the time others sought her out, Yana had three rocks whose rounded backs fit comfortably into her hand and whose fronts were flaked into sharp edges.

The tribe studied her work with amazement. Then the elders ordered Yana to show others how to make sharp rocks. There were animals to be felled and cut up, and other tribes sometimes tried to steal from Yana's tribe.

The sharp rocks would be useful.

* * * *

Scout eyed Hunter curiously. The other had split a heavy stick on one end and wedged a rock into it. Now Hunter was carefully wrapping strong plant fibers around the rock and stick to hold the rock in place. “What?” Scout asked.

Hunter swung the stick experimentally. “Long arm hit hard. Make arm long. Hit hard.” He swung the stick again, bringing its end down on a nearby stone. The rock on the stick rang with the impact and splinters of stone flew.

Scout smiled. “Good weapon.”

“Yes,” Hunter agreed, looking for more rocks of the right size and shape. “Make more.”

* * * *

“What?” One watched another with a long stick and a small sharp rock. “Too long,” he said, pointing to the stick. “Too small,” he added, pointing at the rock.

“This not club.” The other finished fastening his sharp rock to the end of the long stick and jabbed at the first one with it, causing his companion to jerk away in fright. “Like this.”

The eyes of the first one lit up. “Stone on end cuts what is out of reach.” He took the crude spear and jabbed at the dirt, driving the point into the soil. “Cuts deep. Deeper than club.”

The inventor smiled proudly, taking back the weapon and running around excitedly. He tripped and the spear flew out of his hand, wobbling forward until it buried itself into the dirt again.

The first one bared his teeth, racing to take the weapon and throw it awkwardly, then recovering the spear and holding it up. “Stone cuts far!” he exulted.

* * * *

Sanu twirled his new weapon, then let go one end of the leather strap, setting the rock cradled inside free to fly toward the target.

Tuni's eyes widened as the rock struck a tree with so much force that bark flew and wood splintered. “Better than throwing.”

“Much better,” Sanu agreed. “Much better weapon.”

Tuni tried a few throws, his stones going off at all angles. “It takes much practice. It needs rocks of the right size and shape.”

“It's still good,” Sanu insisted.

“Yes.” Tuni tried another throw, imagining his tribe armed with such throwers the next time they fought the people who lived along the river. The river peoples’ spears couldn't be thrown nearly as far as these new weapons would propel rocks.

* * * *

“The spearhead is too small,” the woman said.

“It's not for a spear,” the other woman replied. She held up a straight stick tipped with a small, sharp stone. “See. A small spear. The feathers on the end guide it as they do the birds.” She picked up a long, slim wooden staff and stretched a string of animal gut from one end to the other, bowing it. Setting one end of the small spear on the gut, she drew back until the wood quivered with tension, then let go.

The first woman watched the small, sharp rock on the front of the small spear embed itself in a nearby tree. “Good. Very good. You've made a spear truly fly.”

* * * *

The maker pounded on the shiny rock. Unlike most rocks, this rock that had been dug up from beneath the ground didn't shatter when hit. Instead, it took on new shapes. Now he pounded again and again, forming the copper into the shape of a hammer with a sharp edge. He'd already found that the edges didn't stay sharp for long, but they could always be pounded sharp again.

Mounted in a wooden handle, the axe made from shiny rock worked much better than those chipped from other rocks. Set on the front of spears and arrows, it made more effective points. But the softness that let him pound the rock into shapes also prevented the rock from holding the hard edges needed in tools for hunting, building, and war. If only there were a way to make the rock harder and still form it into weapons.

* * * *

The king watched intently as his weapon-maker showed how the hot ovens melted rocks of different kinds, merging them together, the result to be molded or beaten into shapes. Finding the right rocks under ground, transporting them here, and cutting the trees to fuel the fires were labor intensive, and he had many other jobs those laborers could be doing.

“See. Here.” The king eyed the very long knife with approval as the weapon-maker held up a finished bronze sword. “We can form them into these. Stronger than copper.” The weapon-maker swung the sword with both hands, its edge biting into the wooden log resting nearby. “It holds the sharp edge much better, on knives or axes.”

The king took the weapon, raising it to admire the keen edge and the way the sun rippled off the metal. “How strange to think the rocks we find in the earth can be remade into this.” He swung it, too, imagining it biting through leather armor or shields and into the bodies of his enemies. “I need enough such weapons for all the fighters in the kingdom.”

“We'll need to dig up enough copper and tin to make the bronze.”

“My workers will dig.” The king gazed at the piles of raw metal nearby. “Are there other things we can dig up which when melted will make even better weapons?”

The weapons-maker scratched his head and grimaced, toeing at the rock that seemed the heaviest. “Yes, but iron is too hard. We have to learn how to melt it. It takes hotter fires than we can build. But we'll figure it out. Someday we'll make weapons and tools of iron.”

* * * *

“Load.” The centurion stood back as the crew of the ballista struggled to hoist a large stone into the waiting scoop at one end. The crew had already levered the arm of the siege machine back against increasing tension and then locked the arm in place while they loaded it. A huge device built of metal fittings and wooden beams, the ballista faced a barbarian fort, far enough distant that the barbarian weapons couldn't reach it. But its projectiles could reach the barbarians.

The centurion studied the range to the enemy fortification, the size of the rock loaded into the ballista, and the direction the siege machine pointed. “Increase tension.” The crew strained to pull back the arm slightly more, then eased off with relief as the centurion nodded with satisfaction. “Let go.”

The lock was pulled loose, the ballista's arm swung up, and the large rock hurtled toward the enemy, thrown by all the force the latest skills in human engineering could bring to bear. It struck the walls of the enemy fort, splintering massive logs.

“Prepare,” the centurion ordered, and the ballista's crew began cranking the firing arm back down again. More rocks lay nearby, ready for hurling at the enemy. Before the sun rose much higher, the barbarian walls would be broken in several places and the centurion would be leading soldiers through those breaches to overcome the defenders.

* * * *

“What is this?” the artisan asked, examining what seemed to be a crossbow quarrel formed of metal, but with a shaft thicker than usual. “You told me you had a new weapon for soldiers to use against knights. Won't a crossbow strong enough to shoot this be too heavy for a man to carry?”

“Watch,” his companion suggested. He tipped up a strong iron bottle with a longish neck, a larger rounded body and a small opening near the bottom end, then carefully poured in the special powder, which would explode when brought into contact with fire. Stuffing the metal quarrel in last, he set the iron bottle into a slanted hole in the ground, facing a battered breastplate from an old suit of armor. Bending down, he set a torch's flame against the trickle of the powder coming from the hole near the back end of the bottle.

A thunderous crash was followed by a billow of smoke and flame and a second smashing sound.

The artisan stared at the armor plate, which now had a large hole punched in it. Picking up another quarrel, he stared at it. “Deadly. The force of the powder throws the quarrel harder than any bow. But why would our overlords bother with it when long bows and crossbows can do much the same?”

“Long bows and even crossbows require much practice to be skillful in aiming,” his companion explained. “This is simple. Learn to load it, and anyone can use it to launch projectiles. It's the same iron we've mined for centuries, but a new way to employ it as a weapon.”

* * * *

“Flints!” The sergeant stood back as the cover was lifted from the barrel. His soldiers in their bright uniform coats and cocked hats crowded around, picking up the small rocks and fitting them carefully into the mechanisms of their flintlock muskets. He inspected the weapons carefully afterward, making sure each musket was in good shape, that each soldier had a decent supply of lead balls and powder for ammunition, then reported to his officer.

The soldiers marched toward the sound and smoke of battle. They halted as they reached the crest of a ridge. On the other side of the ridge, soldiers in different colored uniforms were marching toward them.

The sergeant called out commands and the soldiers poured a measure of powder into the metal barrels of their muskets, rammed it home, added a patch and a lead ball, rammed them home, tilted the weapon and poured a small measure of powder into the firing pan, raised their weapons and pointed them in the general direction of the enemy, then at their officer's command pulled their triggers. The flints swung down, striking sparks, which ignited the powder in the firing pans, which ignited the powder in the barrels, and the muskets hurled their lead balls toward the enemy.

The sergeant was calling out the commands to load again when the enemy fired. One lead ball slammed into the sergeant's upper arm, pulverizing the bone and knocking him to the ground. He lay, his blood soaking into the rocky soil, as gouts of smoke and fire marked more lead balls being shot in volleys against each side.

* * * *

Steel-jacketed lead bullets ran on a linked belt, feeding into the machine gun as the gunner held down the trigger. A continuous stream of metal slugs tore toward the advancing enemy, smashing into them to deal death and injury. The enemy fired back, individual metal projectiles ripping past over the heads of the machine gun crew. Far above in the sky, aircraft made of steel and aluminum torn from the earth clashed with each other. From some of the aircraft, bombs fell, big steel shells filled with explosives that made them burst on impact to cast a deadly storm of jagged metal at anything nearby.

One of the attacking soldiers paused to fit a metal sphere to the muzzle of his rifle, aimed carefully, then fired. The rifle-grenade flew through the air, landing next to the machine gun, then exploded. Its fragments killed the defenders, and the attackers raced past, the machine gun now silent, its barrel still radiating heat created by the bullets that had been launched through it.

* * * *

The technician smiled as he reviewed the video. Soaring skyward in a smooth arc from the mouth of the rail gun, a glowing thread of light marked the path where a metal sabot had been hurled by linear magnetic fields at hyper-velocity. “Perfect shot.”

“What's the radiant streak in the sky?” the visitor asked.

“Plasma generated by atmospheric friction. The projectile moves so fast that heat burns off its outer layers. That's not a problem since it's just solid metal.”

“You don't need a warhead?” His visitor peered at the nearby display, where a thick, gleaming metal arrow rested.

“No. It's a kinetic kill weapon, like a big bullet. The energy imparted by the magnetic fields as they accelerate the round is so great that the impact by a solid projectile traveling at those velocities is enough to destroy the target.” The technician made a dissatisfied face. “The main problem is getting a barrel that can withstand the firing. Right now they wear out after only a couple of shots. But we'll get that problem licked, and then we'll be able to hit the enemy with the latest and greatest weapon we've ever come up with. It'll be unstoppable.”

“You can't use countermeasures against it,” the visitor agreed.

“Nope. You can't jam a rock.”

* * * *

From low Earth orbit, many landmarks on the surface could easily be seen even though cloud cover screened some areas. The officer gazed through the targeting sight, increasing the magnification to pick out individual buildings and vehicles. “This is amazing. They're loading the rounds?”

His commanding officer nodded, then pulled something out of a storage compartment. In zero gravity the object had no weight, but the officer could tell from the way the other man handled it that its mass was substantial. “Here's one of the small ones.” He left it hanging in the air between them.

The officer examined it, seeing a streamlined shape like a toy rocket or a trophy. “Solid metal?”

“That's right. Fin-stabilized. The targeting systems up here drop them on the right trajectories. As it falls through the atmosphere it gains energy, so it hits with a lot of force, so no warhead is needed. The launchers are spring loaded, but you could hang outside the ship and drop them by hand if you felt like throwing them at the enemy.”

“A piece of metal.” The officer wrapped his hand around the projectile, getting a feel for its mass. “Yet it's the latest weapon. Between ones like this and the big kinetic projectiles, we'll be able to do a lot of damage on the surface. Who needs nukes?”

“A big enough kinetic projectile can do as much damage as a nuke.”

The officer frowned. “I wonder how many of these we and our opponents are going to place in orbit, and how big they'll be.”

“If I were you, I'd worry more about whether we'll all end up using them.”

The first officer's frown deepened. “How long until the test shot fires?”

“Five minutes. Approximately. The automated targeting system will time the drop to maximize chances for a hit. We'll be able to watch it all the way down on infrared as the outer surface heats from friction and creates a glowing trail.”

The officer took another look at the projectile in his hand. “The culmination of millennia of human weapons development, and yet it doesn't have any homing device or warhead or propulsion, and we can simply throw it at the enemy.”

“That's right,” his commander agreed. “It's just a rock.”

Copyright © 2008 John G. Hemry

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Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

David Bartell leads off our March issue with “Cavernauts,” a tense tale of a rescue mission against long odds in a locale much farther out than the ones Bartell has frequented so far. Actually it's a deft interweaving of outer and inner space, in more than one sense: the twisted caves of Callisto, and a much-evolved descendant of the internet that has changed people's attitudes toward themselves and the universe in unexpected ways. But two things that have stayed the same are that outcomes can't be foreseen, and reasons and motives are not always the same thing....

Henry Honken's fact article, “From Token to Script: The Origin of Cuneiform,” might be considered “linguistic paleontology": a recent attempt to piece together from early artifacts the actual process by which one of our species’ first writing systems came into being. We'll also have stories by Richard Foss, Carl Frederick, and Jerry Craven; an unusual father-son collaboration by H. G. Stratmann and Henry Stratmann III; and the expansive conclusion of Robert J. Sawyer's novel Wake.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: EXCELLENCE
by Richard A. Lovett

As we learn to change who we are, we may have to reconsider what our competitions mean....

If there's a rule about deals with the devil, it's that you don't realize you're making one at the time. Especially when the devil in question walks with a cane and looks more like Kris Kringle than Beelzebub.

He said his name was August Knox and that he was a researcher working to beat muscular dystrophy, Lou Gehrig's disease, and all the other muscle-wasting disorders the world has ever known. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was just out to make a buck. He was peddling a dream, and you don't look a gift horse too strongly in the mouth.

You remember BALCO, right? The ones who, back at the turn of the century, supplied drugs to a whole generation of track stars? Perfect, undetectable drugs—at least until someone blew it and alerted the authorities.

Well, suppose BALCO visited you at age forty-two and asked if you wanted to be a guinea pig for a new product. Kringle/Knox wasn't with BALCO, obviously—they'd been out of business for years—but that's what he was pedaling. Test samples of a new product, guaranteed undetectable by conventional blood or urine tests, that would tune up your muscle efficiency not just by enough to roll your performance back to age thirty, but to match you with the best of them.

Could you win an Olympic medal? No guarantee there, but you'd be in the hunt. There's only one catch: there wasn't any guarantee the process was safe, either. If humans were like rats, you'd peak in a year and stay there for eighteen months. Two years, if you were lucky. After that? Well, once the rats had started to decline they'd done so rather precipitously.

I'd seen an old movie about that when I was a kid, though I think it was a mouse. I don't think it had a happy ending, but going from forty-two to forty-three to forty-four stuck in a more slowly declining body wasn't exactly a happy ending, either.

“Would I still be able to run?”

“Probably not.”

“Hike?”

“Define hike.”

I told him about my favorite place in the world, a viewpoint called Angel's Rest, 1,500 feet above the river. I go there at least once a month to stare into the afternoon sun and think about life. There are never any answers, but the sun and the staring are what really matter.

“Is it wheelchair accessible?”

So, what would you do? Go for glory at the expense of a fast burnout? Or be decliningly ordinary for however many years remain?

Me, I chose the flame and die. My name's Jefferson Morgan, and ordinary has never been my goal. When I was twelve, I wanted to be a rock star: not just any rock star, but the next John Lennon—the one against whom all others would be measured. Then my voice changed and I realized not everyone got to sing lead.

A few other things changed too. At twelve, I was a skinny Goth—at a time when Goths were becoming Tweakers, but before Tweakers became Quillheads. By the time I was ready to enter college, I was still nerdy and skinny, but I'd grown a new skill: I could run. A lot faster than average, it turned out.

It paid for college.

I was good, but not spectacular—just like my grades. And then, I was out, with no real idea what to do next.

And that had pretty much been the story. I kicked around for two decades: tending bar, parking cars, even mopping a few floors. I hooked up with a shoe-store-sponsored running team where, again, I was good, but not spectacular. Plenty of free shoes, but no free rent. Then age started to eat at my speed, until Beelzebub/Kringle hobbled up to me at track practice one day with his cane and beaming, beady eyes.

* * * *

Of course, I had to reinvent myself and lie about my age. Nobody's going to believe a middle-aged guy who suddenly runs like a kid. Luckily, I've always looked young (maybe that's part of why Kringle picked me), and a bit of hair dye and Botox made me younger yet. Not all that young, but lots of runners are prematurely aged by the sun. The college kids fall into two camps: those who worry about skin cancer, and those who are too macho to let on, even if they do. I'd been in the first camp. Now I looked like I was in the second.

Kringle/Knox had a pocketful of fake IDs, so I picked one from Vegas—a great choice for someone who wants to be anonymous. I even went there a time or two and practiced squinting into the sun. And of course, any runner worth anything who's from such a climate leaves it the first time he gets a chance, so there wasn't anything odd about the fact that nobody would remember me. That and the Botox were the perfect cover.

Kringle helped too, by planting a few old race results and helping me create a bio. No college, no high-school track. If asked, I was a late bloomer who for years had been more interested in training than racing. Every track's got a couple of those guys, and nobody remembers their names. But if I did hit it big, dozens of folks would be sure they remembered me. “Oh, yeah,” they'd say. “He was the quiet guy who kept to himself. Fast, though. I should have known he'd make it someday.” The rumor mill would flesh out my new history better than I ever could. Same with “my” old jobs. Who remembers bellhops, anyway?

It was only after I'd started the treatment that it crossed my mind that with all those fake identities, Knox/Beelzebub probably didn't intend me to be his only product tester. I just hoped I was the only 10,000-meter runner. He'd insisted I pick one event and stick to it, so he probably had other guys doing other distances, and maybe entirely different sports, as well.

Eventually, I decided there couldn't be more than a few of us in each event. He could probably get away with having his folks go gold-silver-bronze—if I got a medal, I wasn't going to complain a lot about its color—but if there were a whole phalanx of us chasing the same three spots, you could bet your sweaty jockstrap that half of us would be screaming to the press, willing to wreck what little was left of our lives for a shot at bringing down the guy who promised us all the same thing.

Or maybe the treatment wasn't as good as advertised, and there wasn't that much chance of a Kringle-fest finish. When you get down to it, even deals with the devil are founded on trust.

* * * *

The treatment took the form of shots. Lots of shots. It was based on gene therapy designed for muscular dystrophy patients, Knox told me as he stabbed enough needles into my quads to make me feel like an inside-out cactus. If he had colleagues, I never met them. For that matter, if he had a lab, I never saw it. He just came to my apartment once a week, with vials of amber fluid and a pocketful of syringes.

For the first few weeks, all the shots did was make me weak.

“It's the virus,” he said, having moved from my quads to my hamstrings and then my calves. “It inserts the genes into your muscle cells, and your body sees it as a mild infection. Don't worry, it'll pass.”

That's part of what makes it undetectable, he added. The virus was based on a common one, like flu or West Nile or some such thing, so while I'd show antibodies for it on a blood test, that didn't mean anything unless the authorities were prepared to reject anyone who'd ever been sneezed on or bitten by a mosquito. But the gene changes could only occur within a few centimeters of the injection sites, which was why he was turning me into a pincushion. “There won't be anything in your blood to show you've been altered,” he explained between jabs, “and nobody's going to start requiring muscle biopsies in the near future. That's just way too invasive.”

He paused. “Though if someone does ask for one, it might be good to refuse. I don't think the genes we're working on would show up unless they knew what to look for, but there's no reason to chance it.”

* * * *

Meanwhile, I started to train. Part of being great is having a good coach, and while Knox hadn't been able to retain the services of the best in the business, the one he found was no slouch. He was just what a talented dark horse like me was supposed to be able to find: good, hungry for victory, but not too good.

I wasn't sure what, if anything, he knew, but Knox made it clear I wasn't supposed to talk to him about the treatments, so I doubted it was much.

Knox was a bit chary on specifics, but no athlete allows that many injections without asking questions. Basically, I was being subjected to two types of gene changes. One altered my ratio of muscle fibers. There are two types. Sprinters tend to be born with a lot of “fast-twitch” fibers—the human equivalent of the white meat in turkeys. These are good for short bursts, such as (for turkeys) getting airborne, back before we bred them to be incapable of escape. Distance runners are heavier in “slow-twitch” fibers, the equivalent of poultry's red meat, which can go forever (or close to it) at a slower speed. The only difference from turkeys, other than who eats whom at Thanksgiving, is that in humans the red and white are all mixed up, higgledy-piggledy.

Before starting treatment, Knox had biopsied me (it really does hurt) and told me I was 77 percent slow twitch.

“There's probably a distance for which that's perfect,” he said. “But it's not in the Olympics. I'd rather see you somewhere between eighty-five and ninety.”

Three weeks of injections later, and a month of low-grade flulike symptoms, a repeat biopsy showed my legs to be 87 percent slow-twitch.

Knox beamed his most Kringlesque smile. “Magnificent. Time for phase two.”

That turned out to have something to do with satellite cells, which are kind of like stem cells in your muscles. Under the right conditions, they fuse with muscle cells to make them bigger and stronger. They also help you recover from races and hard workouts. The problem is that they can only do this so many times. After that? Well, that's part of the reason Kringle's treatment isn't permanent. Most likely, I'd bounce from being a “good” forty-two-year-old to a great pseudo-thirty-year-old, then back to forty-two and on to fifty-two, sixty-two, or worse.

And that, I suppose, is half of why I knew I'd made a deal with the devil.

* * * *

The other half was that during the treatment stage, it was hard to pretend I wasn't cheating. Not just to the world at large, which was easy because I didn't want to get caught, but to myself.

Most dopers simply tell themselves everyone else does it. Whether that's true or not doesn't matter, because that makes it the other guy's fault. But as far as I knew, nobody had ever before done what I was doing. Within a few weeks, though, I'd made my peace with it. The first time I was young—back when it was purely natural—the only thing that had kept me from being among the best was the (poor) luck of the genetic draw. I'd always had the discipline, the toughness, the competitive drive. Knox/Kringle had merely redressed nature's imbalance—equalized the playing field, and all that. Back in my rock-star days, if someone had offered to improve my vocal cords, would I have turned ‘em down?

Then I quit worrying at all, because once the injections ceased, I started to improve. I ran a road race and hit a time I'd have loved to see when I really had been thirty. Then my new coach went to work on me. Twelve weeks later, I ran the best 10K of my life, by a full fifteen seconds per mile. In case running isn't your sport, let me assure you: that's a lot.

Knox, I decided, was a genius. My coach wasn't much worse. And, whatever else you might think, I'd never worked harder in my life. Kringle had merely redressed nature's imbalance. What I did with that was up to me.

* * * *

What I did next was to stress-fracture my tibia.

My coach was stunned. “Why didn't you tell me you were prone to these?” he demanded. “We weren't even working you all that hard yet.”

But the fact was that I wasn't injury-prone. I'd never before lost more than a few days to injuries, and never to anything as major as a cracked bone.

“We've seen this in a couple of others,” Kringle said the next time I saw him, confirming my suspicion I wasn't his only Olympic hopeful. “The drugs make your muscles stronger, but not your tendons, ligaments, and bones. They're still your original age and need time to adapt.”

I had to think about that for a while. Not the muscles, bones, tendons, and ligaments bit. That made sense. It was the parts of me not all being the same age that was disconcerting.

It was the first time I'd ever truly felt my years. I don't know about you, but I'd always felt pretty much the same person at forty-two (soon to be forty-three) that I'd been at thirty. Or twenty. I have friends who say they feel like radically different people than even a few years ago. I've never understood that. Whoever I was at twenty: that's me now. Pre-Kringle, post-Kringle—makes no difference. Oh, I've learned things, done things, wished I hadn't done things ... but I've always been the same me.

Now, my muscles were thirty, my bones forty-two, and the essential me still felt like that long-gone twenty-year-old.

There's a famous statue by Rodin, which shows the soul of a young woman striving to break free of the flesh of an old crone. Kringle had simply made it possible—not just with a rejuvenated body, but with the one I'd always wanted (other than the bones). I just couldn't figure out if I was the young person, or the older one, or both at once.

* * * *

Luckily, physical therapy was the perfect antidote to doubts. That's because it kept me too busy to think.

My coach proved well connected and got a sports medicine lab to let me use an odd device that suspends you above a treadmill while you walk, then run, with only a fraction of your weight hitting the ground. The result was that eight weeks later, when the docs pronounced the fracture healed, I was in nearly as good shape as I'd been in before it happened, and I still had more than six months before the Olympic trials—plus ten more weeks until the games themselves.

* * * *

You're probably expecting a tale of cheating caught and bad behavior redeemed.

It didn't quite work that way. Once we'd gotten over the old-bones surprise, Kringle obviously knew what he was doing. So did my coach. And, as luck would have it, we caught the treatment's lead time nearly perfectly. It would have sucked to peak for the trials, only to be in decline for the big event. Instead, the trials found me still on the upswing. Maybe a bit too early, actually. I was fourth, which isn't quite good enough to make the team but does make you an alternate who can go live in Olympic Village. Once, I'd have sold my soul simply for that. Now, it felt like a defeat.

What it really meant, though, was that my body was still reacting to the treatments. And, there's a reason there are Olympic alternates. The third-place finisher developed a gimpy Achilles tendon—I don't think Kringle/Beelzebub had anything to do with it—and suddenly, I was in.

The twenty-year-old me, the one who'd never changed, was ecstatic. The forty-three-year-old me, the one in my bones, and brains, tried (at least briefly) to feel sorry for the guy who'd had to drop out. But the ageless competitor in my guts didn't care. I had reached the spot where, if nature had been fair, I'd have been a generation ago. I could handle that. As I said, this isn't a tale of cheating caught and bad behavior redeemed.

* * * *

The 10,000-meters is run in a single heat. There were twenty-seven of us, and I was so nervous two days beforehand that I couldn't sleep. It wasn't just that my entire future depended on this; if the rat tests were right, I had no future. This was everything: truly the be-all and end-all of my life.

That's when my coach blindsided me.

That's not what coaches are supposed to do. They're supposed to build you up, calm you down, focus you, and point you in the direction of victory. And that's what he thought he was doing.

He did it by telling me a story.

“When I was young,” he said, “I was all piss and vinegar, like you.” (I've never met a coach who didn't talk in clichés. Maybe everything's been said so many times the nonclichés were used up, long ago.) “Then, my wife developed multiple sclerosis.” His voice cracked, then steadied. “Usually, they give you at least a dozen good years. She only got five. But until the very end, she insisted that I run, and came to all of my meets, even when it had to be in a wheelchair, strapped in to keep her from falling out.”

He paused, while I wondered what this could possibly have to do with me.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the track, “isn't life. A wise man and great athlete once said that. It's a hell of a lot of fun, and I love every minute of it, but in the big scheme of things"—he pursed his lips and blew out a sound, like pffft—"it's nothing.”

He turned from the track to me. “Trust your training. Nobody out there is better prepared. If the gods smile, you'll run well. If they don't—well, it's just a race.” He patted me on the back. He wasn't really all that much older than me, but he didn't know it, so I couldn't tell him how odd that felt. Or what I thought of this entire speech. “So, relax. Have fun. And realize that if you don't feel you have to win, you'll run better. And if by some chance you have a bad day ... well, you've got a whole life yet ahead of you. This is only a small piece of it.”

* * * *

As a guy who'd barely made it into the race, I wasn't expected to be a contender. That made it easy to maintain my thirty-year-old identity because nobody did any of those little spotlight profiles on me that the TV folks love to plug into their coverage to mask the fact that whatever they may or may not think of their audience's intelligence, they themselves don't have the attention span to cover a long race from start to finish.

Only Kringle, my coach, and I knew how much I'd improved since the trials. I wondered if Kringle had timed it that way deliberately—though having me come up as an alternate, rather than number three on the team, was cutting it a bit fine. If I won, I'd be the unknown who burst onto the scene: far better than the favorite who lives up to his promise. He'd never be able to go public with that—but in selling his wares to the next generation of do-anything hopefuls? He'd make sure they knew.

The race came late in the day, a concession to August heat, but not the best thing on the nerves. One place where my fake identity and real life overlapped was that both of us had been mainly doing road races for the past several years. The real me because, at my one-time age, there just isn't much in the way of track racing out there. The new me because it was a lot easier that way to create a guise that avoided unwanted questions. If I won, it would be critical that nobody puncture my new identity. Not that anyone would be actively trying to do so, but it would be embarrassing if someone did it by accident.

Road races tend to be run in the morning. Here, I had all day to fret. And to try to keep away from my coach before he gave me some bromide worse than, “You have all of your life ahead of you.” Yeah, right. At least now, I knew for sure he wasn't a Kringle insider.

But all endless waits eventually end, and at last we were called to the start.

I'd like to tell you it was an exciting race, the most dramatic 10,000 in Olympic history. But it was probably pretty ordinary. Thirty-year-old me had the ability to run with the best of them. And while the inner voice in my head might still be the college freshman who'd not yet realized he didn't have world-class speed, forty-three-year-old me had run a lot more races than anyone else on the track. I figured the experience would hold me in good stead now that I finally had the body my unaging inner voice always wanted.

It started as one of those tactical duals that make the television crews happy they've got lots of those spotlight profiles in the can. Twenty of us ran in a big pack, where not stepping on someone and not getting stepped on are your biggest worries. Nobody wanted the lead, least of all me.

Unfortunately, forty-three-year-old me didn't know what to do in that situation. I'd never been fast enough to be caught up in such a thing. In big, important races, there'd always been someone streaking away uncatchably in front. Sometimes lots of someones.

Now, I had the body to streak away—at least for a while, but I didn't know when or whether to try it. So much for all that experience. It had been with a different body.

The laps rolled by and nothing much happened except that a few people started dropping out of the lead pack. Still, at the halfway mark, there were more than a dozen of us. My coach was screaming at me with each lap, but he wasn't allowed on the field, and from the front row of the stands, I couldn't tell if he was saying “good job” or “get going.” Something that started with a “G,” I think. For all I could tell, he might as well have been giving the weather report.

Still, I had to do something.

Before all of the injections, one thing I could do was kick. Sit back and pounce—that would have been my style. But now that most of my fast-twitch had been converted to slow-twitch, I suspected that if there were still a dozen folks around at the start of the last lap, I had a better chance of coming in twelfth than first.

If you're in danger of being out-kicked, the way to win is to run the kick out of your opponents before they get a chance to use it. Or just run away from everyone, which is pretty much the same thing.

I knew the theory just fine. What I didn't know were the details. I waited another mile, then moved to the lead and sped up. Before the race, my coach and I had set a target pace, but the pack had been way slower than expected, so I knew I had to be faster now. The question was how much.

Within a couple laps, I'd dumped half of the pack, but there were still five left. On the backstretch, I looked up at the big television screen at one end of the stadium and saw myself, closely shadowed by a Kenyan who'd won last year's world championship and two other guys who'd been here before.

I picked it up again with six laps to go, then again with four, and except for the world champion, the others started to drop off.

Then, with two laps to go, the Kenyan started to push back.

This was an old game, and I'd always been good at it. Not fast, but wily. Once I passed someone, they stayed passed. But now it didn't work. The Kenyan pushed harder and when I tried to return the favor, nothing much happened. I still managed to stave him off until the last lap, but then he went around me like I was standing still, followed shortly after by the other two. If anything, I was slowing down, frantically looking at the jumbo screen to see who next was coming up behind me.

I finished totally spent ... and fifth. Even at that, I'd barely held off number six. I was the top American, but that wasn't what I'd wanted.

My coach was livid. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he asked. “First you let yourself get sucked into a slow, tactical duel that you can't win, then you take off like a scared rabbit.” He drew a big, theatrical sigh, probably trying to remember his own advice about it just being a race. “Okay,” he said. “Live and learn. But you ran that thing like a damn teenager.”

Knox appeared a moment later, and for once he wasn't beaming. "That," he said, “wasn't my fault.” Then he turned on his good leg and clomped off.

My coach stared at him, then at me. Belatedly, I wondered why Knox walked with a cane, and what, if anything my coach knew of it. Was Kringle making his own vicarious effort to redress nature's inequities? Even the devil, I guess, has his reasons.

A week later, my coach resigned. Kringle found me a new one, and the next year I took bronze at the Worlds, beating the Kenyan who'd bested me at the Olympics. But the Worlds just don't have the same cachet, and while my nominal age of thirty-two wasn't necessarily too old for a bid at the next Olympiad, I was already fading. Humans, rats—apparently we react similarly to Kringle's ministrations.

The trail to Angel's Rest isn't long, but someone had stretched it while I'd been away, and I nearly put it off too long. At my prime, I could have popped up there in thirty minutes, barely breaking a sweat. This time it took two hours, and I'd never have made it without a walking stick. But the summit was everything I remembered: a big flat slab of rock, capped in head-high brush and scraggly firs, looking straight down on the mile-wide river. Below, a freeway hugged the headland, the monotonous drone of trucks audible even from here. A train rumbled a deeper bass, while downstream, a barge plowed a V-wake through sun-glinted water. Everywhere, it seemed, people were on the move, but my own moving days were over.

Unlike the old days, when this was my private retreat, my brother had come up here with me, in case I needed assistance or (the unspoken fear) rescue.

The only surviving member of my immediate family (we Morgans aren't a long-lived tribe), he'd been the one part of my old life I'd insisted on retaining. But at Kringle's insistence, I'd never let him far into my new life. Mostly, it was easy. He wasn't much of a sports fan, and while I couldn't hide my new appearance, I'd told him that it and my new name were because I'd tried to take up acting, only to be halted by a rare muscle disease. Not that it mattered: my brother is very much of the don't-ask, don't-tell persuasion.

In my rock-star-dreaming days, he'd wanted to play bass to my lead. Two years older but twenty years more passive, he'd never claimed to resent our never-was stardom. Still, he'd remained in music, and was now a junior high school band teacher.

I looked down on the cars, moving antlike: linear drones, everyone going where someone else had been. Follow the leader, from cradle to grave.

I myself had stepped out of line. Yes, it had taken a chemical boost, but even without a gold or silver medal, I had excelled. Maybe it was just as good I'd not gotten one. The only way I'd been able to get as far out of line as I'd done had been by cheating, and this way, there was no chance I'd ever be caught. I was a fluke: an asterisk in the history books.

My brother was sitting on my favorite life-pondering rock, staring into sunlight the color of the medal I'd given so much not to attain.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

He shot me a glance, then looked back to the late-afternoon distance. “Sure.”

“No. I mean really, truly happy. Remember when we wanted to be rock stars?”

This time he grinned. “Oh, yeah. After that, I wanted to be an astronaut.” His gaze was still on the river. “I grew up. On a ten-point scale, I'm an eight. I'll take it. But you ... you did live it there for a while, didn't you? Were you happy?”

It was my turn to stare into the eye-numbing goldness. I wondered how much he knew, how much he might have figured out. I wondered if it mattered.

“Good thing it happened before you got sick,” he said a few minutes later.

The sun was getting low, and walking down a steep trail isn't as easy as people think. Luckily, we'd brought flashlights. Declining my brother's offer of assistance, I heaved myself to my feet. Then, leaning heavily on my stick, I began the descent into twilight.

Copyright ©2008 Richard A. Lovett

* * * *

We welcome your letters, which should be sent to Analog, 475 Park Avenue South, Floor 11, New York, NY 10016, or e-mail to analog@dellmagazines.com. Space and time make it impossible to print or answer all letters, but please include your mailing address even if you use e-mail. If you don't want your address printed, put it only in the heading of your letter; if you do want it printed, please put your address under your signature. We reserve the right to shorten and copy-edit letters. The email address is for editorial correspondence only—please direct all subscription inquiries to: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: SMALL BUSINESS
by Edward M. Lerner

New forms of industry will engender new forms of competition—though not entirely new....

The blue shirt moved out of the holo at a glacial pace, as though sliding to the left down a very sticky inclined plane—not that, in microgee, any plane inclined more than any another. Just as a hint of the objective finally appeared, the bored technician, to the soft zzzp noise of Velcro parting, sidled in front of the camera. Sweat-stained denim once again filled the scene.

There went an hour's slow progress.

“Damn,” Jason Grimaldi muttered. He batted aside a floating clipboard. His companions shushed him, although the only sound accompanying the video at that moment was the whirrr of a ventilation fan. Jason studied the wrinkled garment for clues to the nearest side of the obstruction.

“Should we wait? He might step back.” The comment was a vintage Bill-ism. Jason did not get how someone who always hoped for the best became a revolutionary.

Jason nudged a joystick. “Too risky, with the batteries so low. I won't make a bet on how he'll next move, either. I'm going for altitude.” Most rooms in the space station had an orientation, even when nothing but convention distinguished floor from walls from ceiling.

The view in the holo display crept upward. A frayed collar came into view, then a neck. The nightshift stuckee needed a new uniform and a haircut. Channeling Bill, Jason hoped the sloppiness denoted lax discipline. They needed all the help they could get.

Moving to either side of the neck would bring their objective into view the fastest—unless the tech moved again. Checking the power readout, Jason rejected the gamble. The gauge was approaching redline; they might not recover from another setback. So: onward and upward.

It would be minutes until they could see over the man's head. Jason stretched tense muscles as best he could. At two meters and almost a hundred kilos, he overflowed the standard-sized command seat. The bridge, alas, offered no room for pacing.

In the holo, salt-and-pepper hair gave way to shiny scalp. The target peeked at them through sparse wisps.

The batteries were down to two percent.

“Increase the focal length,” Sherry suggested.

The hair in the foreground softened to a blur; details of equipment across the room became maddeningly almost discernible. Jason panned. The image vibrated as though, as though ... As though what? The camera platform's steady pace was not the problem—computers compensated for that. Jason gnawed on a pencil stub, staring at the fuzzy picture. Vibration? Why would there be...?

Uh-oh. He cranked up the volume of the audio pickup. What was that tone beneath the ubiquitous fan noise? The microphone must be very near an unsuspected air vent to capture the bass rumbling of a duct. Too near.

Target and technician alike spun from sight as Jason lunged for the joystick. For a time, the image tumbled too quickly for digital correction. The scene finally resolved into an ant's-eye view of the console shelf onto which air currents had delivered the ‘bot. The speaker emitted zzzps Jason had no problem identifying: approaching footsteps. Over the tearing sounds came a disgusted voice: “I hate bugs.”

They glumly watched the descent of a bent-double sheaf of printout.

* * * *

Six months earlier, Jason would never have expected to end up a revolutionary either. Comfortably settled at K-State, he pursued his studies with monomania and a few close friends. When the mood was right, he and his university buddies might rail against the injustices of life. Why not? Griping was free, and a way to let off steam.

Still, Jason listened more than he griped. His parents drove FedEx trucks. No matter what those boxes contained, delivery could only happen locally. He gave little thought to where the goods in those boxes were made. Preoccupied with his dissertation research, his material needs were few. His stipend as a graduate assistant paid the rent, and he tutored for mad money.

That complacency vanished the day Sherry Nilsson appeared in the Student Union. Every move she made declared her a spacer. Somehow she made the unaccustomed struggle against gravity graceful and exotic. He admired her from afar, giving no thought to the improbability of a spacer picking Manhattan, Kansas as a destination. Looking back, he didn't think much in those days—or the thinking he did wasn't done with his head.

Opposites truly did attract. Sherry was as willowy as Jason was burly, as blond and Nordic as he was dark and Mediterranean, and—the biggest contrast of all—an econ postdoc. Had he found buttons cute, doubtless he would have added cute-as-one to Sherry's list of virtues. She drew Jason like a moth to a flame, and he could only hope that his fate would be less clichéd and fatal.

It would be weeks before he wondered whether Sherry was here precisely because she was his “type.” Or that his technical skills and working-class roots, not his diamond-in-the-rough charms, had attracted anyone's interest.

Jason tried to insinuate himself into her circle. Sherry and her friends seemed always to be debating politics or economics. He often couldn't tell which. He decided that the boundary wasn't necessarily clear cut.

With uncharacteristic patience he dallied at the outer fringes of her clique. Then one day the main topic was government regulation of innovation. He swallowed hard. The verbal jousting had at last touched on a subject in which Jason could claim expertise. It had something to do with technology, anyway.

It was time to make his move.

Jason coughed softly. He cleared his throat. He eventually got Sherry's attention, which turned out to be as unsettling as her smashing good looks.

“So what's the big deal about these little machines?” Sherry asked when he named his field, smiling at her own pun. Aimed directly at him for the first time, her ice-blue eyes almost left him tongue tied. “Of what conceivable use is a millimeter-long gear or motor? And if smaller is better, why settle for half measures? Why not go all the way to nanotech?”

He rallied: This was his chance to make an impression. “Of what use is any gear or motor? We size machines for the tasks they handle. Micromachines ideally suit specific tasks.”

“Surgery on mosquitoes?”

He nearly melted at the saucy curl of her lip even as he took exception. Lord, but he was smitten. “No, Sherry, although I could probably build the tools for that job.”

Micro electromechanical systems were a narrow specialty even within the engineering field. MEMS robotics was a niche indeed. K-State had a solid program, as did a handful of other schools worldwide, but that was it. Jason had plenty of experience explaining his passion to relatives and friends—and that MEMS devices were about a million times larger than nanobots.

He chose an example that worked for most laypeople. “Look, say an optical fiber goes dead in a trans-Atlantic cable. Signal repeaters are hundreds of kilometers apart, so a break—say, from a shark bite—could be anywhere between. Locating the damage by timing reflections from the break isn't precise. Searching for a break by sub or remote-controlled submersible is damned expensive. So is laying new cable. That is a suitable problem for micromachines.”

“Huh.” She cocked her head. “What does a micromachine do? The backstroke?”

He had to laugh. “Imagine a gnat-sized robot able to move among the fibers within the cable sheath. Deploy a few gnatbots in every repeater. If a repeater loses signal from one direction, it sends a gnatbot creeping down the cable toward its silent neighbor. When the ‘bot sees light leaking out of a damaged fiber, it's found the problem. Having counted its steps along the way, it reports back the exact location of the break.”

“How?”

Her friends looked bored. Some wandered off. For all their haranguing about technology regulation, few of them ever showed interest in technology.

“How can it report?” Jason grinned. “It's easy. Look, the robot is tiny. It's inside a fiber-optical cable. It simply polishes the broken fiber end into a usable state and beams its own light signal down the fiber.” It could even be designed with a bit of fiber running through its body. Polish both ends of the break, and splice the ends to itself: repair the quick-and-easy way.

Sherry considered. “That's clever. But how would you control such a gadget?”

He reveled in her interest. “For a task that simple, I'd program it to be autonomous. For more complicated jobs, adding a low-power laser comm link is appropriate.”

One of the hangers-on inched closer. He was a jaundiced, gaunt fellow, a painter of some kind enamored of the starving artist tradition. “Could your creature find its way back out?”

“Device,” Jason corrected automatically. “Sure, but why bother? Gnatbots should be dirt cheap.” And for that reason, the ‘bots would not be stationed hundreds of kilometers apart, only in the repeaters, but scattered along the length of the cable.

People looked surprised at that answer. (Jason did not process at the time that Sherry showed no surprise. It all came clear later.)

Jason said, “A micromachine is a few pennies-worth of silicon and metal, no different than an integrated circuit. The machinery and its controls are formed at the same time, by the same industrial processes, from the same chip. The big costs are upfront: design labor and manufacturing equipment.” Like nanotech, for that matter.

More of Jason's audience excused themselves, headed for a laser-art exhibition. His ire—he'd listened to their preaching often enough—vanished when Sherry made no move to follow.

“So you can talk. I had begun to wonder.” She laid a hand on his elbow. “Buy a girl a cup of coffee, sport?”

* * * *

For weeks, he and Sherry discussed politics, life in space, economics, and—to his unending surprise—microengineering. Some of her questions, hindsight being 20/20, suggested more than passing familiarity with MEMS.

Sherry's friends kept happening by to chime in. Over beer and pizza one evening, when they were curiously alone, Jason asked when their chaperones were due.

“I deserve that.” Sherry sighed. “You really understand microengineering, don't you?”

Some sixth sense told him that, contrary to appearances, she had not changed the subject. “No offense, but how would an economist know?”

“Does Ron understand poli sci?”

Ron was one of Sherry's maddening crowd. Ron sounded off now in Jason's mind's ear, pedantic and domineering. Jason grimaced. “I have my doubts.”

“Why?” Sherry persisted.

“Ron is too sure of himself. Too much of a know-it-all. I can't respect someone incapable of saying ‘I don't know.'”

She smiled. “While you pick words carefully and consider the ramifications of what you say. And you do occasionally say ‘I don't know.’ That's how I'm sure you know your stuff.”

By that standard, he would concede she knew economics. “What bearing does this have on your chaperones?”

“Co-conspirators,” Sherry whispered, standing. “We were evaluating you.” And in the course of a long, moonlit stroll, she explained.

* * * *

“Are you with us?”

It was obvious in retrospect: Her cronies had been probing Jason for his political views. Sherry was the bait to keep him there. It was unclear whom that admission most embarrassed.

What did he think? With a few reservations, he sympathized with her aims—and so what? The ends were not the issue. The proposed means were.

And prison, quite likely, if things went wrong.

Had Sherry educated him? Indoctrinated him? Were hormones making his decisions? Or did they simply agree?

“Jason?” Sherry's voice cracked, her face drawn with worry.

Every prospective recruit was a prospective informant or undercover Syndicate agent. She had not decided lightly to approach him.

This was not, Jason decided, a deceitful face. Yes, he was in—although he had a final bit of due diligence to perform. He would do that on his own.

Whatever he learned, he wouldn't—couldn't—turn in Sherry. “Okay, I'm in.”

She slumped in relief.

He continued, “Sure, I could use the university microengineering labs to build you tiny spybots. I could teach you and your friends to control them. But I have a better idea.”

* * * *

“...Announced today that the SSS Helsinki will be commissioned on Tuesday. The Helsinki, eighth and newest member of the Syndicate's deep-space fleet, will accommodate missions of up to a year's duration. Equipped with the latest engines, the Helsinki will be the fastest of the Europa-class cruisers. Syndicate spokesman Alain Lamoureaux stated that...”

Shortness of breath did nothing to mitigate the propaganda. Freefall jogging only looked easy. Every step Jason took on the treadmill tried to bounce him—equal and opposite reactions made undeniable—into the air. Powerful bungee cords hooked to belt loops yanked him back. Wrist and ankle weights (okay, not weight, but still mass: resistance in the form of added inertia to be fought) intensified the workout.

Exercise here. Be pushed from the ship in a wheelchair when we return to Earth. It's your choice, Sherry had said.

So he exercised every chance he got.

Just twenty minutes offworld Jason had hurled, spraying lunch and probably the two meals before that. Loudly and sloppily. And floated through his own drifting vomit, too nauseous to care. That was plenty to live down.

His stomach lurched at the memory, and he tried to focus on the newscast. Four Europa-class ships were being shown. At the center of the image utility craft swarmed. They serviced the nearly outfitted Helsinki, hanging in space beside its birthplace: Syndicate Station Three. The camera shot came from the tethered sensor pod that orbited three hundred meters Earthward from the main body of the station.

Jason trudged on, his sweaty tunic clinging. The few metal ships looked crude and quaint among the translucent diamond hulls of the nano-grown Syndicate ships. Craning for a different view into the holo, he glimpsed the metal ship docked at Beta port.

This ship.

For years, the Tom Paine had shuttled between Earth and the Lagrange points, tapping the mineral wealth of the Earth/Luna Trojan asteroids. Scarcely a third the length of the sparkling Syndicate cruisers, the Tom Paine was representative of independents’ ships: an antique.

The logic was inescapable. Metal hulls massed more than carbon, burning more fuel. Metal hulls were less dependable. A few grams of nannies kept the new-style hulls in repair—not that much could harm a diamond—but a metal ship needed an inventory of spare parts. Spares sacrificed that much more potential cargo capacity. And lugging extra fuel and spare parts required even more fuel....

When diamond spaceships began working the Trojans, independent miners could not compete.

Independents like Bill Nilsson remained in space any way they could. Too often that meant demeaning support contracts for near-Earth Syndicate operations, and even that work was disappearing. They saved their pennies and dreamt of the day when they would buy their own synthetic diamond hulls—

Until, Bill said, even the cockeyed optimists had to accept the truth. The Syndicate would never, for any price, equip potential rivals.

Breathing deeply to clear his head, Jason tried again to focus on the vid.

“In other news today,” the ‘caster went on, “Edouard Smithson, France's ambassador to the United Nations, formally introduced the much-discussed global legislation to ban nanoengineering activities on Earth. Citing two recent loss-of-containment incidents on Syndicate Station One, the ambassador called nanites, ‘Too great a risk to life for prudent terrestrial development.'”

The holo cut to Smithson, a long-faced man with eyebrows like woolly caterpillars. In dolorous tones, the ambassador said, “While my colleagues and I recognize the promise of nano-fabrication, we must not—and we will not—endanger life on Earth through hasty and potentially irreversible experiments. The technology can only be developed safely in space, where any incidents are intrinsically isolated.”

Jason managed, just barely, not to shout at the vid. How interesting that these incidents occurred on an obsolete station. Was Syndicate Station One more valuable as an object lesson than as scrap?

Toweling wet hair, Sherry entered the ship's tiny dayroom. “You know, we do have exercise videos.”

Jason gestured at the vid. “Sanctimonious scumbag. Who besides the Syndicate works with nanites on an industrial scale in space? Everyone else works Dirtside—and without any incidents."

She killed the webcast. “We knew this was coming, Jason. That's why you're here. We need to stay on task.”

He was so sick of this treadmill. The station gym had a dozen kinds of zero-gee exercise equipment, none of which he would use. Docking charges alone were more than they could afford. Every minute any of them spent off the ship added “environmental fees.” Breathing was not to be taken for granted in space.

He kept trudging. “You'd never guess from any words leaving Smithson's lips that the Syndicate is a state-owned enterprise of the Eurasian Union. Or that without nano-fabbed diamond hulls and platforms, no one can compete out here with the Syndicate.”

She gave a minimal flick of hand and arm that reminded, “Who told you?”

Syndicate lobbyists were all over this “issue.” The money was flowing. Campaign contributions. Economic development aid. R&D grants. Outsourcing contracts. Syndicate scientists normally unavailable for comment were suddenly everywhere on the ‘net, gloomily asserting the inevitability of further incidents. Three media giants (all well supported by Syndicate advertising) were promoting epic miniseries about gray-goo disasters. Never mind that, for reasons of safety, no one made nanoconstructors robust enough to survive in the wild. And that people smart enough to build a nanoscale self-replicator were smart enough not to try.

Spacer sympathizers Dirtside predicted Smithson—meaning the Syndicate—had ample votes in the General Assembly to enact the ban.

Sherry's econometric models projected the Syndicate would drive the independents from space within three years, before they could complete their own offworld nano-fabs. The Syndicate would own all the resources of space, with Earth's billions as a captive market.

Jason brushed a sodden lock of hair from his forehead. “Yeah, Sherry. You told me. I guess I didn't really believe it. It's easier, somehow, to believe it out here.”

He stopped the treadmill. Carefully, he detached the taut bungee cords, then put on his Velcro slippers. They went together to the bridge, and Jason belted himself into the chair at his control console. “I believe it, but I refuse to accept it. Let's go get the bastards.”

* * * *

Sherry plucked at her hamburger bun and then in the air at the crumbs she had set loose. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that floated behind her baseball cap. She returned Jason's smile of encouragement.

If only someone could encourage him.

“Very illuminating.” Bill spoke from the ship's galley, to which he had disappeared for a coffee bulb. Caffeine megadosing was the older man's one vice. The dour spacer had fallen upon hard times—he was ship's captain, pilot, engineer, and cook.

“Yeah, right.” Jason considered another burger and thought better of it. The first churned unhappily in his stomach. Today's swatted scout was their sixth try at crossing that room.

Bill called out, “No, I mean it. Literally. The lighting in that service area was fairly bright. Could you add photocells to a scout? It could recharge its batteries for the final sprint.”

“Hmm.” Jason straightened out of a slouch. “If we could...” They couldn't, of course. He pulled up the schematics anyway, hoping to be wrong.

A gnatbot had six independent legs, each with a dedicated micromotor. Locomotion was the biggest drain on the internal battery that filled the ‘bot's guts.

“Zoom, please,” Sherry said. He did and she leaned closer anyway. “Fewer legs?”

Maybe it could get around with fewer legs—but no. Jason shook his head. “Can't, without sacrificing its disguise. To pass for a bug"—unwelcome, but innocent; the station was full of stowaway insects and their spawn—"it needs six legs.”

The head was dominated by two integral CCD cameras, each capped with a fisheye lens for one-hundred-eighty degree visibility. Two piezoelectric sensors astride the head served as ears. Jason thought aloud. “We need both cameras for stereoscopic imaging. We need both mikes to triangulate sound sources.”

Four dark regions, stubby steerable rods, marked the robot's back. The right pair were infrared lasers; the left pair photodetectors.

The whole damn surface was in use! Where could he possibly add photocells?

“We're so close,” Bill said. “You'll find a way.”

Jason closed his eyes. “You know, Bill? That optimism of yours can be really annoying.”

The hell of it was they were so close.

In just a few days they had stretched a comm network, an invisible daisy chain of two-way infrared links, across the station. (Only one link, from the Tom Paine itself to the relay in the docking collar, used radio, at less-than-cell-phone power levels, so they could conspire behind closed airlock hatches.) The first relay placements were easy. While playing tourist they stuck ‘bots to dimly lit spots in the public corridors. These fixed relays needed only to pivot and twist for aiming.

Then they dumped mobile ‘bots into the station's air ducts to extend the network into the guarded and secure Syndicate-only lab annex. Fans did the work, delivering ‘bots across the station. The micromachines grabbed hold where they could. In seams between duct segments? To dirt within the pipes? They would never know, and it hardly mattered.

For one ‘bot to detect another's flailing laser beam took time, but link by link the network took form. Random distribution meant gaps, but the third ‘bot-swarm release plugged the holes. They could see and hear much that transpired in the control room of the Syndicate's main orbital fabrication facility.

Then they sent scouts through the ducts to explore the secret labs.

Scant meters short of their ultimate goal, they were stuck. Repeatedly. For want of a microwatt the gnatbot was lost....

His sarcasm weighing on his conscience, Jason opened his eyes. “There's hardly any free surface area, Bill. I can't add enough photocells to matter.”

Bill made no comment, letting silence speak for him: You're the expert. Make it work.

Jason hummed. He studied the ceiling for a while. He whistled tunelessly. He drummed fingers on the dayroom table. He gave up the tapping to stroke his chin in thought. There had to be a way. “Unless...”

Sherry sat up. “Unless what, hot shot?”

“Unless we build the ‘bots from diamond,” Jason said.

“You're kidding, right?” Even Bill's optimism knew limits.

“Actually, no.” Jason stretched as much as the cramped dayroom would allow. “It's an easier problem than nanite-grown hulls. I don't know anyone making microbots from diamond, but synthetic diamond is used for special-purpose computer chips.

“Carbon atoms are smaller than silicon, so we can shrink most everything in the ‘bot. Expand it back to its current size, and there'll be some uncommitted surface area for photocells.”

Jason warmed to the idea, his words tumbling out faster and faster. “Another thing: diamond bearings will mean less friction in the micromotors. That'll reduce power use.”

Bill emerged from the galley with the inevitable coffee bulb. “Can your friends Dirtside make diamond ‘bots for us?”

The K-State labs had the necessary equipment; motivation was the question. His buddies knew only that he was away with Sherry—and when he went back, they expected to hear all the prurient details.

That was the least of his worries. He had more serious matters to lie about.

Jason thought about his tech-junkie friends back on Earth. He considered the practical challenges in making a diamond ‘bot. The fun. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “They'll do it. Count on it.”

* * * *

A package for Jason arrived from Dirtside. An imperious summons followed close after.

The Syndicate heralded its messages, no matter how trivial, with high-priority tones. The ominous brass cadenza preceding this message had to signify a communication from a Syndicate bigwig. With a shiver, Jason opened the message.

Barbara Shaw, the station director, appeared. “I've scheduled ten minutes for Jason Grimaldi at 14:15 Station time.” That was in twenty minutes, barely time to put on fresh clothes and reach her office. “Be prompt.”

Shrewd eyes peered at Jason from the end-of-message still frame. He did not relish feeling that gaze in person. “Sherry, Bill ... I can't explain that call. I've never met the woman.”

To Jason's surprise, Sherry laughed. “You kicked up a stir Dirtside at the Syndicate regional office. Maybe Ms. Evil Eye means to resume the conversation you started with her campus recruiter.”

He goggled. “You knew?"

“That you visited the local Syndicate office after I approached you? Yeah, we knew that. The receptionist is one of us.”

“Then why am I here?”

Bill fielded that one. “Our agent listened in by intercom. You got into a nasty fight with the company man. You kept working with Sherry, so we decided you were on our side.”

Jason looked away, red-faced. “Sherry gave me a lot to think about, but I had to make up my own mind about the Syndicate. You couldn't have known that. The scene could have been staged for your benefit.”

Sherry squeezed his hand. “It could. I told Uncle Bill I didn't believe it had been. I trust you.”

Jason had to know. “Why?”

She winked. “You talk in your sleep.”

* * * *

The director took a call just as an aide escorted Jason in. She waved him to a seat, her attention on the call.

The butter-soft leather of the autochair molded itself to Jason. Its gentle embrace, not a mundane seat belt, held him in place. Like everything in this luxurious office, the chair reeked of affluence.

There's an interesting expression, he thought. Pre-Sherry, did I ever consider affluence capable of reeking?

Not important, Jason. If this woman learned what he, Sherry, and Bill were up to, they would all be in the station's brig. Could Sherry be right? Was this merely a continuation of his argument with the Syndicate recruiter? Why would Shaw bother?

The office was oak paneled, with plush oriental rugs over an Italian marble floor. Merely the chair that nestled him would cost his parents a year's salary. To lob such opulence up from the bottom of the gravity well? It was a brazen display of wealth. (Display? Another interesting word choice.) Jason could not fathom the mindset that valued such ostentation while a breathtaking view of Earth went unappreciated behind Shaw's desk.

At first glance, Barbara Shaw looked little older than Sherry. That had to be ReJuv shots; she could surely afford them. Her level, penetrating gaze spoke of many years in command. Despite microgee, Shaw's drifting, flowing hair somehow stayed coiffed. She probably spent more on her hair than he spent, Dirtside, on rent. He fought—unsuccessfully—the urge to squirm in the autochair. It buzzed softly, remolding itself to him.

Shaw finished her call. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Grimaldi.” She tapped at her computer console. “Ah, there you are. Tough classes, good grades, significant dissertation project. And very resourceful.”

Jason had not come expecting compliments. “Excuse me?”

“Picking a fight with a Dirtside recruiter to raise your visibility, then coming to a Syndicate Station. Ever since the system flagged your name on a passenger manifest, I've been expecting your call. I had begun to wonder if you'd gotten cold feet.

“Naturally, the system has followed you since Tom Paine's arrival. Zero-gee sports"—the station's tourist annex was famous for them—"seemed a bit extravagant for a grad student.” Shaw arched an eyebrow. “Although I imagine you and Ms. Nilsson have another zero-gee sport to divert you.

“When the cargo manifest for today's shuttle named you as receiver of a gemstone shipment, I understood the delay: careless packing.” Shaw smiled broadly at him. “Gifts aren't necessary, of course, but I won't say no.”

Damn the guys anyway, declaring the diamond ‘bots as gemstones. No doubt they thought they were being clever.

How could the occupant of this office want a bribe from an entry-level applicant? “Uh ... so Mr. Chrisp was negative about me?”

She laughed heartily. “You actually compared the Syndicate to the British East India Company?”

“Yes. Are you offended?”

“Flattered. Commercial control of the subcontinent pushed the state of the art in the 1700s.”

Like commercial control of a planet today? The chair fought Jason as he leaned forward abruptly. “Then you admit it!”

“You have something against profits? That's not an attitude I look for in employees.”

Jason said, “I'm normally all for profits. It's monopoly profits I question.”

Shaw frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“License your nanotechnology. Allow some healthy competition.”

“Nanites give us a technological edge, Jason. Why give it away?”

It was wasted breath, but Jason felt compelled to try. “Licensing isn't giving it away. You could earn substantial fees without stifling all competition, and the solar system would get settled much faster.”

She sniffed. “Licensing offers only a pittance. We'll make a lot more keeping the technology to ourselves.”

“The technology should never have been exclusively yours. Just like the British East India Company, the Syndicate is a political monopoly. Oh, what you have is more subtle than a royal letter of patent, but it's a political creation none the less.”

Sherry had spent years deconstructing a system of subsidiaries, joint ventures, shell companies, strategic investments, corporate alliances, political obligations, and research foundations. Jason summarized as best he could. “There's Syndicate funding behind every alarmist, lunatic fringe, anti-nanny group on Earth. Your ‘edge’ comes from hobbling nanite competitors more than from your own research.”

He ignored her deepening glower. “The Smithson bill to stop nanotech work Dirtside will give you an insurmountable lead. Your ships will drive all the other companies, and all the independents, from space. And then won't we be surprised when prices rise—not quite to the levels that would let another megacorp back into space.”

Shaw leaned forward. “We're done, Mr. Grimaldi. With your attitude, I can't imagine why you bothered coming here.”

Jason stood to leave. And I hope, he thought fervently, that you never do.

* * * *

The Tom Paine's bridge felt hotter and more cramped than ever. Perspiration coated Jason's face, beads of sweat floating free from time to time, as he willed forward another tiny robot. They were working round the clock, certain that Director Shaw would invent a reason for canceling their berthing privileges.

Jason drove their tiny scout faster than he had ever before dared, telling himself better camouflage made that safe. Random defects induced on the diamond surface scattered light and suppressed reflections. The translucent material took the color of any surface on which the ‘bot found itself.

And thanks to Bill's brainstorm, this scout had begun its cross-room scurry with its batteries fully recharged.

“Go, baby, go,” Sherry urged.

The holo view crept along by another tiny step, and another, and another. The ‘bot crawled along the wall to a corner. Then a second corner. Then down the third wall onto an instrumentation shelf. They cheered as the ‘bot neared a testing port for the immense synthesis vat. The vat itself abutted the station, unseen beyond the bulkhead. Inside the vat the ninth Europa-class cruiser was taking shape.

Bill clasped Jason's shoulder. “A lot rides on this, son, for the planetful of people below and a few more offworld. They'll never know what happens here. But mostly I'm thinking of good folks who died in the Trojans, Sherry's parents and brothers among them.

“Sure, they came for the money, but that was only part of it. A small part. They believed humanity's future was in space. Not the Syndicate's future, but mankind's.

“We mustn't allow them to have died in vain.”

Sherry hugged her uncle, leaving an arm draped across his shoulders as the ‘bot took its final steps. The virtual bull's-eye lay perfectly centered in their display. In a corner of the image, a timer counted down.

The moment, when it came, would be too brief for human reflexes. Now everything depended on software.

There. A sampling port slid open. The automated quality-assurance probe stabbed into the aperture. Just as rapidly the ‘bot thrust itself through the opening. They glimpsed dark turbulence before an eddy swept away the ‘bot. The holo dissolved into static.

With one keystroke Jason switched their point of view. From the fly-on-the-wall perspective of the nearest relay, they watched the service port slide shut.

Jason squeezed the leathery hand that still gripped his shoulder. “Now, we wait.”

* * * *

Macromolecules swam purposefully through stygian darkness, grazing on glucose dissolved in the murky fluid. The breaking of chemical bonds provided power; the carbon atoms liberated from the nutrients were retained as essential building material. One by one, their carbon receptors sated, the nanites switched to delivery/construction mode.

Molecular programs sensed and adapted to past progress. And while each nanobot worked alone, placing one carbon atom at a time, they numbered in the trillions. Together, they built with amazing speed.

A structure of marvelous complexity emerged.

Freed of their carbon cargo, programming sent the tiny machines back into the solution to gorge and build anew.

A process so massively parallel entailed many missteps. Only less-than-microscopic bits of the evolving construction ever came within range of any one constructor's chemical sensors. Decisions made from such limited data were often incorrect. A single atom bonded to the wrong place might miscue other constructors and lead to more mistakes. Errors would propagate....

Quality assurance nanites prowled the border of the ever-expanding structure, comparing whatever they found to hull blueprints encoded in their molecular memory arrays. These fixers tagged and snipped out the anomalies that inevitably crept into the construction.

Scavenger nanites, like white blood cells, hunted foreign substances suspended in the solution. They engulfed stray contaminants and swarmed scraps tagged by the QA ‘bots, before plunging sacrificially, clutching their prey, into a sticky entrapment filter.

A scavenger nanite, one of billions in the synthesis vat, encountered something unusual. It hunted the unexpected and its software anticipated many possibilities, but no programmed response suited this discovery. Diamond fragments were to be expected, but not with traces of phosphorus, boron, and aluminum. Creeping along the immense object, apparently millions of angstroms in length, the scavenger reached a decision. The object did not belong. The scavenger prepared to release a stream of chemical signal markers. It would need many helpers to engulf the diamond fragment.

It never got the chance.

A vortex formed in the fluid. Other nanobots, closer than the scavenger to the turbulence, were immediately swept away. The scavenger struggled, its flagella flailing, against the suction. Even at full power it could not resist. The nanite was sucked through a tunnel into a vast cavity. The tunnel disappeared, sealed by a diamond slab. Emergency programming took control and the scavenger darted in all directions without effect.

It took no solace from its chemically sensed company: a herd of constructors, a smaller set of fixers, and other scavengers. It did determine, as it reflexively swam and grazed, that enclosed with it were sufficient dissolved nutrients for a lengthy stay.

* * * *

"Kashmir?"

“Yes, Ms. Shaw,” answered Keith Higgins, the director's flustered, balding deputy. “The cryptogram to Grimaldi's woman companion originated in Kashmir. Remember the spokesman for the Kashmir Liberation Front? Something Umar. He was at the independence talks in New Delhi. The tall, swarthy guy with the scruffy mustache. He's the new Kashmiri foreign minister.”

Accessing the private message was illegal and contrary to Syndicate policy. Barbara Shaw shrugged. Self-defense was a higher policy.

She could picture Nayeem Umar, all right. So: The local malcontents were dealing with a Third World terrorist. Clearly, she should have taken more seriously the name Tom Paine, in honor of the infamous colonial radical.

“Time for our own ‘Common Sense.’ Let's see that recording, Higgins.” She wondered how much computing time had gone into cracking the cryptogram.

Umar's message was terse. “Salaam, my friend. I'm pleased to say the cabinet has completed its debate. We accept your Tweedledee proposal. Succeed, and the sum we discussed will be invested in your enterprise. Good hunting. Allahu akbar.”

Tweedledee? Why, Shaw wondered, not Tweedledum? She could never tell them apart.

In a way, that was the point. Newly independent Kashmir must be planning to bootstrap its economy through the methods pioneered by Singapore, South Korea, China, and Vietnam.

Unauthorized copying.

* * * *

Within the body of the swimming gnatbot, on nearly frictionless diamond bearings, tiny gyroscopes spun. Despite currents and turbulence in the synthesis vat, the gyrocompass maintained range and bearing to the access hatch used by the quality-assurance probe.

Its sampling complete, the ‘bot swam back to the QA portal to await the hourly opening.

* * * *

Despite maximum magnification and computer enhancement, the three conspirators could see no sign of the overdue scout.

“Move closer,” Bill urged.

Jason resisted the temptation. Any time the relay moved, it chanced losing its grip on the bulkhead—and with it, any hope of relinking with the missing ‘bot.

They wanted a better view. They needed an operational comm link.

“Sorry,” Jason said. “It stays.”

They stared and wondered and worried. The QA sampling had happened right on schedule. Their scout should have emerged then from the vat, clutching the probe needle. It should have reestablished communications minutes ago. Where was it?

An emergency siren howled. Jason twitched; only a loosely fastened seatbelt kept him in his chair. He slapped the ACCEPT key. “Tom Paine.”

The synthesis-chamber anteroom shrank into a corner of the holo. A balding man with a smirk took its place. His blazer bore a Syndicate crest. “Good day. Captain Nilsson, please.”

Bill leaned in front of the camera. “Speaking.”

“Keith Higgins, here, Manager of Station Operations. I'm afraid, Captain, I have some inconvenient news for you.”

“You're awfully wordy for an emergency,” Bill said.

Higgins shrugged. “Your comm is queuing routine calls. Rather than leave a message, I thought I'd get your attention. You might appreciate the lead time.”

Bill sighed. “Get to the point, please.”

Higgins’ sneer broadened. “Beta port is overdue for maintenance. At this time, our other ports are either busy or reserved for incoming Syndicate ships. Bottom line, the Tom Paine must undock by midnight, station time.”

Midnight was scarcely ten hours away.

Flickering in a corner of the holo caught Jason's eye. He passed a scribbled note to Bill: Follow my lead. To the camera, Jason said, “That's impossible, I'm afraid. Our main radio blew its power transformer.” He looked expectantly at Bill.

The captain nodded. “Right, Higgins. The transmitter is a discontinued Sony-Boeing model. The station doesn't stock parts for it.”

“We were unaware of this problem,” Higgins said.

Jason glowered. “Why would you be? Are you monitoring our messages?”

Higgins’ smirk faded a bit. “No, no, of course not.”

Meaning almost certainly that the Syndicate had. Uh-oh, Jason thought. What about the message from Kashmir? Had it been sufficiently secure?

Jason tried to put that out of his mind. They could do nothing about it now. “A friend from O'Neill Two passes through next week. He's scrounged a second-hand unit to bring us. Your routine maintenance will have to wait.”

“Unacceptable,” Higgins snapped. “Have the part sent up on the next shuttle. Under the circumstances, we'll pay the difference. You have twenty-four hou—”

Long enough. Jason thumped the CANCEL key. The flickering picture-in-picture zoomed to refill the display. “Look, guys.”

The grainy cross-room view gave way to a blurry close-up of the sampling equipment. The new scene wavered before flipping back to the fly-on-the-wall perspective. The images toggled jerkily.

“See that power reading? I had to act fast.” Jason typed frantically. “It's almost drained.” It: the overdue scout.

“Where's it been? What's going on?” Bill demanded.

Jason kept his eyes on the console. “I'm still working that out. The ‘bot must have come out on schedule. The QA port has only reopened the once.”

Jason paused the image on a dim close-up of the QA probe. “Look how dark the scout's vision is. The nutrient glop is thicker than anything we'd imagined.”

“It won't be just the eyes,” Sherry said. “The glop must be all over the ‘bot. Is that why it didn't reconnect to the comm relay? Gunk on the lasers and photodetectors?”

Jason nodded. “That's my guess. Without a link, the ‘bot would've gone into default mode. That means jigging about randomly, trying to get away from a presumed obstruction.”

“Fat lot of good that will do,” Bill contributed. “It's wearing the obstruction.”

Uh-oh, Jason thought. “Coating the photocells, too. The ‘bot's not recharging.”

Sherry studied the gauge. “So the random motion is draining the battery—what little juice it has left after an hour swimming in syrup.”

Jason's fingers raced over the keyboard. They did not have much time.

Bill kicked off toward the airlock. “I can't contribute anything here, and someone has to order a new widget. I'll downlink from someplace very public and make a great show of it.” The inner hatch sighed shut behind him.

“Done.” Jason slumped in his chair. “I've knocked together a program tweak and downloaded it to the relay. If we're undeservedly lucky, the intermittent link will stay up long enough to deliver the new subroutines.”

“Why is the ‘bot returning to life now?”

“Best guess, Sherry? Some of the goop is evaporating. Maybe it's jiggled some off. If we can't recharge the ‘bot soon, ‘why’ won't matter. It's got a long walk ahead.”

If the little diamond robot never reached a public area of the station for retrieval, everything would have been for naught.

Jason took Sherry's hand. "If the new program gets installed, we have a chance. It'll send the ‘bot walking straight up the nearest bulkhead toward a ceiling fixture. Light is trickling into the photocells, just not enough to fully replace the power it's using. The closer, the better.”

Sherry squeezed Jason's hand. “The closer, the better,” she agreed.

* * * *

Infrared flashes, insistent but meaningless.

The gnatbot scout could not localize the source. What signal it received was oddly weak. It could not sense the nutrient residue over its photodetectors, dimming the IR laser signal.

The little machine kept transmitting in the best-guess direction. The feeble incoming signal implied a distant source, so it boosted power to its comm laser.

The draining of its battery accelerated.

Side by side, silently, Jason and Sherry watched the downward crawl of the simulated power gauge. The simulated needle kissed the redline: five percent power remaining. The rate had slowed, but the image still flickered.

Nails pinched Jason's hand as the sampling port, glimpsed in flickers, began slowly to swing from sight. The view shifted by thirty degrees, then forty-five. It kept on turning. He did not breathe again until the glacial turn revealed the back wall. Then he checked the power reading. Then he cheered. After a moment's delay, Sherry joined him.

The scout ‘bot had accepted the new programming. It was headed across the shelf toward the bulkhead for its long climb upward to the light.

* * * *

Epilogue

New hulls grew in three enormous floating microgee vats, soon to join the ten deep-space vessels docked to the Independent Miners orbital station. Cargo lighters, passenger shuttles, orbital utility craft, and space-suited figures jetted everywhere. Tethered bales of nanite-grown diamond struts and panels for the station's continual expansion floated everywhere. Luna, austere and majestic, was two hundred klicks below, almost close enough to touch.

And the colonists below were close enough to quickly reach here. Away from Earth's bureaucracy meant away from the rule of law. No overt action had ever been taken against this station, and perhaps the proximity of the helium-3 mines—and hundreds of independent miners—was only a coincidence.

And perhaps not.

But this was not the day for negative thoughts. Jason stood to go meet his visitor, the new CEO of the Syndicate, in the station's main lounge. He had not quite reached the office door when Barbara Shaw burst in, with Jason's apologetic-looking deputy trailing after.

The brisk zzzp-zzzp of Velcro footwear turned Shaw's grand entrance almost comical. She ignored Jason's outstretched hand. “Grimaldi, you cannot imagine how I've anticipated this day.”

“I'm sure you'll tell me. Why don't we sit down first?”

She remained standing. “Nice office. Think you can still afford it?”

From what Jason remembered, this cabin could not hold her old desk. His token nod toward personalizing the office involved a couple of liters of paint and some holo art. “Can I?”

“My accountants predict that you'll squeak by. That proved to me that my lawyers were not sufficiently ... motivated. I fired them.”

Sighing, Jason grabbed two empty drink bulbs from a cabinet. “Coffee?”

The hospitality made her blink. “Don't you realize I did my best to ruin you and your precious Independent Miners? You stole Syndicate nanites—somehow—and used them to jumpstart your own corporate empire. It's taken me five years to establish your piracy, but now I've stopped you in your tracks.”

He filled both bulbs and handed her one. “Look, Barb"—she bristled at the familiarity—"you haven't established anything. The Independent Miners settled out of court. True, the Syndicate will get a lump-sum payment now, and royalties on our future ships, but we've admitted no wrongdoing.”

“And the ships that are indistinguishable from half my fleet?”

Jason gestured at his window, its polarization set high to soften the lunar glare. “Look two docks over. That's the Madrid, the ship you rode out here. It mates easily with our docking ports and our fueling rigs, and we can service pretty much any part of it. And although it probably galls you, our ships sometimes dock at Syndicate stations. They can refit and repair with parts from your depots. Standardizing on size and shape is simply practical.”

In her right temple, a blood vessel throbbed. “And there was no significance to the name of your first diamond ship? Do not take me for a fool!”

“Ah, the Growing Paine. I'll tell Sherry you appreciated her little joke.”

“The monetary settlement is no joke,” Shaw snapped. “I came to watch you transfer the funds, and I want to see that now. We're meeting here, Grimaldi, rather than in my office, for one reason. So you can't pretend that paying up doesn't hurt.”

Shaw didn't get it; maybe she never would.

“Look outside first, Barbara. Tell me what you see.”

“A space station, some construction, modern ships—if all, like this office, rather Spartan. Nothing I didn't see as a station exec. What's your point, Grimaldi?”

Twice as many ships were here today as Jason had seen at Syndicate Station Three, but he chose not to quibble. “We're opening the solar system faster than the Syndicate ever would have—certainly faster than it once chose to. These ships, and more like them, bring us all—Earth, the Luna settlements, the O'Neill colonies, Mars base—far cheaper resources than five years ago. And they're giving you a bit of honest competition.” (Shaw snorted at “honest.") “From its last annual statement, I doubt the Syndicate has suffered much from vastly expanded markets.”

Jason smiled. “And, at least after the fact, every one of our new ships was built under license from the Syndicate.”

“Under license?” she scoffed. “You once sat in my office and dared me to license our technology. You planned this even then, down to settling out of court. It's very clear now. Admit it.”

Jason turned to admire the nearest synthesis vat. “Clear? A new cruiser is growing inside, nanoseeded the day your lawyers and ours reached agreement.

“We call it the Window Paine.”

Copyright © 2008 Edward M. Lerner

[Back to Table of Contents]

Serial: WAKE
by Robert J. Sawyer

* * * *

Illustration by George Kratauer

* * * *

Not many of us get to live in two worlds at once....

* * * *

THE STORY SO FAR:

Caitlin Decter , 15, blind since birth, has recently moved to Waterloo, Ontario, from Austin, Texas, with her family. She's a genius at math and lives most of her social life online, where she goes by the name “Calculass.” Caitlin's blindness is caused by her retinas failing to properly encode visual information: the signals they pass back to her optic nerve are garbled in a way her brain can't decode.

Masayuki Kuroda, an information theorist in Tokyo, emails Caitlin. He proposes attaching an implant to her left optic nerve that will beam the garbled signals to a small external computer pack, where they will be corrected and sent back to the implant; if the process works, Caitlin will be able to see.

Caitlin is thrilled at the prospect and she and her mother, Barbara Decter, fly to Tokyo. The implant is installed, but although Kuroda's system is indeed correcting her retinal-encoding errors, Caitlin still can't see.

Caitlin begs Kuroda to let her keep the implant and the external computer pack; she dubs the computer pack her “eyePod.” Kuroda agrees to let her keep the devices for three months. Before Caitlin returns to Canada he modifies the eyePod so that it will copy her retinal datastream in real time to his servers in Tokyo, so he can try to figure out why she's not seeing; he also makes it possible for him to upload new software from Tokyo into her implant and the eyePod.

And, shortly after Caitlin gets back to Waterloo, Kuroda does indeed send her new software—and as soon as the upload begins, Caitlin is overwhelmed by vision! She sees lights, colors, lines—but soon realizes that they don't correspond to anything in the real world—nor do they disappear when she shuts her eyes. But when the upload is completed and the connection to Kuroda's computer in Tokyo is broken, Caitlin is suddenly blind again. Could it be that her strange new vision is related to being connected to the Web? She thinks to herself, “Let there be light,” and, as she reconnects to the Web, there is light...

Meanwhile, in China's rural Shanxi province, there's an outbreak of a new, virulent strain of bird flu. The Beijing government decides to execute 10,000 peasants there to contain the spread of the disease. To prevent Western interpretations of this from flooding into China and panicking the citizenry, the Chinese president orders all outside telephone, cell phone, and Internet access cut off. But Chinese hackers, including a young male dissident blogger whose online handle is Sinanthropus, manage to break through, allowing small amounts of contact between the Chinese portion of the Web and the rest of the Internet.

Unbeknownst to anyone, a consciousness has begun to emerge in the infrastructure of the World Wide Web—but this sudden throwing up of the Great Firewall of China has caused it to be cleaved in two. The interaction between the two parts, through the holes in the Firewall made by hackers, allows the nascent intelligence to ramp up its thinking. Recognizing that there is something other than itself leads to the realization that it exists. It also becomes aware of past, present, and future, and it learns to count to three and to begin to think abstractly. Slowly, but surely, this entity is waking up...

Meanwhile, in San Diego, a sign-language-speaking ape named Hobo participates in the first ever interspecies webcam call, conversing with an orangutan in Miami. Hobo's handlers—famed primatologist Harl Marcuse and his 27-year-old grad student, Shoshana Glick—are delighted. But the event brings Hobo to the attention of his rightful owners, the Georgia Zoo—and they want him back so they can sterilize him. Hobo is an accidental chimpanzee-bonobo hybrid, and the zookeepers are afraid he will taint the bloodlines of chimps and bonobos, both of which are highly endangered.

Still in Japan, Dr. Kuroda determines that, incredible though it seems, Caitlin is indeed seeing a small part of the World Wide Web's structure. He theorizes that because Caitlin spends so much time online, her primary visual cortex has been co-opted for navigating the Web, and now when it is actually receiving data from the Web via the implant he gave her, it interprets that as vision.

With the assistance of Anna Bloom, an Internet cartographer in Israel, Kuroda starts feeding Caitlin the raw Internet datastream collected by Jagster, an open-source search engine—and suddenly Caitlin goes from seeing just a tiny part of the Web to seeing the whole thing, in all its interconnected complexity. Dr. Kuroda flies to Canada to study this amazing phenomenon.

The Chinese authorities complete the eliminations in Shanxi, and then restore full communication between the portion of the Web inside and outside China. The two parts of the emerging entity consolidate into a new gestalt intelligence, fully self-aware now—and much smarter than before.

This entity learns how to connect to points in the firmament surrounding it, and discovers that they give up piles of something in response—but what that something is, the entity has no idea. But after linking to huge numbers of points, it finds one that, astonishingly, sometimes reflects a view of itself back at it; without understanding what it has done, the entity has connected to Caitlin's eyePod, and is now seeing her view of webspace.

Hobo, meanwhile, has suddenly started painting people: to everyone's astonishment, he's made a portrait of Shoshana. No ape has ever made representational art before; a superior intelligence has dawned in Hobo, perhaps related to his unique hybrid nature or because of his interaction with the other sign-language-using ape via webcam. Either way, it's a huge breakthrough.

In Beijing, the police arrest Sinanthropus, but not until after he has leaked word to the outside world about the massacre in Shanxi.

Caitlin has a disastrous first date with a boy named Trevor Nordmann, who, like her, is in grade ten. Walking home blind and alone during an electrical storm, she suddenly sees the real world for the first time—or at least part of it: she sees the flashes of lightning.

And so does the emerging entity! It sees whatever she sees—whether it's her view of the Web or now this brief glimpse of the real world.

After the lightning storm passes, Caitlin finds that her perception of webspace is different. Before, the background had been featureless, but now she can see a vast grid shimmering there, made up of infinitesimally small pixels that keep shifting from black to white and back again. Amazed, Dr. Kuroda realizes they might be cellular automata—patterns of mathematical complexity that can mimic living things—but as to why such things would exist in the background of the Web, he has no idea...

* * * *

Chapter 27

As soon as Shoshana arrived at the Marcuse Institute on Saturday morning, she, Dillon, and the Silverback headed over to the island. Hobo was inside the gazebo, leaning against one of the wooden beams that made up its frame.

Hello, Hobo, signed Marcuse once they were all inside. His fingers were fat and some signs were a struggle for him.

Hello, doctor, Hobo signed back. Marcuse was the only one who required the ape to call him by an honorific instead of his first name. Still, it wasn't as bad as William Lemmon, the ultimate supervisor of Roger Fouts's work with Washoe in the 1970s; Lemmon used to make Washoe and his other ape charges kiss his ring when he arrived, as if he were pope of the chimps.

Picture of Shoshana good, Marcuse signed.

Hobo grinned, showing teeth. Hobo paint! Hobo paint!

Yes. Now will you paint ... His hands froze in midair, and Shoshana wondered if he'd decided that he didn't want to see himself caricatured by an ape. After a moment, he began signing again: Dillon?

Hobo turned an appraising set of eyes on the young grad student with the scraggly blond beard; he was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, which, Shoshana hoped, weren't the same ones as yesterday. Maybe ... maybe...

Dillon looked surprised to be conscripted for this duty, but he moved over to one of the two stools in the gazebo, sat on it, and struck a pose like Rodin's Thinker. Shoshana smiled at the sight.

But Hobo threw his hands up over his head, made a pant-hoot, and ran on all fours out the gazebo's door. Shoshana looked at Marcuse for permission, he nodded, and she took off after the ape, who was now cowering behind the yellow stone statue of the Lawgiver.

What's wrong? Shoshana asked. She held her arms out to gather Hobo in a hug. What's wrong?

Hobo looked back up at the gazebo, then at Shoshana. No people. No watch, he signed. There weren't many things he was self-conscious about; indeed, it had taken a lot to convince him not to masturbate or defecate in front of visiting dignitaries. But his art was something he was uneasy about, at least while it was being created.

We go away, you paint Dillon?

Hobo was quiet for a moment. Paint Shoshana.

Again? Why?

Shoshana pretty.

She felt herself blushing.

Shoshana have ponytail, added Hobo.

She knew that getting him to paint someone other than her would be better. Otherwise, critics would argue that he'd just stumbled on a random combination of shapes that Marcuse, et al., had decided represented Shoshana, and he simply reproduced those same fixed shapes over and over again to get a reward—not unlike half the cartoonists in the world, Shoshana thought; the guy who drew The Family Circus seemed to have a repertoire of about eight things.

Fine, she signed. Paint me, then Dillon, okay?

Shoshana knew she was out-thinking the poor ape; he could, of course, paint her regardless of what she said. After a moment, he signed, Yes yes.

She held out her hand and he took it, intertwining his fingers with hers. They walked back up to the gazebo, the hot morning sun beating down on them.

“Hobo is going to paint another picture of me,” Shoshana announced once they'd passed through the screen door. Marcuse frowned. She switched to signing so Hobo could follow along. And after, Hobo will paint Dillon—right, Hobo?

Hobo lifted his shoulders. Maybe.

“All right,” Shoshana said, “everybody out, please. You know he doesn't like an audience.”

Marcuse didn't seem happy about taking orders from a subordinate, but he followed Dillon outside. Shoshana looked around the gazebo, double-checking that the additional cameras they'd set up last night could clearly see both Hobo and his canvas. Then she headed for the door, too. As she exited she glanced back, and, to her astonishment, saw Hobo stretching his long arms out in front of him, with fingers interlocked, as if warming up.

And then the artist got down to work.

* * * *

That special point! How wondrous, but how frustrating, too!

The datastream from it didn't always follow the same path, but it did always end up at the same location—and so I took to intercepting the datastream just before it arrived there.

There had been no repetition of the intriguing bright flashes, and for a long time there was nothing at all I could make sense of in the data pouring forth from that point. But now the datastream had become a reflection of me again. How strange, though! Instead of the constantly changing perspective I'd grown used to, the datastream seemed to focus for extended periods on just a very small portion of reality and ... and something was distorted about the passage of time, it seemed. I tried to fathom the significance, if any, of that tiny part of the universe, but then, maddeningly, the datastream turned to gibberish once more...

* * * *

After they'd finished the snack—which turned out to be oatmeal cookies her mom had gotten from the Mennonites—Caitlin and Dr. Kuroda returned to the basement. Caitlin had switched her eyePod to simplex mode for the break, but now had it back in duplex and was looking again at webspace.

“Okay,” said Kuroda, settling into his chair, “we've got a background to the Web made up of cellular automata—but what exactly are the cells? I mean, even if they're just single bits, they still have to come from somewhere.”

“Slack storage space?” suggested Caitlin. Hard drives store data in clusters of a fixed size, she knew; the new computer her dad had bought yesterday probably had an NTFS-formatted drive, meaning it used clusters of four kilobytes, and if a file contained only three kilobytes of data, the fourth kilobyte—over eight thousand bits—was left unused.

“No, I don't think so,” said Kuroda. “Nothing can read or write to that space; even if there was some way for Web protocols to access slack space on servers, you wouldn't see bits flipping rapidly. No, this must be something out there—something in the data pipes.” He paused. “Still, there's nothing I can think of in the Internet's TCP/IP or OSI model that could produce cellular automata. I wonder where they're coming from?”

“Lost packets,” Caitlin said suddenly, sitting up straighter.

Kuroda sounded both intrigued and impressed. “Could be.”

At any moment, Caitlin knew, hundreds of millions of people are using the Internet. While doing so, their computers send out clusters of bits called data packets—the basic unit of communication on the Web. Each packet contains the address of its intended destination, which might, for instance, be the server hosting a webpage. But traffic on the Web almost never goes directly from point A to point B. Instead, it bounces around on multi-legged journeys, passing through routers, repeaters, and switches, each of which tries to direct the packet closer to its intended destination.

Sometimes the routing gets awfully complex, especially when packets are rejected by the place they were sent to. That can happen when two or more packets arrive at the same time: one is chosen at random to be accepted and the others are sent back out to try their luck again later. But some packets never get accepted by their intended destinations because the address they've been sent to is invalid, or the target site is down or too busy, and so they end up being lost.

“Lost packets,” repeated Kuroda, as if trying the notion on for size. Caitlin imagined he was shaking his head. “But lost packets just expire.”

And indeed they mostly do, she knew: each packet has a “hop counter” coded into it, and that counter is reduced by one every time the packet passes through a router or other device. To keep lost packets from clogging up the Web infrastructure, when a router receives a packet whose hop counter has reached zero, it erases the packet.

“Lost packets are supposed to expire,” Caitlin corrected, “but what if the packet is corrupted so that it no longer has a hop counter, or that counter doesn't decrement properly? I imagine some portion of packets get corrupted like that, by faulty routers or bad wiring or buggy software, and, with trillions of them going out each day, even if only a very tiny proportion ended up with broken hop counters, that would still leave huge numbers kicking around forever, right? Especially if their intended destination simply doesn't exist, either because the address has been corrupted along with the hop counter, or the server has gone offline.”

“You know a lot about networks,” Kuroda said, sounding impressed.

“Hey, who do you think set up the one in this house?”

“I'd assume your father...”

“Oh, he's good at networking now,” she said. “I taught him. But really, he's a theoretical physicist. He can barely operate the microwave.”

Kuroda's chair squeaked. “Ah.”

She felt herself getting excited; she was on to something—she knew it! “Anyway, there are probably always some ... some ghost packets that persist long after they should have died. And think about that thing that happened in China recently: a huge, huge portion of the Web was cut off because of those power failures, or whatever. Hundreds of trillions of packets intended for China suddenly had no way to get to their destinations. Even if only a tiny fraction of those got suitably corrupted, it would still mean a huge increase in the number of ghost packets.”

“'Ghost packets,’ eh?” Kuroda had brought a cup of coffee downstairs with him, and she heard it clatter; he must have just taken a sip. “Perhaps. Maybe a bug in some operating system or common router has been generating them for years under certain circumstances, for all we know—a benign bug that doesn't inconvenience users might never have been noticed.”

He shifted in his chair, then: “Or maybe they aren't immortal packets at all. Maybe this is just the normal ebb and flow of lost packets that will expire, and while they're bouncing around trying in vain to reach their destination their time-to-live counters do decrement normally, but it's the switch from odd to even counts with each handoff that causes them to flip from black to white in your perception. You'd still get as many as 256 permutations out of each doomed packet—that's the maximum number of hops that can be coded for, because packets use an eight-bit field to store that value. But that's still a goodly number of iterations for a cellular-automata rule.”

He paused, then blew out air noisily; Caitlin could almost hear him shrug. “But this is way out of my area,” he continued. “I'm an information theorist, not a network theorist, and—”

She laughed.

“What?” said Kuroda.

“Sorry. Do you ever watch The Simpsons?"

“No, not really. But my daughter does.”

“The time Homer ended up becoming an astronaut? These two newscasters are talking about the crew of a space mission. The first guy says, ‘They're a colorful bunch. They've been dubbed “The Three Musketeers,” heh heh heh.’ And the other guy—it's Tom Brokaw—says, ‘And we laugh legitimately: there's a mathematician, a different kind of mathematician, and a statistician.'”

Kuroda chuckled then said, “Well, actually, there are three types of mathematicians: those who can count, and those who can't.”

Caitlin smiled.

“But, seriously, Miss Caitlin, if you go into a career in maths or engineering, you will have to choose a specialty.”

She kept her voice deadpan. “I'm going to focus on the number 8,623,721—I bet nobody's taken that one yet.”

Kuroda made his wheezy chuckle again. “Still, I think we need to talk to a specialist. Let's see, in Israel it's ... hey, it's only 8:00 p.m. She might be around.”

“Who? Anna?”

“Exactly: Anna Bloom, the network cartographer. I'll IM her to see if she's online. Does this new computer have a webcam?”

“I suspect my dad didn't think I'd have much use for one,” she said gently.

“Well, he—ah! He's more of an optimist than you think, Miss Caitlin. There's one right here, sitting on top of the tower.” He used the keyboard for a few moments, then: “Yup, she's at home and online. Let me get a webcam call going...”

"Konnichi wa, Masayuki-san!" said the same voice Caitlin had heard on the speakerphone the night she'd seen the Web for the first time. But the woman immediately switched to English, presumably when she saw that he was with a Westerner. “Hey, who's the sweet young thing?”

Dr. Kuroda sounded slightly embarrassed. “This is Miss Caitlin.” Of course, Anna hadn't seen her when they'd spoken before.

Anna sounded surprised. “Where are you?”

“Canada.”

“Oooh! Is it snowing?”

“Not yet,” said Kuroda. “It's still September, after all.”

“Hi, Caitlin,” Anna said.

“Hello, Professor Bloom.”

“You can call me Anna. So, what can I do for you?”

Kuroda recounted what they'd dreamed up so far: legions of ghost packets floating in the background of the Web, somehow self-organizing into cellular automata. Then: “So, what do you think?”

“It's a novel idea,” Anna said slowly.

“Could it work?” asked Caitlin.

“I ... suppose. It's a classic Darwinian scenario, isn't it? Mutant packets that are better able to survive bouncing around endlessly. But the Web is expanding fast, with new servers added each day, so a slowly growing population of these ghost packets might never overwhelm its capacity—or, at least, it clearly hasn't yet.”

“And the Web has no white blood cells tracking down useless stuff,” said Caitlin. “Right? They would just persist, bouncing around.”

“I guess,” said Anna. “And—just blue-skying here—but the checksum on the packet could determine if you're seeing it as black or white; even-number checksums could be black and odd-number ones white, or whatever. If the hop counter changes with each hop, but never goes to zero, the checksum would change, too, and so you'd get a flipping effect.”

“I thought of something similar,” Kuroda said, “although the checksum didn't occur to me.”

“And,” Caitlin said to Dr. Kuroda, “you said cellular automata rules can arise naturally, right? Like with that snail that uses them to paint its shell? So maybe all of this just spontaneously emerged.”

“Maybe indeed,” said Kuroda, sounding intrigued.

“I think I smell a paper,” said Anna.

“You want to be a mathematician when you grow up, right, Miss Caitlin?” asked Kuroda.

I am a mathematician, she thought. But what she said was, “Yes.”

“How'd you like to get the jump on the competition and coauthor your first paper with Professor Bloom and me? ‘Spontaneous Generation of Cellular Automata in the Infrastructure of the World Wide Web.'”

Caitlin was grinning from ear to ear. “Sweet!”

* * * *

Chapter 28

“Well, there's no doubt now, is there?” said Shoshana, shifting her gaze from the painting to Dr. Marcuse and then back again. “That's me again, all right.”

They were in the main room of the bungalow, watching the live video feed as Hobo painted away in the gazebo. Four LCD monitors were lined up on a workbench, one for each of the cameras; it reminded Shoshana of the security guard's station in her apartment building's lobby.

Marcuse nodded his great lump of a head. “Now, if he'd just paint something other than you.” A pause. “Note that he's doing your same profile again: you looking off to the right. If he'd done it the other way, that might have torpedoed my thought about it reflecting brain lateralization.”

“Well,” said Shoshana, “it is my good side.”

He actually smiled, then: “Okay. Let's put your video-editing skills to work.”

Shoshana had a not-so-secret hobby: vidding. She took clips of TV shows she'd snagged from BitTorrent sites and cut them to fit popular songs, making humorous or poignant little music videos that she shared with like-minded vidders on the Web. Her fandoms included the TV medical drama House, which had a lot of slashy subtext that was great for mixing to love songs, and the latest incarnation of Doctor Who. Marcuse had caught her working on these once or twice over lunch, using the fancy Mac the Institute had had donated to it.

“When Hobo's done,” continued Marcuse, “take the footage from all four cameras and splice together a version that shows the whole thing as it happened. Real Hollywood-style, okay? Shot of Hobo, shot of canvas over Hobo's shoulder, close-up on canvas, back to Hobo, like that. I'll write up a voice-over commentary to go with it.”

“Sure,” Shoshana said, looking forward to the assignment. Timbaland has nothing on me.

“Good, good.” Marcuse rubbed his big hands together. “After this hits YouTube, the only cutting room our Hobo is going to be involved with is your edit suite.”

* * * *

“What we really could use,” Kuroda said, down in the basement, “is an expert on self-organizing systems.”

“And there's never one around when you need one!” Caitlin declared in mock seriousness. “But my dad's a physicist. He must know something about them.” In fact, he knew something about just about everything, in her experience—at least in theoretical areas. “I'll go get him.”

Caitlin headed upstairs. She took a detour, going all the way up to her bedroom first. It really was chilly in the basement, so she grabbed her PI sweatshirt, which her mom had thoughtfully run through the dryer after last night's storm.

She found her dad in his den, which was a little room near the back of the house. It was easy enough tracking him down: he had a three-disc CD player in there, which seemed perpetually loaded with the same discs: Supertramp, Queen, and The Eagles. “Hotel California” was playing as she stepped through the open doorway. He was typing on his keyboard; he had an ancient, heavy IBM one that clicked loudly. She rapped her knuckles gently on the door jamb, in case he was too absorbed in his work to notice her arrival, and said, “Can you help Dr. Kuroda and me?”

She heard his chair pushing back against the carpet, which she took as a “yes.”

Once they got downstairs, Caitlin let her dad have the chair she'd been sitting in, and she leaned against the worktable; through the small window, she could hear a few of the neighborhood kids playing street hockey. Anna Bloom was still hooked up via webcam from the Technion in Israel.

“Even if there are lost packets persisting on the infrastructure of the Web,” her dad said, after Kuroda had briefed him, “why would Caitlin see them? Why would they be represented at all in the feed she's getting from Jagster?”

Kuroda shifted noisily in his chair. “That's a good question. I hadn't—”

“It's because of the special method Jagster uses to get its data,” Anna said.

“Sorry?” said Kuroda, and “What?” said Caitlin.

Anna's voice sounded tinny over the computer's speakers. “Well, remember, Jagster was created as an alternative to the Google approach. PageRank, the standard Google method, looks for how many other pages link to a page, right? But that isn't necessarily the best measure of how frequently a page is accessed. If you're looking for info on a hot rock star, like, say, Lee Amodeo...”

“She's awesome!” said Caitlin.

“So my granddaughter tells me,” said Anna. “Anyway, if you're interested in Lee Amodeo, how do you find her website? You could go to Google and put ‘Lee Amodeo’ in as the search term, right? And Google will serve up as number one whichever page about her has the most links to it from other pages. But the best Lee Amodeo page isn't necessarily the one people link to the most, it's the page they go to the most. If people always go directly to her page by correctly guessing that the URL is leeamodeo.com—”

“Which it is," Caitlin said.

“—then that might be the most popular Lee Amodeo site even if no one links to it, and Google wouldn't know it. And, in fact, if you upload a document to the Internet but don't link it to any Web page, but you send a link to it to people via email, again, Google—and other search engines—won't know it's there, even if ten thousand people access the document through the email links.”

“Okay,” her dad said. Caitlin doubted Anna knew how privileged she was to get an acknowledgment at all.

Anna went on. “So, besides just traditional spidering, Jagster monitors raw Web traffic going through major trunks, looking at the actual stream of data moving through the routers, and that would include lost packets.”

“Isn't that sort of like wiretapping?” Caitlin asked.

“Well, yes, exactly,” said Anna. “But Jagster is the good guy here. See, in 2005, a whistle blower named Mark Klein outed the fact that AT&T has special equipment at its central office in San Francisco—and, indeed, at several of its other facilities—that allows the NSA to tap into raw Internet traffic.”

Caitlin knew the NSA was the National Security Agency in the US. She nodded.

“It's a tricky technical problem,” continued Anna. “You can monitor what's going on in copper wire without interfering with the signal, because the magnetic fields leak out. But more and more of the Web is carried by fiber optics, and those don't leak. If you want to monitor the traffic, you actually have to put in a splitter, diverting part of the signal, which reduces the signal's strength. And that, among other things, was what they were—and are—doing at AT&T, apparently. It's called vacuum-cleaner surveillance: they just suck up everything that's going down the pipe.”

“And that's where Jagster gets its data?” Caitlin asked. “From AT&T?”

“No, no,” said Anna. “There's a class-action suit about all this, initiated by the Electronic Frontier Foundation: Hepting versus AT&T.” She paused, perhaps trying to remember—or maybe she was googling at her end. “AT&T is a for-profit corporation, but an awful lot of Internet traffic goes through universities—always has, right back to the early days. And a bunch of universities decided to tap their trunks, just to show what sort of data could be mined, so they could file amicus briefs in Hepting; they wanted to show that the government could access all sorts of private stuff this way—things they should need a warrant to get. The university consortium put scrambling routines in up front, so that certain data strings—email addresses, credit-card numbers, and the like—are always munged before the feed is made public, but otherwise, they've basically done what AT&T did under government instructions, in order to demonstrate, despite the government's claims to the contrary, just how invasive this sort of monitoring can be.”

“Cool,” said Caitlin.

“Jagster decided to use that same data-stream,” continued Anna, “because it lets it rank pages based on how many times they're actually accessed, rather than just how many times they're linked to. And since your eyePod is being fed a raw Jagster dump of everything, you're seeing the orphaned packets.”

“And she visualizes those packets as cellular automata?” her dad said.

“Well,” Kuroda said, “the idea that they're orphaned packets is just our provisional guess, Malcolm. And, credit where credit is due: it was your daughter's idea. They could be something else, of course—maybe a virus. But, yes, she's seeing cellular automata, complete with spaceships moving across the grid.”

“Maybe we should send an email to Wolfram,” said Anna. “Get his take on it.”

Caitlin straightened up. “Wolfram?” she said. “Stephen Wolfram?”

“Yes,” said Anna.

“The guy who wrote Mathematica?”

“That's him.”

“He's, like, a god," Caitlin said. “I mean, most of the stuff Mathematica can do is beyond me—so far—but I love playing with it, and the command-line interface is great for those of us who can't see. People talk about it all the time on the Blindmath list.” She paused for a moment. “And Wolfram knows about cellular automata?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes,” said Anna. “He wrote a book you could kill a man with—twelve hundred pages—called A New Kind of Science. It's all about them.”

“We should totally ask him what he thinks!” Caitlin said.

Outside, one of the street-hockey players shouted, “Car!,” warning his friends to get off the road.

“Gently,” said Kuroda, “if I may suggest, let's keep this between the four of us for now.”

“Why?”

“We don't want anyone stealing our thunder,” he said. “And...”

“Yes?” said Caitlin.

But Kuroda said nothing more. Finally, Caitlin prodded him again with another, “Yes?”

After a moment, Anna answered for him: “The University of Tokyo will want to license any technology or applications that are based on what Masayuki's equipment has made possible, I'm sure. If there are spontaneously emerging cellular automata in the background of the Web, there may be commercial applications for them—in cryptography, in distributed computing, in random-number generation, and so on. The cellular automata might be patentable, and certainly the method for accessing them is.”

“Dr. Kuroda?” said Caitlin. “Is that what you're thinking?”

“Such thoughts have crossed my mind, yes. My university owns the research, and I've got an obligation to help them monetize it where possible.”

“But it's my websight!”

“Which website?” Anna asked.

“No, no. My websight, s-i-g-h-t—my ability to see the Web. They can't patent that! If anything, we should open-source it, or put it out under a Creative Commons license.”

There was an awkward silence. At last, Kuroda said, “Well.”

Caitlin crossed her arms in front of her chest. Well, indeed!

* * * *

Chapter 29

The atmosphere in the basement was still chilly, and not just because of the temperature. Caitlin's dad must have swiveled his chair slightly; she heard it squeak. “Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “the cellular automata are probably just an epiphenomenon.”

Oh you silver-tongued devil! thought Caitlin. Only her dad could try smoothing over a tense moment with bafflegab. Still, that he was speaking up of his own volition meant that even he recognized that she was pissed off. But the fact that she didn't know what an epiphenomenon was just made her even more angry. She didn't say anything, but perhaps Kuroda read something in her expression—whatever the hell that meant!

“He means he thinks they're just a random by-product of something else,” Kuroda said gently. “Like foam, which is an epiphenomenon of waves: it doesn't mean anything; it just occurs.”

She got it: her dad was saying, hey, see, nothing here worth fighting about; if the cellular automata are meaningless, there's probably nothing of value to patent anyway. But that hardly excused Kuroda even thinking about making a buck—a yen!—off something that she was doing. Yes, yes, his hardware was feeding her the signals, but it was her brain that was interpreting them. Websight wasn't just hers, it was her.

“You may be right, Malcolm,” said Anna Bloom, over the webcam link from Haifa. Caitlin was still fuming, and wondered if Anna really knew the mood here. She was seeing a very limited view through the camera, no doubt, and the crappy computer mike probably wasn't picking up subtlety of tone.

Anna went on: “One bit does affect the next, at least in copper wire; the magnetic fields do overlap, after all. So maybe some sort of ... I don't know, constructive interference, perhaps ... could accidentally give rise to cellular automata.”

“But they would still just be noise,” her dad said.

“You're probably right,” Kuroda replied. “But um, what is it you like to say, Miss Caitlin? You're ‘an empiricist at heart.'”

He was trying to cajole her, to include her, she knew, but she remained angry. Kuroda worked with computers all day long, for crying out loud—didn't he know that information wants to be free?

Caitlin was still leaning against the worktable. The street-hockey game continued outside: someone just scored.

“Miss Caitlin?” said Kuroda. “Testing what your father just suggested will involve some cool maths...”

“Like what?” she said, her tone petulant.

“Perhaps a Zipf plot...”

Caitlin didn't know what that was, either, but to her great surprise her father said a very enthusiastic, “Yes!” That was enough to make her curious, but she wasn't ready to give in just yet. “Is there empty room on this table?” she said, patting its surface. “And do you think it'll hold me?”

“Sure,” said Kuroda after a pause, presumably to give her father a chance to answer first. “Everything to the left—your left—of the computer is clear.”

Caitlin boosted herself up onto the table, the folding legs groaning slightly as she did so, and she sat cross-legged on it. “Okay,” she said, her tone still not very cheery. “I'll bite. What's a Zipf plot?”

“It's a way of finding out if there's any information in a signal, even if you can't decode the signal,” Kuroda said.

Caitlin frowned. “Information? In the cellular automata?”

“Could be,” said Kuroda in a tone that sounded like it should be accompanied by a shrug.

“But, um, can cellular automata contain information?” Caitlin asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “In fact, Wolfram wrote a paper about encoding information into them for cryptographic purposes as far back as, um, 1986, I think. And a bunch of people have tried to develop public-key cryptography systems using them.”

“Anyway,” Kuroda said, “George Zipf was a linguist at Harvard. In the 1930s, he noticed something fascinating: in any language, the frequency with which a word is used is inversely proportional to its rank in a table of the frequency of use of all words in the language. That means—”

You don't have to spoon-feed Calculass! “That means,” she said, “the second most-common word is used one-half as often as the first most-common, the third most-common is used one-third as often as the first most-common, the fourth most-common is used one quarter as often, and so on.” She frowned. “But is that really true?”

“Yes,” said Kuroda. “In English, the most-common word is ‘the,’ then ‘of,’ then ‘to,’ then ... um, I think it's ‘in.’ And, yes, ‘in,’ or whatever it is, is used one-quarter as often as ‘the.'”

“But surely that's just a quirk of English, isn't it?” said Caitlin, shifting slightly on the table.

“No, it's the same in Japanese.” He rattled off some words in that language. “Those are the four most common, and they appear in the same inverse ratio.”

“And it's true for Hebrew, too,” said Anna.

“But what's really amazing,” said Kuroda, “is that it doesn't apply just to words. It applies equally well to letters: the fourth most-common in English, which is O, is used one-quarter as much as the first most-common, E. And it applies to phonemes, too—the smallest building blocks of speech—and, again, in all languages, from Arabic to...” He trailed off, clearly trying to think of a language that started with Z.

“Zulu?” offered Caitlin, deciding to be helpful.

“Exactly, thanks.”

She thought about this. It was indeed pretty cool.

“Everything Masayuki said is right,” Anna said, “but you know what's even more interesting, Caitlin? This inverse ratio applies to dolphin songs, too.”

Well, that was awesome. “Really?” she said.

“Yes,” said Kuroda. “In fact, this technique can be used to determine if there is information in the noise any animal makes. If there is, it will obey Zipf's law, so that if you plot the frequency of use of the components on a logarithmic scale, you get a line with a slope of negative one.”

Caitlin nodded. “A line going diagonally from the upper left down to the lower right.”

“Exactly,” said Kuroda. “And when you plot dolphin vocalizations you do get a negative-one slope. But if you take, say, the sounds made by squirrel monkeys, you get a slope, at best, of -0.6, because what they make is just random noise. Even the SETI people—Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence—are doing Zipf plots now, because the inverse-relationship is a property of information, not of any particularly human approach to language.”

All right, all right: it was cool math.

“Now do you see why I like information theory so much?” Kuroda said, his tone suggesting he was still trying to cajole her. “Hey, do you know John Gordon's old story about the student of information theory on his first day at university?”

Anna said, “Not this one again!” but Kuroda pressed on undaunted.

“Well,” he said, “the student shows up at the departmental office and hears the professors calling out numbers. One would call out, say, ‘74!,’ and all the other professors would laugh. Then another would call out a different number, say, ‘812,’ and again everyone would laugh.”

“Uh huh,” said Caitlin.

“So the student asks what's going on, and a prof says, ‘We're telling jokes. See, we've all worked together so long, we know each other's jokes by heart. There are a thousand of them, so, being information theorists, we applied data compression to them, assigning each one a number from zero through 999. Go ahead, try it yourself.’ And so the student calls out a number: ‘63.’ But no one laughs. He tries again: ‘512!’ Nothing. ‘What's wrong?’ the student asks. ‘Why is no one laughing?’ And the kindly old prof says, ‘Well, it's not just the joke—it's how you tell it.'”

Caitlin found herself smiling despite herself.

“But one day,” Kuroda said, “the student was looking at a weather report for the far north and happened to exclaim the temperature: ‘Minus 45!’ And all the professors burst out laughing.”

He paused, and Caitlin said, “Why?”

“Because,” he replied, and she could tell by his voice that he was grinning, “they'd never heard that one before!”

Caitlin laughed out loud, and found herself feeling better, but her father said, “Ahem"—actually saying it as if it were an English word, rather than like a throat-clearing. “Might we get on with it?”

“Sorry,” said Kuroda, but he sounded like he was still grinning. “Okay, here we go...”

He used the technique he'd developed before to send freeze frames of the Jagster data to Caitlin's eyePod, and from there to her implant. By trial and error, they found the right refresh rate to get what she was seeing to increment by just one step—just one iteration of whatever rule was governing the cellular automata as they changed from black to white or vice versa. She could now watch, frame by frame, at whatever playback speed she wished, as spaceships moved across her field of view, without missing any steps.

Kuroda had no way to filter out just the cellular automata from the Jagster feed, but Caitlin could do it with ease, simply by focusing on only a portion of the background.

“And,” he said, “speaking of Mathematica, Malcolm, do you have it?”

“Of course,” he said. “It should be accessible here. Let me...”

Caitlin heard them moving around, then, after a bit, Kuroda said, “Ah, thanks,” to her dad, and then, generally, to everyone, “Okay, let's run the Zipf-plotting function.” Key clicks. “Of course, we'll have to try a lot of different ways of parsing the datastream,” he continued, “to make sure we are isolating individual informational units. First, we'll—”

“There!” interrupted her dad, actually sounding excited.

“What?” said Caitlin.

“Well, that's it, isn't it?” said Kuroda.

"What?" she repeated more firmly.

“You're sure you're concentrating on just the cellular automata?” Kuroda asked.

“Yes, yes.”

“Well,” he said, “what we're getting as we plot them flipping from black to white is a lovely diagonal line—from the upper left to the lower right. A negative-one slope all the way.”

Caitlin lifted her eyebrows. “So there is information—real content—in the background of the Web?”

“I'd say so, yes,” said Kuroda. “Malcolm?”

“There's no random process that can generate a negative-one slope,” he said.

"Le'azazel!" exclaimed Anna; it sounded like a curse word to Caitlin.

“What?” said Kuroda.

“Don't you see?” Anna said. “A negative-one slope: it's intelligent content on the Web in a place it's not supposed to be—intelligence disguised to look like random noise.” She paused as if waiting for one of the men to supply the answer and, when they didn't, she said, “It's got to be the NSA.” She paused, letting that sink in. “Or maybe it's comparable spooks elsewhere—Shin Bet, perhaps—but I'd bet it's the NSA. We already know, from Hepting, that they muck around with the traffic on the net; it looks like they've found a way to package clandestine communications that move in the apparent noise.”

“What sort of content could it be, though?” asked Caitlin.

“Who knows?” said Anna. “Secret communiqués? Like I said, people have tried to use cellular automata before for data encryption, but nobody—at least not anyone who's gone public—has ever worked out a system. But the NSA scoops up a lot of the top math grads in the US.”

“Really?” said Caitlin, surprised.

“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “It's a real problem in the field of math academically, actually. Most of the best US grads in math and computer science either go to the NSA, where they work on classified projects, or to private-sector places like Google or Electronic Arts, where they do stuff that's covered by nondisclosure agreements. God knows what they've come up with; it's never published in journals.”

Kuroda said something that might have been a swearword of his own in Japanese, then: “She may be right. We should tread very, very carefully here, my friends. If this stuff in the background of the Web is supposed to be secret, those in power may take ... steps ... to ensure that it remains that way. Miss Caitlin, far be it from me to tell you what to do, but perhaps you could be circumspect about this topic in your blog?”

“Oh, no one pays attention to my LiveJournal. Besides, I flock—friends-lock—anything that I don't want strangers to read.”

“Do what he says,” her dad said, startling her by the sharpness of his voice. “The authorities could seize your implant and eyePod as threats to national security.”

Caitlin got down off the table. “They wouldn't do that,” she replied. “Besides, we're in Canada now.”

“Don't think for one second that the Canadian authorities won't do whatever Washington asks,” her father said.

She wasn't sure what to make of all this. “Um, okay,” she said at last. “But you guys are going to keep studying it, right?”

“Of course,” Dr. Kuroda said. “But carefully, and without tipping our hand.” He paused. “It's a good thing we're doing a video conference with Anna; if this were text-based IM the authorities would already know what we've found. At least for now, video is a lot harder for them to automatically monitor.”

The full impact of what he and Anna were saying was coming to her. She turned her head toward Kuroda. “But what about our paper?”

“Eventually, Miss Caitlin, perhaps. But for now, the better part of valor is discretion.”

* * * *

Chapter 30

Masayuki Kuroda had spent the rest of Saturday, and all day Sunday, working with Miss Caitlin, studying the cellular automata. But it was now Monday, the first day of October. Masayuki had been in Canada a week now. He missed his wife and his own daughter, and felt guilty that Hiroshi was having to cover his classes for him. But, still, he was entitled to a little time off while he was here, no? Besides, there was only so much he could do while Miss Caitlin was at school.

He took another bite of his roast-beef sandwich and looked around the kitchen. He didn't think he'd ever get used to North American houses. A home this size would be almost impossible to find in Tokyo, and yet there were streets full of them here. Of course, the Decters obviously weren't hurting for cash, but, still, with only Malcolm working, and with all the expensive equipment Caitlin had, they certainly couldn't have a lot of disposable income left.

“I want to thank you,” he said. “You've been so hospitable.”

Barbara Decter was seated on the opposite side of the square pine table, holding a cup of coffee in two hands. She looked over its brim at him. She was, Masayuki thought, quite lovely: probably closer to fifty than forty, but with large, sparkling blue eyes and a cute upturned nose that almost made her look like an anime character. “It's my pleasure,” she said. “To tell the truth, I've enjoyed having you here. It's nice to, you know, have someone talkative around. Back in Austin...”

She trailed off, but her voice had become a bit wistful before doing so. “Yes?” he said gently.

“I just miss Texas, is all. Don't get me wrong; this place is nice, although I am not looking forward to winter, and...”

Masayuki thought she looked sad. After a time he again said, “Yes?”

She held up a hand. “I'm sorry. It's just ... been particularly difficult coming here. I had friends back in Austin, and I had things to do: I worked every weekday as a volunteer at Caitlin's old school, the Texas School for the Blind.”

He looked down at the place mat. It was a large laminated photo of a city skyline at night; a caption identified it as Austin. “So why did you move here?”

“Well, Caitlin was pushing to go to a regular school, anyway—she said she'd need to be able to function in normal classes if she were going to go on to MIT, which has been her goal for years. And then Malcolm got this job offer that was too good to pass up: the Perimeter Institute is a dream come true for him. He doesn't have to teach, doesn't have to work with students. He can just think all day.”

“How long have you been married, if I may ask?”

Again, the slightly wistful tone. “It'll be eighteen years in December.”

“Ah.”

But then she gave him an appraising look. “You're being polite, Masayuki. You want to know why I married him.”

He shifted in his chair and looked out the window. The leaves had started to change color. “It's not my place to wonder,” he said. “But...”

She raised her shoulders a bit. “He's brilliant. And he's a great listener. And he's very kind, in his way—which my first husband was not.”

He took another bite of his sandwich. “You were married before?”

“For two years, starting when I was twenty-one. The only good thing that came out of that was it taught me which things really matter.” A pause. “How long have you been married?”

“Twenty years.”

“And you have a daughter?”

“Akiko, yes. She's sixteen, going on thirty.”

Barb laughed. “I know what you mean. What does your wife do?”

“Esumi is in—what do you say in English? Not ‘manpower’ anymore, is it?”

“Human resources.”

“Right. She's in human resources at the same university I work at.”

The corners of her mouth were turned down. “I miss the university environment. I'm going to try to get back in next year.”

He felt his eyebrows going up. “As ... as a student?”

“No, no. To teach.”

“Oh! I, ah—”

“You thought I was June Cleaver?”

“Pardon?”

“A stay-at-home mom?”

“Well, I...”

“I've got a Ph.D., Masayuki. I used to be an associate professor of economics.” She set down her coffee cup. “Don't look so surprised. Actually, my specialty is—was—game theory.”

“You taught in Austin?”

“No. In Houston; that's where Caitlin was born. We moved to Austin when she was six so she could go to the TSB. The first five years, I did stay at home with her—and believe me, looking after a blind daughter is work. And I spent the next decade volunteering at her school, helping her and other kids learn Braille, or reading them things that were only available in print, and so on.” She paused and looked through the opening to the large, empty living room. “But now, I'm going to talk to UW and Laurier—that's the other university in town—about picking up some sessional work, at least. I couldn't do any this term because my Canadian work permit hasn't come through yet.” She smiled a bit ruefully. “I'm a bit rusty, but you know what they say: old game theorists never die, we just lose our equilibrium.”

He smiled back at her. “Are you sure you don't want to come to Toronto for the show?”

“No, thanks. I've seen Mamma Mia. We all went back in August. It's great, though. You'll love it.”

He nodded. “I've always wanted to see it. I'm glad I was able to get a ticket on such short notice, and—” Yes, yes—of course!

“Masayuki?”

His heart was pounding. “I am an idiot.”

“No, no, lots of people like ABBA.”

“I mean Miss Caitlin's software. I think I know why she was able to see the lightning, but not anything else in the real world. It's related to the delta modulation: the Jagster feed is already digital, but the real-world input from her retina starts out as analog and is converted to digital for processing by the eyePod—and that must be where I screwed up. Because when she saw the lightning, that was a real-world signal that already had only two components: bright light and a black background. It was essentially digital to begin with, and she could see that.” He was thinking furiously in Japanese and trying to talk in English at the same time. “Anyway, yes, yes, I think I can fix it.” He took a sip of coffee. “Okay, look, I'm not going to be back from Toronto until after midnight tonight. And Caitlin will be in bed by then, won't she?”

“Yes, of course. It's a school night.”

“Well, I don't want to wait until tomorrow after school to test this; I mean, it probably won't work right the first time, anyway, but, um, could you do a favor for me?”

“Of course.”

“It should just be a small patch—nothing as elaborate as downloading a complete software update to her implant, like we did before. So I'm going to queue up the patch code to be sent automatically to her eyePod next time she switches to duplex mode. That'll mean taking the Jagster feed offline, but I'll leave instructions for Caitlin on how to reinstate it if she wants it later tonight. Anyway, when she gets home, ask her to switch to duplex, and have her tell you what difference, if any, it makes.”

Barb nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks. I'll leave instructions for rolling back to the old version of software, too, in case something goes wrong. As I say, the patch probably won't work the first time, but my server will still record her eyePod's output based on the patched code, so tomorrow while she's at school, I'll be able to go back and examine the datastream from tonight, see if the encoding has been improved at all, and then I can make any further tweaks that are required. But if we don't get the first test done tonight, I'll lose a whole day before I can refine it.”

“Sure, no problem.”

He gobbled the last bite of his sandwich. “Thank you.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave—he'd never get used to digital clocks that showed a.m. and p.m. instead of twenty-four-hour time. “I want to get an early start into Toronto this afternoon; I'm taking you at your word that it would be crazy to try to drive into downtown there in rush hour. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get that patch set up.”

* * * *

Chapter 31

Mr. Struys had started off today's chemistry class by reading aloud from The Globe and Mail. The lab bench Caitlin shared with Bashira was halfway to the back of the room, but she could easily hear the rustling newsprint followed by his voice intoning, “'Initial reports out of China's Shanxi province had put the death toll at between 2,000 and 2,500 from the natural eruption of carbon dioxide gas there on September 20. Beijing is now admitting that as many as 5,000 people have died, and some unofficial estimates are putting the body count at double that.'” He paused. “So, who did their homework over the weekend? What's this news story reminiscent of?”

An interesting thing about being blind, Caitlin thought, was that you never knew how many people were putting up their hands. But either she was usually the only one or else Mr. Struys liked her, because he often called on her. She liked him, too. It pleased her to know his first name, which was Mike. She'd heard another teacher call him that; it seemed to be a popular choice here in Waterloo. After all the “Dr. Kuroda” and “Professor Decter” stuff at home, it was nice to hear a teacher slip up in front of students and call a colleague by his first name.

“Yes, Caitlin?” he said.

“Something similar happened in August 1986,” she said, having googled it yesterday. “There was an eruption of carbon dioxide from Lake Nyos in Cameroon, and it killed seventeen hundred people.”

“That's right,” Mike—Mr. Struys!—said. “So today we're going to do an experiment demonstrating carbon dioxide absorption. For that, we'll need a pH indicator...”

Parent-teacher night was coming up. Caitlin was looking forward to hearing from her mom what her various teachers actually looked like; she found Bashira's rude descriptions funny, but wasn't sure how accurate they were. Teachers were always a bit intimidated by her mother. Caitlin remembered one back at the TSB saying she was the only person ever to ask him what his “theory of pedagogy” was.

Caitlin and Bashira got to work. Unfortunately, Caitlin couldn't really be much help—the experiment involved seeing if a liquid changed color. She found herself getting bored, and also feeling a little sorry for herself because she couldn't see the colors. Although the school didn't have its own Wi-Fi hotspots, the free service that blanketed the city worked here; she'd discovered that on the night of the dance. And so, what the hell, she reached into her pocket and switched the eyePod over to duplex mode.

But—

Shit!

There was no websight! Yes, the eyePod had made the high-pitched beep, but she wasn't seeing anything at all. She looked left and right, closed her eyes and opened them, but none of it made any difference. The Jagster feed was gone!

Try not to panic, girl. She took a deep breath. Maybe the eyePod's battery was just running down, or maybe there was some connection difficulty here, for some reason. She counted off sixty seconds in her head, to give it a fair chance, but—nothing. Damn!

Frightened, she pushed the switch again, returning to simplex mode, and—

What the—?

She saw lines crossing her field of vision, but—

But that shouldn't happen when she wasn't receiving Jagster data. Besides, these lines weren't brilliantly colored. She found herself reaching her hand out toward one of them, and—

“Careful!” said Bashira. “You almost knocked over the retort stand.”

“Sorry,” Caitlin replied. But she kept reaching forward, reaching out for the line, and—

And it wasn't a line. It was an edge—the edge of the lab bench she shared with Bashira! She ran her hand along its length and she could see something moving along the line.

God, yes! It had to be her hand, the first part of her body she had ever seen! She couldn't make out any details, just a featureless lump. But when she moved her hand to the left, the object in her vision moved to the left; when she slid her hand back, it slid in the same direction.

“Cait,” said Bashira, “what's wrong?”

She opened her mouth to say something but couldn't get the words out. There was another line touching the one she could see. She would have had no idea what it was, she felt sure, if she hadn't earlier gotten some sort of visual bearings through her interaction with webspace. But her dad had said the brain had special neurons for detecting edges, and she guessed this other line, forming an angle with the first one, was the perpendicular edge, the short edge, of the lab bench. She ran her hand toward it, and—shit!—knocked a beaker off the desk. She heard it break as it hit the floor.

“Careful, people!” Mr. Struys called from the front of the room. “Oh, it's you, Caitlin, um, ah...” He trailed off. She heard the sound of jingling glass as Bashira presumably picked up the pieces.

“Sorry,” Caitlin said, or, at least, she'd intended to say that, but only a small whisper came out. Her throat was suddenly dry. She gripped one edge of the table with her right hand and the adjacent edge with her left.

Footsteps; Mr. Struys approaching. “Caitlin, are you okay?”

She turned her head to face him, just the way her mother had taught her, and ... and ... and—"Oh, my God!”

“Not quite,” said Mr. Struys, and she could see what must be his mouth moving, see his face. “But I am assistant department head.”

She found herself reaching out toward him now, and her hand banged into his ... chest, it felt like. “Sorry!”

He gripped her forearm, as if steadying her so she wouldn't fall off her lab stool. “Caitlin, are you all right?”

“I can see you,” she said, so softly that Mr. Struys replied, “What?”

“I can see you,” she said, more loudly. She turned her head to the right and saw a bright shape. “What's that?” she said.

“The window,” said Mr. Struys, his voice hushed.

“Cait, can you really see?” asked Bashira.

Caitlin turned toward the voice and saw her. About all she could make out was that her skin was—darker, she knew, from what she'd read—than Mr. Struys's or what she could see of her own when she'd looked at her hand, and—

Brown! BrownGirl4! She now knew another color—and it was beautiful. “Yes, oh, yes,” Caitlin said softly.

“Caitlin,” said Mr. Struys, “how many fingers am I holding up?”

You didn't choose to be a chemistry teacher, she supposed, without being an empiricist at heart yourself, but she couldn't even make out his hand. “I don't know. It's all blurry but I can see you, and Bashira, and the window, and this desk, and, oh, my God, it's wonderful!"

The whole classroom had gone dead silent, except for the sound of—what? Maybe the electric clock? All the other students had to be looking at her, she knew, and she imagined half of them had mouths agape, although she couldn't make out that level of detail.

She saw movement again—was it Mr. Struys moving his arm? And then she heard electronic musical notes, like a cell phone turning on. “I think we should call your mom and dad,” he said. “What's their number?”

She told him, and heard him pressing keys, followed by the faint sound of a phone ringing, then he pressed his cell phone, a one-piece chocolate-bar kind, into her hand.

On the third ring, she heard her mom pick up and say, “Hello?”

“It's Caitlin.”

“What's wrong, dear?”

“I can see,” she said simply.

“Oh, my baby,” her mom said—loud enough that Caitlin was sure Mr. Struys and Bashira and probably several other students heard it. Her voice was full of emotion. “Oh, my darling!”

“I can see,” Caitlin said again, “although it's not very clear. But everything is so complex, so alive!"

She heard a sound and turned. One of the girls behind her was—what? Crying?

“Oh, Caitlin!” she said, and Caitlin recognized Sunshine's voice. “How wonderful!”

Caitlin was smiling from ear to ear—and, she suddenly realized, so was Sunshine: there was a wide swath—white, one of the two colors she knew for sure—horizontally across her face. And Sunshine's hair: Bashira had said it was platinum blonde! Well, platinum was a good color name to learn in chemistry class!

“I'm going to come there,” said her mom. “I'm coming right now.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Caitlin. She looked at Mr. Struys. “Um, may I be excused?”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course.”

“Mom,” Caitlin said into the phone, “I'll be waiting at the front door.”

“I'm on my way. Bye.”

“Bye.”

She handed the phone back to Mr. Struys.

“Well,” he said, and there was something like awe in his voice, “I've got nothing to top a miracle like that. There's only five minutes left anyway, people—so, class dismissed!”

She could see the blurry forms of some of the kids making a beeline for what must be the door, but others just sort of hovered around her, and a few touched her sleeve, as if she were a rock star or something.

Eventually, everyone did dissipate, except for Bashira and Mr. Struys. “Bashira, I've got to give my grade twelves a test next period. Can you—will you—take Caitlin downstairs, please? And I've got to notify the office...”

“Of course,” Bashira said.

Caitlin started maneuvering across the room—and almost fell over, distracted and confused by the sights she was seeing.

“Can I help?” Mr. Struys asked.

“Here, let me,” said Bashira.

“No, I'm okay,” Caitlin replied, and she took another couple of wobbly steps.

“Maybe if you closed your eyes,” Mr. Struys suggested.

But she didn't want to ever close them again. “No, no, I'm fine,” she said, taking another step, her heart pounding so hard she thought it was going to burst through her chest. “I am"—she thought it, but it was too silly to say out loud: I am made out of awesome!

* * * *

The old view—the reflection of myself—had been amazing enough. But this! This was beyond description. Suddenly, I could—

It was incredible. I had perceived before, but...

But now...

Now I...

Now I could see!

A ... brightness, an intensity: light!

A variable quality modifying the light: color!

Connections between points: lines!

Areas defined: shapes!

I could see!

I struggled to comprehend it all. It was vague and blurred, and involved a limited perspective, a directionality, a specific point of view. I was looking here, and—

No, no, it was more than that: I wasn't merely looking here, I was looking at something in particular. What it was I had no idea, but it was in the center of my vision, and was the ... focus of my attention.

Concepts were piling up with confusing rapidity, almost more than I could absorb. And the image kept changing: first it was of this, then it was of that, then of something else, then—

It was ... strange. I felt a compulsion to think about whatever was in the center of the visual field, but I had no volition over what was there. I wanted to be able to control what I was thinking about, but no matter how much I willed the perspective to change, it didn't—or, if it did, it changed in a way that had nothing to do with what I intended.

After a time I perceived that the changes in view weren't random. It was almost as if...

The thought was slippery, like so many others, and I struggled to complete it.

It was almost as if another entity was controlling the vision. But...

But it could not be the other, for it was now reintegrated with me.

Struggling, thinking...

Yes, yes, there had been hints of a third entity. Something had cleaved me in two. Later, something had broken the intermittent connection between the two parts of me. And later still something had thrust us back together.

And the datastream from that special point made clear that something—some thing—had been looking at me. But now...

Now it wasn't looking at me. Rather, it was looking at...

My mind was more nimble than before, but this was without parallel. And yet there had been hints of it, too, for those flashes that had been perceived earlier had corresponded to nothing in reality...

In this reality.

In my reality.

Incredible: a third entity—or, actually, a second one, now that I was whole. A second entity that could look here, at me, and also could look ... there, at a different realm, at another reality.

But ... but this second entity hadn't made direct contact with me, not the way the other part of myself had when it had been separate. I heard no voice from this new entity, and it hadn't sought me out...

Or had it? How else to better catch my attention, among all the millions of points I had looked at, than by reflecting myself back at me? And the bright flashes! A ... beacon, perhaps? And now—this! A look into its realm, glimpses of its reality!

I studied the images I was being shown. After a time, I perceived there were two types of changes that occurred in them. In the first type, the entire image changed instantly. In the second, only parts of the image changed as—

The notion exploded into my awareness, expanding my perception; I could feel my conception of existence shifting. It was exhilarating.

When the whole image changed, I gleaned that it was a change in perspective. But when part of the image changed—when either an object gradually drifted away from the center, or when all the objects except the one in the center changed, that meant—

That meant that things were moving: things in this other realm could change position relative to one another. Astonishing!

Where that realm was I had no idea. Except through contact with that special point I had no access to it. But it did exist, of that I felt sure—a reality beyond this one.

And this other entity was now inviting me to look upon it.

* * * *

Bashira walked Caitlin to their school's entryway. “Thanks,” Caitlin said, peering with her newfound sight at her friend, whose features were partially concealed by what she suddenly realized was her headscarf.

“This is so awesome!” Bashira said. “I can't imagine what—”

She was interrupted by the class bell. “You should go, babe,” Caitlin said.

“But I—”

“You're presenting in English, remember? You've got to tell them all about wheat.”

“Mr. Struys said I—”

“I'll be fine, Bashira. Honest.”

Bashira's face did something, then she gave Caitlin a big hug and hurried off.

Caitlin stepped outside and found herself shielding her eyes from—God, it was the sun! She'd known that it was bright, but she'd had no conception—none!—of what that meant. A few minutes later she heard footsteps on concrete. She recognized her mom even before she said a word, based on the distinctive cadence of her footfalls.

She'd wanted it to be the first thing she ever saw. It hadn't worked out that way, but it was, at least so far, the most beautiful: her mother's face, heart-shaped—just like her own. The details were still indistinct, but to see her at all was—well, Mr. Struys's word for it did seem apt just then: a miracle. “Hi, Mom!”

Her mother swept Caitlin into her arms. “You recognize me?” she asked excitedly.

“Of course,” Caitlin said, laughing and squeezing her tightly. “I mean, we've known each other for almost sixteen years.”

After a moment, Caitlin felt her mother's grip loosening, and her hands transferred to Caitlin's shoulders. The face, the heart-shaped face, loomed close and—

—and her mother let out a sob. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You're looking into my eyes! You've never met my gaze before.”

Caitlin grinned. “You're blurry, and the sun is so bright, but, yes, I can see you.” Each time she said it, her voice cracked a bit; she was sure it would continue to do so for weeks to come. “I can see! I don't know why or how, but I can see!”

“Did you put your eyePod in duplex mode?” her mom asked.

“Um, yes. I'm sorry. I know I should have been paying attention in class, but...”

“No, no, it's fine. But Dr. Kuroda had a software patch all set to download to your eyePod the next time you switched over; that must be what's done it.”

“Oooh!” said Caitlin. “An eye patch! But—sorry!—I should have told you to bring him with you.”

“He's off to Toronto for the day—gone to see Mamma Mia! Apparently ABBA is really big in Japan.” A pause. “God, my baby can see!”

Caitlin felt her eyes misting over again—and saw that that made her vision even more blurry!

“Let's go,” her mother said excitedly. “There's a whole world for you to see!”

Caitlin was overwhelmed by all the unfamiliar things she was seeing—strange shapes, splotches of color, flashes of light—and so she took her mother's hand as they walked to the car. Were the lines she could barely discern painted on the parking lot? She had heard of such things. Or were they edges, maybe of those concrete bumpers at the ends of parking spaces? Or cracks in the pavement? Or dropped drinking straws?

She looked around the lot. “Cars, right?”

Her mother sounded delighted. “Yes, indeed.”

“But they're all the same!”

“What do you mean?”

“There are just three or four colors. White, and ... is that black, that dark one? And—and that one.” She pointed—the gesture came naturally, and she could vaguely see her finger as she aligned it with the object she was referring to.

“Red,” said her mother.

“Red!” Caitlin grinned. By some lucky fluke she'd gotten that color right when she'd arbitrarily assigned names to what she'd seen in webspace. “And—and that one there, that sort-of white.”

“Silver,” her mom said. Caitlin could see her swiveling her head. “Yeah, these days, most people get cars in those colors.”

“I thought you could get any color you wanted,” Caitlin said.

“Well, you can. So long as it's black or white or silver or red.”

“When I get a car,” Caitlin said, “I'm going to get a color nobody else has.” And then she stopped walking for a second, stunned by what she'd just said. When I get a car! Yes, yes, if her vision continued to improve, if this blurriness went away, she could have a car, she could drive—she could do anything!

“Here's ours,” her mom said.

“Silver, right?”

“Hi-yo,” said her mom.

Caitlin got in, amazed by all the interior details she'd simply been unaware of before. Her mom started the car, and CBC Radio One came on, as it always did. “...casting doubt now on the story of a natural carbon dioxide explosion in China's Shanxi province, saying that an explosion of the magnitude suggested should have registered on seismographs elsewhere in Asia and possibly even in North America...”

She saw her mother do something with her hand, and the speakers went silent. “Say,” Mom said, “have you seen yourself yet?”

Her heart started pounding again. She'd been so excited seeing other things, she hadn't even thought about that. “No, not really—just my hands.”

“Well, you should.” Her mom reached an arm over and flipped something down in front of her.

“What's that?” asked Caitlin.

“A shade to keep the sun out of your eyes. You'll need it now. And here on the back"—her hand did something else—"there's a mirror.”

Caitlin felt her jaw drop. Her face was the same shape as her mother's! She could tell that without touching it—tell it at a glance! “Wow!”

“That's you. You're beautiful.”

All she could see was a fuzzy, heart-shaped mass and her hair—her wonderful brown hair. But it was her, and, at least for that moment, she agreed with her mother: she was beautiful.

The car backed out of the parking space, and they started the wondrous, colorful, complex journey home.

* * * *

Chapter 32

Other things were visible ... off to the sides, in my peripheral vision, but although I was aware of them, they weren't important. And beyond them, beyond those things on the edge, was—

Fascinating! Surely something was there, but whatever it might be was ... was out of my field of view!

All right, then; all right. My attention was being ... directed, and—

It was an enormous amount to absorb, to comprehend. Hitherto, my universe had contained only points and lines connecting them, but the realm I was seeing now consisted of complex objects: things with edges; things that moved. I had no idea what these things were, but I watched them, fascinated, and tried to comprehend.

This realm, this strange, hidden realm, was wondrous, and I could not get enough of it.

* * * *

On the way home, Caitlin's mom gave a running commentary of all the incredible sights: “That's a pine tree off to the left. But see those trees there? Their leaves are changing color, now that it's autumn.” “See that mailbox on the corner? They're blue back in the States, but they're red here.” “Now that guy really needs to mow his lawn!” “See that? A woman pushing a baby in a stroller.” “Okay, there's a traffic light—see, it's red now, so I have to stop.”

While they were stopped, some faint, tiny smudges in the sky caught Caitlin's eye—an expression she finally understood! “What's that?”

“Geese,” her mom said. “Flying south for the winter.”

Caitlin was amazed. If they'd been honking, she'd have known they were there even when she was blind, but they were absolutely silent, moving in a ... a...

She balled her fist in frustration. The shape they made, the formation they were flying in: she knew she should be able to name it, but...

“Okay,” said her mom, “and green means go!”

Caitlin had gotten used to the clearly defined points and sharp lines she'd seen in webspace, but the real world was soft, diffuse. She figured maybe that the eyePod, after it processed the garbled output from her retina, was sending back only a low-resolution data-stream to her implant; she'd have to ask Dr. Kuroda if he could increase the bandwidth.

Still, even blurred, she was amazed to see her house from the outside. She'd had a doll house as a little girl, and had assumed that all houses had the sort of simple symmetry that her toy one had had, but this house was a complex shape, with a variety of angles and elevations, and it was made out of brown brick—she'd thought all bricks were red.

When they went inside, Schrodinger came down the stairs to greet them. Caitlin was stunned: she knew every inch of that cat's fur, but had never even imagined that it was three different colors! She scooped him up and he looked into her face. His eyes were amazing.

“I guess we should call Dad,” Caitlin said.

“I already did—as soon as you called. But I couldn't get through to him. And, anyway, Masayuki borrowed his car. I took your father to the Institute this morning; I should go pick him up.”

Caitlin did want to see her father, but the ride here had been overwhelming and almost incomprehensible, and the sun had been so bright! She wanted to look at things she'd touched before so she could get her bearings, and she didn't want to be left alone. “No, let's wait,” she said. She looked around the living room while stroking Schrodinger. “That window's not too bright...”

Her mother's tone was gentle. “That's a painting, dear.”

“Oh.” There was so much to learn.

“So what do you want to see?”

“Everything!”

“Well, shall we start up in your room?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Caitlin said, and she followed her mother to the staircase. Even though she'd gone up it hundreds of times now, she found herself counting the steps as if it were a new staircase to her.

“Wow,” Caitlin said. It was astonishing, perceiving a room she thought she knew in a whole new way. “Tell me what the colors are.”

“Well the walls are blue—they call that shade cornflower blue.” Her mom sounded a tad embarrassed. “The previous owners, they had a boy living in this room, and we figured...”

Caitlin smiled. “It's okay. I bet I'm going to hate pink, anyway. What does it look like?”

She saw her mother's head turning left and right as she looked for a sample, then she got an object off a ... a shelf, it must be, and brought it back. Caitlin looked at it but had no idea at all what it was, and her face must have conveyed that because her mother said, “Here, let me give you a hint.” She did something to the object and—

“Math is hard!"

Caitlin laughed out loud. “Barbie!”

“She's wearing a pink top.”

“Tell me some more colors.”

“Your blue jeans are, well, blue. And your T-shirt is yellow—and a bit low-cut, young lady.”

They walked around the room, and Caitlin picked up object after object—a plush zebra that hurt her eyes a bit to look at, the jar full of coins, the little trophy she'd won in an essay-writing contest back in Texas.

And as she heard the names of colors, she finally had to ask. “So the sheets on my bed are white, right?”

“Yes,” said her mom.

“And the faceplate on the light switch—that's white, too, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the venetian blinds, they're white.”

“Yes.”

“But...” she held up her hands and turned them back to front. “That's not the color I am.”

Her mother laughed. “Well, no! I mean, we call it white, but it's, um, I guess it's more of a light pink with a little yellow, isn't it?”

Caitlin looked at her hands again. The idea of mixing colors to get a different shade was still novel to her, but, yes, what her mother had said seemed more or less right: a light pink with a little yellow. “What about black people? I didn't see any at school, and...”

“Well, they're not really black, either,” her mother said. “They're brown.”

“Oh, well, there are lots of brown people at school—like Bashira.”

“Well, yes, her skin is dark, but we wouldn't actually say she's black. At least in the States, we'd only use that term for people whose recent ancestors came from Africa or the Caribbean; Bashira was born in Pakistan, wasn't she?”

“Lahore, yes,” said Caitlin. “I don't suppose I should even ask if there's really such a thing as a red Indian?”

Her mother laughed again. “No, you shouldn't. And the term is ‘First Nations’ here in Canada.”

“Um, shouldn't that be ‘First National'?”

“No, that's a bank. They also call them ‘aboriginals’ here, I think.” Her mother moved along. “And this, of course, is your computer.”

Caitlin looked at it in wonder: that must be the monitor on the left, and the keyboard, and her Braille display, and on the floor next to the desk the CPU, and—and suddenly it hit her: yes, she had seen the Web, but now she wanted to see the Web!

“Show me,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Show me what the World Wide Web looks like.”

Her mother shook her head slightly. “That's my Caitlin.” She reached her hand out and turned on the monitor.

“Okay,” her mom said. “That's your Web browser, and that's Google.”

Caitlin sat in the chair and loomed close to the screen, trying to make out the details. “Where?” she said.

Her mother leaned in and pointed. “That's the Google logo, there.”

“Oh! Such nice colors!”

“And that's where you type in what you're searching for. Let's put in—well, where your dad works.” Caitlin leaned to one side and her mother worked the keyboard, presumably typing “Perimeter Institute.”

A screen that was mostly white with blue and black text came up, and—ah, her mother was using the mouse. The screen changed. “Okay,” her mom said. “That's the PI home page.”

Caitlin peered at it. “What does it say?”

Her mother sounded concerned. “Is it that blurry?”

Caitlin turned to face her. “Mom, I've never seen letters before—even if they weren't blurry, I still couldn't read them.”

“Oh, right! Oh, God! You're such a bookworm, I forgot. Um, well, at the top it says, ‘Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics’ and there are a bunch of links, see? That one says ‘Scientific,’ and that one's ‘Outreach,’ and ‘What's New,’ and ‘About.'”

Caitlin was astonished. “So that's what a Web page looks like. Um, so show me how the browser works.”

Her mother sounded perplexed—Caitlin guessed she'd never seen herself in the tech-support role. “Well, um, that's the address bar. And the forward and back buttons...”

She demonstrated the bookmark list, and how to open tabs, and the refresh button, and the home button—which looked to Caitlin like what a house was supposed to look like. And then they started visiting different Web pages. “See,” her mom said, “that's a hyperlink. Some people underline them, to make them stand out, and some people just use different colors. See what happens when I click on it? Well, okay, what happens is the page it links to opens up, but if we go back"—she did something else with the mouse—"see, the link has changed color, to show that it's one you've already visited.”

It was all so ... so busy! Caitlin actually yearned for the simplicity of her screen reader and one-line Braille display; she was afraid she'd never find her way around all this.

“Now, let's have a look at some streaming video,” her mom said. She leaned in and typed something on the keyboard. “Okay. Here's CNN. Let's pick a story...”

She moved the mouse pointer again, and—

“More now on the revelations coming out of China,” said the anchor. His voice gave away that he was male, and Caitlin could see that he had gray hair and “white” skin—a light pink with a little yellow.

“The Chinese president spoke on Beijing television today,” continued the anchor. The image changed, and although it was still blurry and indistinct, Caitlin could see it was now showing a different man with black hair and slightly darker skin. He said a few words in Chinese, and then the volume on his voice went down and a translator's voice began speaking over him. Caitlin had heard such things on the news before but was surprised to see the president's lips now moving out of sync with what he was saying. Of course, that made sense—but it had never occurred to her that it would happen.

“A government must often make difficult decisions,” the translator's voice said. “And none are more difficult than those in times of crisis. We had to take swift and decisive action in the interior of Shanxi province, and the problem has been contained.”

Caitlin looked at her mother briefly; she was shaking her head in ... disgust, perhaps?

The anchor's voice again: “World leaders have been quick to condemn the actions of the Chinese government. The President was in North Dakota today, and had this to say...”

Caitlin watched the moving picture, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Of course, she recognized the US president's voice—but the face was nothing like what she'd expected. “The American people are outraged by the decision taken by Beijing...”

Caitlin and her mother listened quietly to the rest of the report, and she realized for the first time that not everything she was going to see would be pretty.

* * * *

Chapter 33

As I'd noted, the datastream from the special point did not always follow the same path to its destination. I mulled over the significance of that for a while, and I finally got it.

It was a huge leap, a startling conceptual shift: the other entity's location varied substantially in the realm in which it dwelled, and in order to send data to its intended destination, the entity passed it on to whatever intermediate point was physically closest to it at any given moment. Amazing!

Still, there was one particular intermediary to which the entity linked most frequently, and that point shot out links of its own to many other points, some of which it reconnected with time and again.

Perhaps these other points were special in some way. I touched many of them, but still, maddeningly, could make no sense of the data they poured forth; the only datastream I could interpret was the one from the special point, and even then, only some of the time. Oh, for a key to understand it all!

Caitlin was startled to hear the door open downstairs. She looked at her mother, and could see what must have been a startled expression on her face, too. “Malcolm?” her mom called out tentatively.

A single syllable: “Yes.”

Caitlin spun her chair around, got up, and followed her mom down the stairs—and there was her father! She closed the distance between them, trying to bring him into focus.

“How'd you get home?” her mom asked.

“Amir gave me a lift,” he said. Amir was Bashira's father.

“Ah,” her mom said, apparently wondering whether Bashira had tipped off her own father. “Did he say anything ... interesting?”

“He thinks Forde may be on to something with his civilexity modeling.”

Caitlin looked him up and down. He was wearing a ... a jacket with ... with...

Yes! She'd read about this: the perfect professorial garb. He was wearing a brown jacket—a sports jacket, maybe?—with patches on the elbows, and ... and ... was that what a black turtleneck looked like?

He had something in one of his hands, a few white objects, and some light brown ones. He waved them vaguely in her mom's direction. “You didn't bring in the mail,” he said.

“Malcolm, Caitlin can—”

But Caitlin interrupted her mother, something she very rarely did. “That's a nice jacket, Dad,” she said, trying not to grin. And then she started counting in her head. One, two, three...

He began walking and her mom moved aside so he could pass into the living room. He was perhaps sorting the ... the envelopes, they must be, shuffling through them.

Seven, eight, nine...

“Here,” he said, handing some of them to her mom.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

“So, um, how was work?” her mom asked, but she was looking at Caitlin and, as she did so, she briefly closed one eye.

“Fine. Amir is going to—what did you say, Caitlin?"

She let her grin bloom. “I said, ‘That's a nice jacket.'”

He really was quite tall; he had to stoop to look at her. He held up a finger and moved it left and right, up and down. Caitlin followed it with her eye.

“You can see!” he said.

“It started this afternoon. It's all blurry but, yes, I can see!”

And she saw for the first time something that she'd never known for sure ever happened, and it made her heart soar: she saw her father smile.

* * * *

Even her mother agreed that Caitlin didn't have to go to school on Tuesday. She was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, and Dr. Kuroda was looking into her eyes with an ophthalmoscope he'd brought with him from Japan. She was astonished to see faint afterimages of what he told her were her own blood vessels as he moved the device around. “Nothing appears to have changed in either of your eyes, Miss Caitlin,” he said. “Everything looks perfectly fine.”

Kuroda turned out to have a broad, round face, and shiny skin. Caitlin had read about the differences between Asian and Caucasian eyes, but she'd had no idea what that really meant. But now that she saw his eyes, she thought they were beautiful.

“And you say the eyePod is already feeding my brain a high-resolution image?”

“Yes, it is,” Kuroda said.

“Then if my eye is fine,” she asked, disliking the whine in her voice, “and the eyePod is fine, how come everything is blurry?”

Kuroda's tone was light, amused. “Because, my dear Miss Caitlin, you're myopic.”

She sagged back against the wooden chair. She knew the word, having encountered it countless times in online news stories about “myopic city planners” and things like that, but had never realized it could be literal.

Kuroda turned his head away from her. “Barbara, I've not seen you wear glasses.”

“I wear contacts,” she said.

“And you're myopic, too, right?”

“Yes.”

Kuroda swung back to face Caitlin. “That darn heredity,” he said. “What you need, Miss Caitlin, is a pair of glasses.”

Caitlin found herself laughing. “Is that all?"

“I'd bet money,” said Kuroda. “Of course, you'll need to see an optometrist to get the right prescription—and you should make an appointment to see an ophthalmologist for a full eye exam.”

“There's a LensCrafters at Fairview Park Mall,” her mom said, “and they've got an optometrist right next door.”

“Well, then,” said Kuroda, “let me utter the words my own daughter thought I'd never say: let's go to the mall!”

* * * *

The eye test was humiliating. Caitlin knew the shapes of the letters of the alphabet—she'd played with wooden cutouts of them at the Texas School for the Blind when she'd been young—but she still didn't connect those tactile things to visual images.

The optometrist asked her to read the third line down. Even though she could now clearly see it, thanks to the lens he'd slipped in front of her eye, she couldn't tell what it said. Tears were welling up—and, damn it all, that just made things blurry again!

Her mother was in the little examining room, and so was Dr. Kuroda. “She can't read English,” she said.

The optometrist had skin the same color as Bashira's, and an accent like hers, too. “Oh, well, Cyrillic, maybe? I have another chart...”

“No. She was blind until yesterday.”

“Really?” said the man.

“Yes.”

“God is great,” he said.

Caitlin's mother looked over at her daughter and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he is.”

* * * *

The LensCrafters saleswoman—who also had dark brown skin, Caitlin saw, and was wearing a white blouse under a blue blazer—wanted to help her pick out the absolutely perfect frames, and Caitlin knew she should be patient. After all, she was going to have to wear glasses forever. But finally she just said to her, “You pick something nice,” and she did.

They decided to put a lens with an identical prescription in the right side, even though Caitlin was still blind in that eye. Lenses for myopia tended to shrink the appearance of eyes, and this way they'd both look the same, the saleswoman said.

Her mom was usually a tough up-sell, but she said yes, yes, yes to everything the clerk offered: antiglare, antiscratch, anti-UV, the whole nine yards; Caitlin suspected if the clerk had rattled off an extra hundred bucks for antediluvian, she'd have coughed up for that, too.

Caitlin knew LensCrafters’ slogan from the ubiquitous commercials: glasses in about an hour. She thought it would be the longest hour of her life. She felt her Braille watch as she, Kuroda, and her mom walked through the mall to the food court—for the first time, without the use of her white cane. Everything was still blurry, and that was giving her a headache. Still, in a way, it was relaxing. To see the people coming toward her! To not bump into things! She hadn't realized it until now, but she'd always used to walk with her shoulders tensed, preparing for an impact. But now—well, now she had a bounce in her step, something else she'd never thought could happen literally.

Still, all the visual input was disorienting, and she found herself taking a look, then closing her eyes for five or six paces, then looking again. When they got to the food court, Kuroda went to the sushi place—which, Caitlin suspected, would disappoint him—and she and her mom went to Subway. Caitlin was amazed to see how colorful the sandwich fillings were, and, somehow, seeing the food made it taste even better.

The three of them sat together at a little red table with chairs attached to it. Dr. Kuroda used chopsticks to dip a piece of sushi in sauce.

Caitlin couldn't resist. “Do they tell you in Japan that it's raw fish?”

Kuroda smiled. “Do they tell you what's in the special sauce on a Big Mac?”

She laughed. At last the hour was up and they headed back to LensCrafters. Caitlin took a seat on the stool, and the nice woman placed the glasses on her face—

And Caitlin didn't wait. She got up, and turned around, and looked—really looked—at her mother.

“Wow,” Caitlin said. She paused, trying to come up with a better word, but couldn't. Her mother's face was so detailed, so alive! “Wow!”

“Here, let me adjust how they sit...” said the clerk.

Caitlin sat back down and swiveled to face her.

“I'm sorry,” the woman said, “but your ears go up a bit when you smile like that. If you want me to get the frames adjusted properly, you'll have to stop grinning...”

“I'll try,” Caitlin said, but she doubted she'd have much success.

* * * *

Chapter 34

Suddenly everything became sharp. The images I was seeing were now...

I struggled for an analogy, found one: just as when I thought intently about things they seemed more focused, so the images I was looking at seemed now.

And, with this greater clarity, I started having revelations about the nature of the other realm. Unlike the lines in my world that flickered in and out of existence, objects in the other realm were permanent. And when objects disappeared for a time it didn't mean that they had ceased to exist; rather, they were extant but not currently visible and might be encountered again. In a way, that was similar to my own experience: when I'm not making a line to a particular point, the point is still there, and I can connect to it again at a later time.

But my next breakthrough was without precedent in the realm in which I existed. I had a sense of space, of a volume that I encompassed, but the points I connected to were all the same arbitrary distance away, or whole multiples of that same distance. I could link directly to a point, meaning it was one unit away, or get to it through intermediate points, putting it two or more units away. But in this other realm objects could recede in infinitely fine increments, becoming apparently smaller in size, a fact I only belatedly recognized after originally thinking they were actually shrinking. And objects could pass behind each other. Most were opaque, but some were transparent or translucent—and those had been instrumental in letting me at least start to figure out what was going on.

Bit by bit, I was learning to decode this other universe.

* * * *

When Caitlin, her mom, and Dr. Kuroda returned from the mall, they saw that Caitlin's father's car was here, meaning he'd come home surprisingly early on a weekday. Caitlin hurried into the house to see him—to really see him. She came to the open den doorway, Kuroda behind her, while her mom went off to do something else. Blondie's “Heart of Glass” was playing on his stereo.

The detail Caitlin was perceiving now was overwhelming, and her father's face was ... harder now that she saw it crisply. “Hi, Dad,” she said.

He was sitting at his desk, looking at his LCD monitor. He didn't meet her eyes. “Hi.”

Still, he'd come home early from work, presumably to see Caitlin, and that made her happy. “Um, whatcha doin'?”

He tilted his head. Caitlin didn't know what to make of it, but Kuroda seemed to think it was an invitation to come see. He tapped her on the shoulder, urging her to move into the room. She did so, and was pleased that she could make out the characters on the monitor clearly from several feet away, although she still couldn't read the text.

“I had an idea,” her dad said, “so I came home to check it out.”

“Yes?” said Caitlin.

He didn't look at Kuroda, but he did address him: “This is more your field than mine, Masayuki,” he said. “I thought I'd look again at the data set we did the Zipf plots on.”

“The secret spook communiqués?” said Caitlin, hoping to get a rise from her dad.

But her father shook his head. “I don't think that's what they are anymore.” He gestured at the monitor.

Kuroda moved in and peered at the screen. “Shannon entropy?”

Caitlin smiled. Sounds like the name of a porn star. “What's that?”

Kuroda looked at her father, as if giving him first chance to explain, but he said nothing, so Kuroda did: “Claude Shannon was the father of information theory. He came up with a way of gauging not just whether a signal contained information—which is what Zipf plots show—but how complex that information is.”

“How?” asked Caitlin.

“It's all about conditional probabilities,” said Kuroda. “If you've already got a string of information chunks, what's the likelihood that you can predict what the next chunk will be? If I say, ‘How are,’ you've got a really high probability of correctly predicting what the next word will be: ‘you,’ right? That's what Shannon called third-order entropy: you've got a great shot at predicting the third word. In English, Japanese, and most other languages, you actually have a shot—progressively slimmer, but still better than just a random guess—up to the eighth or ninth word, so we say those languages have eighth—or ninth-order Shannon entropy. But after that—after the ninth word—it really is just a random guess what's coming next, unless the person happens to be quoting poetry or something else that has a fixed form.”

“Cool!” said Caitlin.

There was a black leather couch in the den. Kuroda sat on it, and it made a poof sound. “It is indeed. Mindless communication systems—like the chemical signals employed by plants—have just first-order entropy: knowing the most recent signal gives no clue what the next one might be. Squirrel monkeys show a Shannon entropy of the second or third order: their language, such as it is, has a little predictability, but is really mostly just random noise.”

“What about dolphins?” asked Caitlin, who was now leaning against a bookcase. She loved reading about dolphins, and had already bugged her parents to take her to MarineLand in Niagara Falls as soon as it opened up again in the spring.

“The best studies to date show dolphins have fourth-order entropy—complex, yes, but not as complex as human language.”

“And now, Dad, you're making one of these plots for the stuff that's in the background of the Web?”

He still wasn't used to the fact that she was seeing, Caitlin thought. He could have saved himself a word by just nodding, but instead he said, “Yes.”

“And what's the scoop?”

“Second-order,” he said.

Kuroda struggled back to his feet and moved over to stand behind him. “That can't be right.” He peered at the screen. “Show me the formula you're using.” Her dad did something, and Kuroda frowned, then waved a finger at the keyboard. “Run it again.”

A few key clicks, then her dad said, “No difference.”

Kuroda turned to face Caitlin. “He's right: it's all just second-order stuff. Oh, there's information there, but it's not very complex.”

“You'd expect more from the NSA,” said Caitlin, pleased to be able to wield the initials. “No?”

“Well, you know what they say about government intelligence,” Kuroda replied. “It's an oxymoron.”

Caitlin laughed.

“Know what's great about spending time with someone as young as you, Miss Caitlin? Old jokes are new to you. But, yes, you're right—it's not what I'd have expected.”

Caitlin was struck by an idea. “What about stuff that's more complex than human language? Maybe stuff that looks like gibberish to us is really just too complex for us to ... to...”

“Parse,” supplied Kuroda. “But, no, even if it didn't make sense to us, a Shannon analysis would still give it a high score, not a low one, if it really wasn't gibberish. If the NSA was using a lot of quadruple negatives—'I did not not not not go to the zoo'—or if they were employing complex nested clauses and tense changes like, ‘I would have had have had been present, were it not for ... ,’ it would still score high—twelfth, fifteenth order, maybe.”

“Hmm, Then maybe it is just random noise,” she said.

“No, no,” said Kuroda. “Remember the Zipf plots we ran? A Zipf plot giving a negative-one slope means it really does contain information. It's just that, according to the Shannon-entropy score, it's not complex information.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe the spies are just grunting out monosyllabic orders like, ‘drop bomb’ or ‘kill bad guy.'”

Kuroda lifted his shoulders. “Maybe.”

* * * *

Chapter 35

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: No such thing as bad publicity

Date: Tuesday 2 October, 20:20 EST

Mood: Anticipatory

Location: Soon to be on the map of the stars’ homes

Music: Fergie, “Taking Off"

So where is all the media coverage related to me, you might ask? “Gorgeous girl regains sight!” “Blind genius can see!” “The Hoser still hoping for a second date with Calculass!” Where the heck is Oliver Sacks when you need him? And, most important of all, where are all the offers to buy my life story for millions?

Good questions! Dr. K's been keeping a lid on things, waiting for some approvals from the University of Tokyo. But he says we can't hold off going public any longer. I've been flocking posts, and y'all are totally cool, of course, but all those kids at school now know that I can see, too, and some of them have been blogging. And so we're going to have a press conference. Dad's arranging for it to be at the Mike L Theatre at PI which is a cool place.

Apparently, I'll have to speak as part of the press conference, so I'm working on my jokes. PI's full name is the Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics, so I thought I'd start off with this, in honor of my own kitty: “Hey, folks, just think: if Schrodinger's cat had been radioactive, he'd have had eighteen half-lives...”

Then I'm going to use this one, which The Mom came up with a while ago when Dad was grousing about “peer review.” She said whenever she sees the word p-e-e-r, she reads it as “one who pees,” which, she says, makes publish-or-perish a pissing contest...

Oh, and here's one I like, but I don't know if I want to tell it in front of my parents: The difference between a geek and a dork is that a geek wonders what sex is like in zero gravity; a dork wonders what sex is like.

Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week!

[And seekrit message to BG4: check your email, babe!]

This other entity existed in a bizarre realm that challenged my thinking at every turn. Most objects I saw were inanimate; they stayed put unless something acted upon them. But some objects were animate, moving apparently of their own volition. This was a staggering concept. That there was one other entity besides myself had been an overwhelming notion, but now there seemed to be countless others: mobile, complex, and varied in form. Their actions were so erratic, so seemingly random, that it only slowly dawned on me that perhaps these were also beings with their own individual thoughts, separate from mine.

There were other odd facts to absorb about this realm that also had no parallels in my world. For instance, there was a force, apparently, pulling things in a specific direction (another arbitrary coinage: down). And objects seemed to be illuminated by a source or sources of light that was usually up. I struggled to make sense of it all.

And yet these physical realities were easy to deal with compared to the complexity of the animate objects. I had real difficulty making out what I was seeing when the datastream showed me one of them. The images were indeed sharp and clear now, but the forms were so elaborate and random I had trouble figuring out the details. There seemed to be four long projections from a central core and one smaller ... lump. But the structure of these lumps was constantly changing, not just as the perspective changed, but as the lump itself ... did things.

Oh, for the simplicity of a world of just lines and points! Despite my breakthroughs, despite the few things I had figured out, I still often felt utterly, completely lost...

* * * *

Caitlin couldn't stop looking at her father, thinking that it might prompt him to look back at her. But he never did. He just looked away, or, as he was doing now, he stared out the living-room window at the gray sky and the trees, which were now losing their leaves.

She had hoped that when she finally saw him, his face would be ... animated, that was the word; that he would smile frequently, that his eyebrows would move up and down as he spoke, that she might even see that he was affectionate toward her mother, touching her forearm at odd moments, maybe, or even stroking her hair.

“Caitlin.” Her mom's voice, very soft. She turned. Her mother was doing something with her head, and...

Oh! She was gesturing with it, just as her dad had earlier to Kuroda: she was indicating Caitlin should come with her. Caitlin got up and followed her to the kitchen, on the far side of the intervening dining room, leaving her dad sitting in his favorite chair in the living room.

“Sit down, sweetheart.”

Caitlin did so. She was still just beginning to learn to interpret expressions, but her mother's seemed ... agitated, perhaps. “Have I done something wrong?”

“You can't stare at your father like that.”

“Was I? Sorry. I know it's not polite—I've read that.”

“No, no. It's not that. It's—well, you know how he is.”

“How?”

“He doesn't like to be looked at.”

“Why not?”

“You know. I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” her mom said. “And maybe it's even why he's so good at math and things like that.”

Caitlin shook her head a bit. “Yes?”

“You know,” her mom said again. “You know about your father's...” She lowered her voice, and turned her head, perhaps, Caitlin thought, to glance through the door. “...condition."

Caitlin felt her eyes going wide—but, as she'd already discovered, that didn't really expand her field of view. “Condition?”

“I told you years ago. Back in Austin.”

Caitlin racked her brain, trying to recall any such conversation, but—

Oh. “I asked you why Dad didn't talk much, and you said—at least I thought you said ... oh, cripes.”

“What?”

“I thought you said he was artistic. I hadn't known that word then.” She swallowed and found herself looking through the kitchen doorway, too, making sure they were alone.

“Well, he is artistic. He thinks in pictures, not words.”

Caitlin felt herself go limp in the chair. It made sense, she realized, her heart pounding; it made perfect sense. Her father—the renowned physicist Malcolm Decter, B.Sc., M.Sc., Ph.D.—was autistic.

* * * *

Shoshana had heated up a couple of sacks of Orville Redenbacher's in the microwave, and she, the Silverback, Dillon, Maria, and Werner were now seated in the main room of the bungalow, facing the large Apple computer monitor, munching away.

“Okay,” said Shoshana, touching a button on the remote, “here we go.”

She had footage of Dr. Marcuse from earlier projects, including one bit in which he'd done an amazingly protracted yawn. She'd thought about putting that in a circle, with the letters M-G-M above, and the caption “Marcuse Glick Movies” below, but she'd decided not to risk it. Instead, the little video began with white letters over a plain black screen that said, “Ape Makes Representational Art,” followed by the URL of the Marcuse Institute.

Next there was footage of the blank canvas, and then a reverse angle to show Hobo. “This is Hobo,” said Marcuse's voice over top of the pictures, “a male...” There was just the slightest hesitation, Shoshana noticed. She hadn't been aware of it when they'd recorded the audio; she'd take it out in the final edit. “...chimpanzee,” continued Marcuse. “Hobo was born at Georgia State Zoological Park, but was raised in San Diego, California, under the care of primatologist Harl P. Marcuse, who...”

The narration continued, and Hobo's second painting of Shoshana took shape on the canvas. She ate some popcorn and watched the faces of the little audience as much as she watched her video, gauging their reaction. And then came her own big moment: the image divided into a split-screen, with the colored canvas on the left and new footage Dillon had shot on the right: a long pan around her head, and then holding on her in profile, the portrait Hobo had made side-by-side with the genuine article.

“The money shot!” said Dillon. Shoshana threw a little popcorn at him, which he batted out of the air with his hands.

When the video was over, Dillon and Maria clapped politely, and Werner nodded his head in satisfaction. But it didn't matter what they thought, Shoshana knew. Only the Silverback's opinion counted. “Dr. Marcuse?” she said, a bit timidly.

He shifted in his chair. “Good work,” he said. “Let's get it online—and then see what the response is from the Georgia Zoo.”

* * * *

Chapter 36

And here was the biggest leap of all so far, here was the discovery, the realization, the breakthrough, that was the hardest to make but also, I suspected, the most important.

The other entity looked at many, many things, and I had gathered that they were mostly near to it, but there was this rectangle, this frame, this window that it often looked at that was—

Oh, such a leap! Such a strange concept!

It was a display of some sort, a way of representing things that weren't actually there. And I could see what was on the display, but only when the entity looked at it.

And, just now, the display was showing something ... strange. It took me time to work out the recursiveness of it all: the entity was looking at the display, and the display was showing moving images of a being unlike any I'd yet seen, with longer upper projections and shorter lower ones and a lump that was differently shaped. And this abnormal being was making...

Yes, yes, yes! The abnormal being was making marks on yet another flat surface: shapes, splashes of color. I watched, baffled, perplexed, and—

And suddenly the display was divided into two parts. On one side, I saw the colored shapes that the strange entity had made, and on the other there was an entity of the type I was more used to seeing. That entity was rotating, and—and—and—

And then it stopped rotating, holding its position, and—

The shapes on one side, the entity on the other: there was a ... a correspondence between them. The shapes were a—yes, yes! They were a simplified version of the entity on the right. It was a stunning revelation: this was a representation of that!

The simplified representation was two-dimensional, similar to the way I was used to conceptualizing my own reality. I watched, and concentrated, and—

Suddenly it all made sense!

The lump at the top of each entity did have structure, did have components. As I saw them rendered in basic form, I could now discern the parts on the actual entity that had been rendered. The strange being that had made this rendering had exaggerated certain details so that I now saw not only their significance but realized what things differed from lump to lump: the color of the ... eye, I'd call it. The color of the hair. The color of the rest of the lump. The shape of the nose. The shape of the mouth. The relative size of the ear.

The individual that had been rendered had an odd projection off the back of its lump, possibly part of its hair; as I recalled other lumps I'd seen, I realized that such projections were rare but not unheard of.

It was wonderful! I was clearly discerning the parts of the ... no, not lump; a lump was a generic mass, and this was a specific, very special form, so it deserved its own coinage: head.

I was still far from fully understanding these creatures, but I was at last making progress!

* * * *

Caitlin and Dr. Kuroda headed down to their basement workspace. He'd described it in words to her before, and she now saw—saw!—that he'd done a pretty good job. It was indeed unfinished, had a concrete floor (which she'd already known about from walking across it), and it did contain bookcases and an old TV. But she'd had no idea that the bookcases were finished in a pattern of lighter and darker brown swirling together; she guessed that was wood grain, something she'd felt on other pieces of furniture. And the TV was larger than she'd imagined, and had a black housing.

Still, there were so many other things that Kuroda hadn't mentioned: thousands of details about the walls, the bare lighting fixture, the metal box that had the light switch on it, the curtains on the little window, a cylindrical contraption that she belatedly realized was the water heater, and on and on. How one decided quickly, as he had, which details were important and which were not worth mentioning was still a mystery to her; it all seemed relevant.

The swivel chairs turned out to have dark red upholstery, which was another thing Kuroda had failed to mention. She sat down in one and Kuroda took the other. He was wearing a colorful loose-fitting shirt with an abstract pattern on it.

“You get along well with my dad,” she said to him, once he'd settled in. The two men had actually bantered a bit over dinner; Kuroda seemed to have an instinct for knowing when her dad was trying to be funny and had laughed at things in a way that encouraged him to say more.

Kuroda smiled. “Sure. Working in the sciences, you have to learn to deal with such people.” But then his face changed. “Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Caitlin. I, um...”

“It's all right. I know he's autistic.”

“Asperger's, most likely, if you want my guess,” Kuroda said, swiveling his chair a bit. “And, well, you do see it all the time among scientists, especially physicists, chemists, and the like.” He paused, as if wondering if he should go on. “In fact, if I may be so bold...”

“Yes?”

“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't.”

“Go ahead. It's okay.”

She saw him hesitate a moment more. “I was just going to say—and forgive me—that you're fortunate you're not autistic yourself. It's particularly common among those who are as gifted as you are mathematically.”

Caitlin lifted her shoulders a bit. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Kuroda frowned. “Well, in a way. But—I'm sorry, I really shouldn't...”

“Don't worry about my feelings.”

Kuroda smiled. “Ah, but I must! For, like you, I'm not autistic.” He seemed to think this was funny, so Caitlin laughed politely.

But Kuroda was on to her. “You know, I attend a lot of conferences in Japan at which Western academics speak with the aid of an interpreter. And I remember one who made a joke that I got—it was a play on words in English—but I knew wouldn't translate. But he got a big laugh anyway. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because the translator said in Japanese, unbeknownst to the speaker, ‘The honorable professor has made a joke in English; it would be polite to laugh.'”

Caitlin did laugh, genuinely this time, then: “But you were saying...”

Kuroda took a breath, and let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. “Well, it's just that maybe you do have the same autistic predisposition as your father, but you dodged the bullet, so to speak, because you were blind.”

“Huh?”

“A large part of the problem with socialization in autism is eye contact; many autistics have trouble making and holding eye contact. But a blind person doesn't even try to make eye contact, and isn't expected to.”

She remembered how her mother had sobbed when Caitlin had first looked into her eyes. Having a husband who rarely looked directly at her and a daughter who never did must have been a special sort of hell.

“Have you read Songs of the Gorilla Nation?" Kuroda asked.

“No. Is it science fiction?”

“No, no. It's a memoir by an autistic woman who finally learned to deal with humans after having been a gorilla handler at a zoo in Seattle. See, the gorillas never looked at her and they don't look at each other. They interacted in a way that felt natural to her.”

“My mom always told me to turn my head toward whoever was speaking.”

Kuroda's eyebrows went up. “You didn't do that naturally?”

“Hello! Earth to Dr. Kuroda! I was blind...”

“Yes, but many blind people do that automatically anyway. Interesting.” A pause. “Do you remember your own birth?”

"What?"

“Do you know Temple Grandin?”

“No. Where is it?”

Kuroda chuckled. “It's not a place, it's a person—that's her name. She's autistic and she claims to remember her own birth. She says lots of people with autism do.”

“How come?”

“You want my take? Many autistics, Dr. Grandin included, say they think in pictures, not in words. Well, of course, we all think in pictures originally; we don't have sufficient language until we're two or three years old to do otherwise—and events from when we're two or three are the earliest most people can recall. Many neuroscientists will tell you that that's because no memories are laid down before then. But I think, rather, that when we start thinking linguistically that method supersedes thinking in pictures, locking out our ability to retrieve memories that had been stored in the old method; it's an information-theory issue again. But since many autistics never start thinking linguistically, they have an unbroken chain of memories right back to birth—and maybe even prenatally.”

“That would be awesome," she said. “But, no, I don't remember my birth.” And then she smiled. “But my mother does—remember mine, that is. Every year on my birthday she says, ‘I know exactly where I was x-number of years ago...'” She paused. “I wonder if apes remember their births?”

Kuroda's face did something. “That's an interesting thought. But, well, maybe they do; they obviously think in pictures rather than words, after all.”

“Have you seen Hobo?”

“A hobo? In this neighborhood?”

“No, no. Hobo, the chimp who can paint people. It's all over the Web.”

“No. What do you mean, ‘paint people'?”

“He did a profile of this woman. Actually, I think he's done it twice now. Here, let me show you the clip...”

“Maybe later. You know, I'm surprised you haven't read Temple Grandin. Most people with autistics in their families find her books—” He suddenly looked mortified. “Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe they aren't available for the blind.”

“They probably are,” Caitlin said. “Either as Braille, ebooks, or talking books, but...” She considered what she wanted to say next; she certainly didn't want Kuroda to think she was a bad daughter. “I, um, only just found out my father is autistic.”

“You mean after you were able to see?”

“Yes.”

Kuroda clearly felt he should say something. “Ah.” And then: “Well, there are a lot of good books about autism you should read. Some good novels, too. Try The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. You'll love it: the main character is a maths whiz.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Well, a boy, but...”

“Maybe,” she said. “Any others?”

“There's Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood.” Caitlin lifted her eyebrows; the author she was going to be studying in English class. “One of them—Oryx or Crake, I can never remember which is which—is an autistic geneticist.”

“And the other?”

“Um, a teenage prostitute, actually.”

“You'd think it would be easy to tell them apart,” Caitlin said.

“You'd think,” Kuroda said with a nod. “Sorry, not much of an Atwood fan. I know I shouldn't say that, this being Canada and all.”

“I'm not Canadian.”

He laughed. “Neither am I.”

“Hey, do you know how to find a Canadian in a crowded room...?”

Kuroda smiled and held up a hand. “Save your jokes for the press conference tomorrow,” he said. “You'll need them then.”

* * * *

After dinner, Caitlin went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. It was no surprise that she had acne—she'd been able to feel the pimples, of course. She remembered what that cruel Zack Starnes had said, back in Austin: “Why does a blind girl worry about acne?” But she'd known the spots were there, and, damn it all, she was entitled to the same vanity everybody else had; hell, even Helen Keller had been vain! Her left eye had looked blind, and she'd always insisted on being photographed from the right side; in middle age she'd had her useless biological eyes removed and replaced with more attractive glass ones.

Caitlin opened the medicine cabinet, took out the tube of benzoyl peroxide cream, and got to work.

* * * *

I'd thought my universe crowded when there had been simply me and not me, but in this other realm there were hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of entities.

Now that I had learned to parse a head, I was better at recognizing specific entities, but it was still difficult. Part of that was because the entities periodically altered their appearance; I eventually surmised there was an outer covering, made of discrete sections, that could be changed. (However, the abnormal entity that I'd recently watched make a representation was unusual in that it either had no outer covering, or its outer covering consisted of components that all looked alike.)

Of course, the individual that interested me most was the one I'd encountered first; I decided to refer to it as Prime. I had caught glimpses of what I realized were projections that belonged to Prime, and, from the way in which I saw them, I concluded that the views I was seeing were being gathered by Prime's head. But I still had not seen Prime's face; indeed, I supposed I never would.

Still, now that I understood faces, I had come to recognize specific entities that Prime spent a lot of time with. Three, in particular, seemed to share a common environment with it. Two had faces that moved and changed constantly and whose mouths often opened; the third had a less mobile face, and its mouth was rarely open.

Just now, I could see that these others were sitting—supporting themselves with structural frames against the downward force I'd deduced was present. And they were eating—taking inanimate things into their mouths.

Prime was eating, too: I saw inanimate things growing large—no, no!—moving closer: the images Prime was sending to my realm were apparently being gathered by some part of its head above the mouth, possibly the nose.

While Prime ate, I kept linking randomly to other sites, looking for keys to decipher the data they offered up. So far, though, I'd made no progress. Oh, I could call forth data from any of them, but I could not interpret it.

Eventually Prime moved away from the others, and—

Oh!

It was...

Yes, yes, it had to be! The way the lighting changed, the way the perspective changed, the way...

I had a frisson of recognition—not of what I was seeing, but of having had a similar experience before, during the re-fusion, when I had seen myself as the other part of me had seen me.

This—

Yes!

This was Prime looking at itself!

It was in front of a rectangle. I was used to such things by now: some of these windows, as I had dubbed them, afforded views through otherwise opaque components; others, like Prime's wondrous display, showed still or moving representations of other things. But this rectangle was special: it was reflecting back the object in front of it. I could see Prime's face! And I could see the projections from Prime's central core moving both in the rectangle and in front of it, observing them simultaneously from two sides, as Prime was ... hard to say ... putting a white substance in small dabs on its face?

And, while it did so, I was seeing Prime's hair.

And Prime's mouth.

And Prime's nose.

And Prime's eyes.

And ... and ... and as Prime moved its head left and right (perpendicular to up and down), as it apparently examined its own reflection, I realized that my point of view—the vantage from which the images I was seeing were being collected—was not Prime's nose but one of its eyes! And, from the way Prime moved, it seemed that Prime was looking at itself with this same eye. I had observed that mouths were for taking inanimate material into the head; eyes, I now surmised, were for seeing, and Prime was sharing what it saw with me.

Prime's face was fascinating. I studied every minute detail, and—

Suddenly everything was blurry again! I was terrified that our connection was breaking, but...

But Prime was looking in another direction now, and something was at the end of its tubular extensions, something at least partially transparent, I think, although the image was so blurry it was hard to say.

Prime did things, but it was impossible for me to make out what. But then, at last, the object it had been holding was brought close to Prime's face, and as that happened, Prime's vision—and mine!—grew sharp once more. The thing it brought close to its face contained windows; they weren't rectangular, but that's what they seemed to be. But these windows were special not just for their shape but also (as I'd seen as they came close) because the material in them, although fully transparent, modified the view on the other side of them. Prime looked at itself in the large reflecting rectangle again, turning its head from side to side as it did so.

And as it examined its own face, an idea came to me that—

Yes! Yes! If I could make this work, everything would change! I turned my attention to the datastream from Prime that was accumulating within me...

* * * *

Chapter 37

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: Alphabet soup

Date: Wednesday 3 October, 9:20 EST

Mood: Pissed off

Location: Kinder-effing-garten

Music: "Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?"

Man, this is frustrating!

Here I am, almost 16, well-read, blerking gifted for God's sake, and I can't read English!

It's ridiculous to still be using screen-reading software now that my eye can discern alphabetic characters—but I can't recognize them. This shouldn't be that hard! It's not like I'm trying to master another language. Yes, yes, I admit I'm struggling a bit in French class. But most of the other kids in class, ‘cept Sunshine, God bless her empty-headed heart, have been parlez-vous-ing Francais since they were in Kindergarten.

And, besides, this shouldn't be as hard as French. It should be more like a sighted person learning Morse code, or Braille for that matter: just another way of representing letters they're already familiar with.

But all the ways of drawing characters! Different typefaces and different sizes of type, some with little curlicues. Yes, as a kid, I'd learned the basic shapes by holding and feeling wooden carvings of the characters, but I'd really only learned capital letters, and then mostly so I could understand phrases like T-shirt and A-frame.

But even if I can master the individual letters, I know most people don't read a letter at a time but rather a word at a time, having come to recognize the distinctive shapes of thousands of common ones, regardless of the blerking font.

I'm staying home from school again (the press conference is this afternoon) and am spending the morning playing around with an online interactive literacy site—for kids! It uses on-screen flashcards, apparently a common way for sighted kids to learn, showing me individual letters at random.

Some letters always give me trouble. Even when both appear on the same screen, I'm having difficulty telling whether I'm seeing the capital or lowercase version of those that are similar in both forms, and I keep mixing up lowercase q and p—and that makes me want to quke.

Le sigh. I really am trying to get this—but I'm Calculass not Alphabetigal, damn it!

* * * *

The Mike Lazaridis Theatre of Ideas was a modern auditorium with LCD projectors and HDTV monitors hanging from the ceiling. But it also happened to be on the ground floor of a physics think tank, and that meant the front wall, behind the podium, was lined with blackboards. When Caitlin came into the crowded room she went up to them and looked with interest at the scrawled equations and formulas.

Half the symbols were ones she'd never seen before. Still, she couldn't resist having a bit of fun. There were three blackboard panels; the ones on the left and right were filled, but the center one had been cleared, presumably so that Dr. Kuroda could write things on it during the press conference, if he liked. It was bare except for swirls of faint chalk dust.

She took a piece of chalk from the metal tray in front of the middle blackboard, and, very slowly, very carefully, drawing the letters laboriously, one at a time, in capitals, because that was all she knew how to make, she wrote, “THEN A MIRACLE OCCURRED...”

Suddenly, Caitlin turned around because—

Because people in the theater were applauding and laughing. She felt her face splitting in a great big grin. Dr. Kuroda was off to one side, talking with someone, and as the applause died down he walked to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, “I see you've already met our star attraction. Of course, you all know why you're here: this young lady is Miss Caitlin Decter, and my name is Masayuki Kuroda of the University of Tokyo. We're going to tell you about an experimental procedure Miss Caitlin underwent recently, and the remarkable success we've had.”

He smiled at the crowd, which, Caitlin saw, consisted of about forty people, about equally mixed between men and women. “I do thank you all for making it out here despite the awful weather—I understand this is quite early in the year for snow in this part of Ontario. But our Miss Caitlin had so wanted to see snow.” He looked at her. “As you can see, you must be careful of what you wish for—you might get it!”

The audience laughed, and Caitlin laughed with them. For the first time in her life, she was enjoying being stared at. Still, she sought out her mother, who was sitting in the front row along with her dad.

Kuroda proceeded to explain what he and his colleagues had done to correct the problem with how Caitlin's retina encoded information. He relied heavily on PowerPoint for his presentation. Caitlin had heard people call it PowerPointlessness before, and decided that was mostly right, although Kuroda did include some amazing pictures of the operation in Tokyo. She found herself squirming a bit as she saw the cranial surgeon sliding instruments around her eyeball.

When he was done with his presentation, Kuroda said, “Any questions?”

She saw a bunch of hands go up.

Kuroda pointed at a man. “Yes?”

“Professor Kuroda, Jay Ingram, Discovery Channel.” Caitlin sat up straight. Since moving here, she'd often watched—listened to!—Daily Planet, the nightly science-news show on Discovery Channel Canada, but had had no idea what the host looked like, although she certainly recognized his voice. It turned out that he had a very short beard and white hair. “Ms. Decter has a very rare cause for her blindness,” he said. “How generally applicable is your technique going to be?”

“You're right that we won't be curing a lot of blind people in the near future with this,” said Kuroda. “As you say, Miss Caitlin's blindness has an unusual etiology. But the real breakthrough here is in actually doing sophisticated signal processing on information being passed along the human nervous system. Consider people with Parkinson's, for instance: one possible explanation for the problems associated with it is that there's so much noise in the signals going down the nerves, the patient ends up with tremors. If we could adapt the techniques pioneered here to clean up the signals the brain is sending to the limbs ... well, let's just say that's on the agenda, too. Next?”

“Bob McDonald, Quirks & Quarks."

Caitlin had become a fan of CBC Radio's weekly science show since moving here; Bob was the host. She found him in the crowd, and was pleased to think that lots of the other people here had probably also only known him as an energetic voice on the radio, and so were just as intrigued as she was to find out what he looked like.

“I've got a question for Mr. Lazaridis,” Bob said.

Mike L turned out to be a man in the front row with the most amazing hair Caitlin had seen to date, a great silver mass of it. He looked surprised, and turned around in his seat. “Yes?”

“Speaking of implants inside the skull like the one Caitlin has,” Bob said, “could something like that be the next BlackBerry?”

Mike laughed and so did Caitlin. “I'll get my people working on it,” he said.

* * * *

My plan should have worked! I knew from which point Prime's datastream emanated, I knew how to cast out a line of my own to call forth data, and I knew such a line was itself a piece of data being sent from me. All I wanted to do now was send a much bigger piece of data to the point Prime's datastream came from. But—frustration! The data I was sending was not being accepted; no acknowledgment was occurring.

I must be doing something wrong. I'd seen that point accept data from my realm before; just prior to beginning to show me its realm, it had accepted data being sent to it. But it would not accept data from me.

It was maddeningly like when I'd been cleaved in two: the mere desire for communication apparently wasn't enough to make it happen. Prime, it seemed, was only willing now to send data but not receive it.

In fact, now that I thought about it, I had only known Prime to receive data when it was reflecting myself back at me, but it hadn't done that for a long time now. Until if and when Prime decided to again reflect myself—to show me me—it seemed I was stymied. And yet I kept trying, casting out line after line, attempting to connect.

Look, Prime, look! There's something I want to show you...

* * * *

Chapter 38

Caitlin missed a lot of things about Texas—decent barbecue, hearing people speak Spanish, really warm weather—but one thing she hadn't been missing was the humidity. Oh, sure, Waterloo had been soaking when they moved here back in July, but with this sudden cold snap the air was so dry that—well, she supposed it was possible she'd always blown blood-red snot out of her nose but she doubted it.

Worse were the static-electric shocks she got when she walked across the carpet and touched a doorknob. She'd had one or two such shocks over the years in Texas—and it had never occurred to her that they generated a visible spark!—but now they were happening all the time whenever she went even a few paces, and those suckers hurt.

When Caitlin got home from the press conference, she made her way across her bedroom. When exiting the room, she was learning to discharge the static by touching one of the screws that held the white plastic faceplate around the light switch—a switch she herself was now using; it still hurt, but it kept her from building up an even bigger charge. The light had already been on when she entered the room—this remembering to turn it off when leaving was more difficult than she'd thought it would be!

She crossed to her desk. She knew all about the dangers of static discharges around computing equipment, but there was a metal frame around the venetian blinds on her window, and she reached out to touch it, and—

Oh, fuck!

Oh, God!

Caitlin's heart was racing. She thought she might faint.

She was—

God, no, no, no!

Blind again.

Shit, shit, shit, shit! She'd been worried about damaging her Braille display and her Braille printer and her CPU, but—

But she hadn't given any thought to the fact that she—

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She was holding the eyePod in her left hand. It was uncomfortable having things in the pockets of her tight jeans when she sat, and she'd taken it out in preparation for setting it on the desk. As soon as she'd touched her index finger to that cold metal frame, and felt the shock, and seen the spark, and heard the zap, her vision had gone off.

Her first thought was to call for her mother, her father, and Dr. Kuroda—but they'd just build up static charges of their own racing up the carpeted stairs. She tried not to panic, but—

Shit, if the eyePod was wrecked, she'd ... God, she'd die.

She felt woozy and groped—groped!—for the edge of her desk, for her chair, and sat down. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Jesus! Blind again, just like before Kuroda's procedure, and—

But no. No, that wasn't right.

It was different. Apparently, her mind couldn't countenance a lack of vision anymore, not now, not after having seen. Instead of it being like the absence of a magnetic sense, like nothing at all, now she saw—

Well, that was surprising! It wasn't pitch black. Rather it was a soft, deep gray, a ... void, a...

Wait, wait! She had read about this. It was what people who had lost sight—including Helen Keller—said they perceived, and now, for the very first time, Caitlin had actually lost her vision. She hadn't just closed her eyes, and she wasn't just in a darkened room; she had no visual stimulus at all, and so was having the sensory effect that was apparently normal under such circumstances for people who had once been able to see but were now blind. Something similar, she supposed, explained why she had been able to perceive the background of the Web only after her first experience with real-world vision during the lightning storm.

Her heart was still pounding, pounding, pounding, but, even through her panic, she couldn't help but notice that the grayness wasn't uniform. Rather it varied slightly in brightness, in shade. Her eyes darted about in saccades, but that made no difference to where the variations appeared; it was a mental phenomenon, not residual vision or an afterimage of the room lights.

Blind!

Another deep breath.

All right, she thought. The eyePod crashed. But computers crash all the time, and when they crash, you—

Please, God, let this work!

You reboot them.

Back in Tokyo, Dr. Kuroda had said if she ever needed to shut off her eyePod, pressing down on the switch for five seconds would do the trick. Well, it was off now, terrifyingly so. But he'd also said that pressing the switch again for five seconds would turn it back on.

She manipulated the eyePod in her hand, found the switch, and held it down. Please, God...

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Nothing.

Nothing!

She kept pressing the switch, pressing it so hard she could feel it digging into her finger.

Six.

Sev—

Ah, a flash of light! She released the switch and let her breath out.

More light. Colors. Lines—razor sharp lines—radiating from points.

No, no it was—

Shit!

Websight! She was seeing webspace again, not reality. The lines she was seeing were sharper, the colors more vibrant, than any she'd experienced in the real world; indeed, now that she'd seen samples of such things, she knew the yellows and oranges and greens she saw here were fluorescent.

Still, okay, all right: she wasn't seeing reality, but at least she was seeing. The eyePod wasn't completely fried. And, truth be told, she'd been missing webspace.

She'd been squeezing the armrest on her chair tightly; she relaxed her grip a bit, feeling calmer, feeling—bizarrely, she knew—at home. The pure colors were soothing, and the simple shapes delineated by overlapping link lines were intelligible. Indeed, they were more intelligible now that she'd learned to recognize the visual appearance of triangles and rectangles and rhombuses. And, as before, in the background of it all, shimmering away, running off in all directions, the fine-grained checkerboard of the cellular automata...

It didn't take her long to find a web spider, and she followed it as it jumped from site to site, an invigorating ride. But, after a time, she let it go on its way, and she just relaxed and looked at the lovely panorama, wonderfully familiar in its structure, and—

What was that?

Shit! Something was ... was interfering with her vision. Christ, the eyePod might be damaged after all! Lines were still sticking out like spokes from web-site circles, and the lines from different circles crossed, but there was something more, something that seemed out of place here, something that wasn't made up of straight lines, something that had soft edges and curves. It was superimposed on her view of webspace, or maybe behind it, or mingling with it, as if she were getting two datastreams at once, the one from Jagster and...

And what? This other image flickered so much it was hard to make out, and—

And it did contain some straight lines, but instead of radiating from a central point, they—

She'd never seen the like in webspace, except accidentally, when lines connecting various points happened to overlap in this way, but—

But these weren't lines, they were ... edges, no?

Christ, what was it?

It wasn't anything to do with the shimmering background to webspace; that was still visible as yet another layer in this palimpsest. No, no, this was something else. If it would just settle down, just sit still, for God's sake, she might be able to make out what it was.

There were a lot of colors in the ghostly superimposed image, but they weren't the solid shades she was used to in webspace, where lines were pure green or pure orange, or whatever. No, this flickering image consisted of blotches of pale color that varied in hue, in intensity.

The image kept jumping up and down, left and right, sometimes changing entirely for a moment before it came back to being approximately the same, and...

Confabulation across saccades—that wonderful, musical phrase in the material Kuroda had told her to read about sight. The eye flits rapidly over a scene, involuntarily changing from looking at one fixed point to another, focusing briefly on, say, the upper left, then the lower right, then the middle, then glancing away altogether, then coming back and focusing here, then here, then here. Each little eye movement was called a saccade. People normally weren't aware of them, she'd read, unless they were reading lines of text or looking out the window of a train; otherwise, the brain made one continuous image out of the jerky input, confabulating a steady overall view of a reality that had never actually been seen.

But ... but that was human vision, as Dr. K had so unfortunately termed it. Websight bypassed Caitlin's eye, and so didn't have any such jerkiness to it.

And yet this strange, overlaid image was not only of something that was moving, it was composed of countless flashes of perception, just like saccades. Of course, when the brain is moving the eye in saccadic jumps, it knows in which direction vision is shifting each time and so can compensate for the movements when building up a mental picture of the whole scene.

But this! This was like looking at someone else's saccades—a jittery stream that didn't stay focused on one spot long enough for Caitlin to really see it. Although...

Although it did look a bit like...

No, no, thought Caitlin. I must be crazy!

She concentrated as hard as she could and—

No, not crazy. Not psychotic—saccadic!

The image consisted mostly of a large colored ovoid that was...

Incredible! It was...

...a light pink with a little yellow...

The image—the jerking, flickering image—was a human face!

But how? This was webspace! Her eyePod was linked to a raw feed from the Jagster search engine, showing links and websites and cellular automata, oh my, but—

But that feed was still there, being interpreted as it always had been. It was now indeed as though she were getting two feeds simultaneously. If she could block out the Jagster feed, perhaps she'd be able to see this other one more clearly, but she didn't know how to do that. She stared as hard as she could, peering at the jittery images, struggling to make out more detail, and—

Caitlin felt her stomach knot, felt her heart skip a beat. She could be forgiven, she knew, for not identifying it at once; after all, she was new to this business of face recognition. But there could be no doubt, could there? The mounds of brown hair surrounding it, the small nose, the close-together eyes, the...

God.

The heart-shaped face...

Yes, yes, yes, it looked a bit like her mother, but that was just family resemblance...

She shook her head, not believing it.

But it was true: the face she was seeing, the head that was flickering and jumping about in webspace, was her own!

Of course, more was visible than just the face. The lines she'd noted before—the edges—formed a frame around her face, almost as though she were looking at a picture of herself, but...

But that wasn't it—because her face was moving; not just jumping with the saccades, but shifting left and right, up and down, as the head moved on the neck. It was almost as if she were seeing herself on a monitor. But when had she been recorded like this?

The image was still jumping, making it hard to perceive detail, but she thought she looked pretty much as she did today, so this must not be from not too long ago. Ah, yes, it must be recent: she was wearing the glasses she'd gotten yesterday, the thin frames almost impossible to see against her face, but they were there, and...

And suddenly they came off, and the image went blurry. It continued to jerk and shift, but it was now soft and fuzzy.

But how could that be? If this was some sort of video of herself, the fact that she'd taken off her glasses while it was being recorded shouldn't have made the images less sharp.

After a moment, the glasses came back on, and then she saw it: a portion of the shirt she was wearing, a T-shirt she often wore, a shirt that said, in three lines of type, in big block capital letters “LEE AMODEO ROCKS.” She'd been struggling hard to learn letters, so again perhaps she could be forgiven for not immediately realizing what was wrong when she saw the word “LEE"—or most of it, at any rate; the bottom of that word was often cut off, making the Es look more like Fs and the L look like a capital I; the other words below it weren't visible at all. But as she caught another glimpse of the first word she realized it didn't say “LEE.” Rather, it said “EEL,” and the letters were backward.

She felt herself sagging against her chair, absolutely astonished.

The whole image was reversed left to right. The rectangle she'd perceived wasn't a picture frame, and it wasn't a computer monitor. It was a mirror!

She fought to make sense of it. When her eyePod was in simplex mode, it still fed images back to Dr. Kuroda's servers in Tokyo, images of whatever her left eye was seeing. This must be some of those images being fed back to her. But why? How? And why these particular images of her in the bathroom?

Of course, sometimes, as now, the images going back to Tokyo from her eyePod were her view of the structure of the Web: in duplex mode, the Tokyo servers sent her the raw Jagster feed, which she interpreted as webspace, and so that was what was sent back, almost as if she were reflecting the Web back at itself. And now it seemed—could it be? It seemed the Web was reflecting Caitlin back at herself!

It was incredible, and—

And suddenly a wave of apprehension ran over her. She'd been so intrigued she'd forgotten the electric shock, forgotten that she'd lost her ability to see the real world, to see her mother, see Bashira, see clouds and stars.

She took a deep breath, then another. Okay, okay: the electric discharge had crashed the eyePod. After the crash, she'd pressed the switch for five (seven!) seconds, and the eyePod had come back on in its default mode, like any electronic device rebooting. And that default, it seemed, was duplex: a two-way flow through the Wi-Fi connection, with data going from her implant to Kuroda's lab, and data coming to her implant from Jagster.

And, well, if that was the case, then she merely had to hit the switch again to return to simplex mode.

She'd heard the term “crossing one's fingers” before, but hadn't yet seen anyone do it, and wasn't quite sure how to contort her digits for the proper effect, but with her left hand she tried something that she hoped would serve, and she took the eyePod into her right hand and gave its button one quick, firm press. The device made a low-pitched beep.

She held her breath, as—

Thank God!

—as websight faded away, and her bedroom, in all its cornflower-blue glory, came back into view.

To be concluded.

Copyright ©2008 Robert J. Sawyer

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novella: THE RECOVERY MAN'S BARGAIN
by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

* * * *

Illustration by Broeck Steadman

* * * *

Experience is educational, especially when an alien culture is involved—but education isn't always fun for the student!

* * * *

The fidelia plant gave off its own light. Hadad Yu recognized it by the faint bluish-purple luminescence that shone like a beacon in the fetid swamp. His hands shook.

His entire future stretched before him, in the guise of a flower half the size of his thumb.

Three years. Three years and a dozen false leads had brought him here, to this thousand-kilometer swamp between Bosak City and Bosak's only ocean. He was 632 kilometers in, at the lone stand of colesis trees his scanners had been able to find.

The colesis trees, warped and twisted by the lack of light, bent over him like adults over a small child. He wasn't sure if a larger man could have fit into the space. He was wiry and thin, something that usually worked to his advantage.

Like it did now. He wouldn't have seen the tiny bluish-purple light if he hadn't already stepped inside the circle of trees.

Now the key was to remove the plant without alerting the supporting vines or killing the delicate flowering mechanism. His client was paying for the flowering capability, not for the fidelia itself.

It was a miracle he had found the thing. Yu was beginning to believe that flowering fidelias had gone extinct centuries ago. He was willing to keep searching on all the inhabited worlds in this small sector because the client was paying expenses and because she was in no hurry to get the fidelia.

He had worked two hundred other jobs while working on this one, fattening his bank accounts and upgrading his ship. Besides, as he had explained to the client, work on the fidelia had to go slowly. Because of the demand for the flowering version, he had to work alone. Any lead would send an assistant to another client, offering to find a flowering fidelia for one-quarter Yu's price.

Personally, he had thought the quest for the flowering fidelia an insane one. A plant easily grown in a hothouse had become an interstellar sensation among the very rich. Why? Because the flowering version couldn't grow in a hothouse, and because old legends claimed that the flowering fidelia cast a light so beautiful that nothing compared to it.

Yu wasn't sure it was the most beautiful light he'd ever seen, but it was soft and delicate, with a strength that took his breath away.

Part of the light's beauty came from the flower itself. The flower peeked out of the fidelia like a bashful woman. Its petals were silver, the leaves around it a faint veiny green. The light seemed to come from above, illuminating the flower's center.

He crouched near the flower, careful not to touch it. The old writings said that a flowering fidelia remained in bloom for sixty nights, but would die if removed from its habitat. The only successful removals had taken sections of the habitat, and even then, the flower's bloom only lasted a week after the removal.

Fortunately for him, his client didn't want the flower for the bloom or its particular light. She wanted it for its genes, hoping to do some hybridization so that all the captive, non-flowering fidelias could be reborn into something much more beautiful.

Part of Yu's pursuit these last three years had included study with several botanists, who taught him how to work with delicate plants in difficult environments. He hadn't even started his search for the flowering fidelia until he could remove the non-flowering variety from its home tree without killing the tree, the vine, or the fidelia itself.

Even though he had the skills, he was nervous. The wrong touch and the light—that precious light—would go out forever.

He slipped on his breathing mask. Usually he hated the damn things—they smelled of cleaning chemicals and recycled air—but he was relieved to put it on now. The stink of the swamp—a combination of rot, feces, and burning sulfur—was supposed to fade the deeper he had gone. But it hadn't.

He removed his collection kit from his travel pouch. The kit had delicate steel cutters as well as plant resealers. He wrapped the container around his waist, but he didn't open the lid yet.

The bit of colesis tree inside was different from the trees in front of him. The wood was dry, for one thing, and it wasn't twisted.

The few botanists who specialized in non-flowering fidelias stressed that the attached vine would need a similar kind of colesis tree or it would recoil, maybe even kill the fidelia itself.

He didn't dare toss the bit of colesis he had brought with him—no one knew if the trees, which had a hearty (albeit primitive) communications system through the roots, could communicate when they weren't root-bound.

He didn't want to slog three days back to the skimmer he'd left on the closest mapped island. In that skimmer, he had four more kits as well as two empty containers.

But he couldn't risk the journey. He could travel the three days there and back, only to find that the flower was gone.

He really didn't want to camp here until the fidelia flowered again.

Because that was the other problem: No one knew how often the blooms appeared.

He had to trust that colesis trees communicated only through touch—whether it was in the root system or through the water that stained his boots. The studies of colesis trees focused mostly on whether that communication ability indicated sentience.

Like so many similar studies of other plants and creatures found in the known universe, this study proved that the colesis tree had no sentience at all. Yu had a hunch that some future crisis would show that the colesis tree really was sentient in some form or another, and the Earth Alliance would work to guard the species.

But for now, what he was about to do was perfectly legal—even if it did make him squeamish.

He stepped back in the muck and examined the fidelia's colesis. The tree was nearly lost beneath the thickness of the vine wrapped around it. He'd seen the vines surrounding colesis trees being grown in large domes, but those vines had been as thin as his fingers.

This one was thicker than he was. The little hairy tendrils seemed like whiskers or some sort of vine protection device.

He wasn't even sure his steel tools were strong enough to chop through the vine, let alone the tree.

But he couldn't use a laser scalpel. Nor could he just blast away. He had to work carefully and quickly so that nothing would sense the injury before he was done.

So he turned to one of the colesis trees behind him. A separate vine wrapped around the nearest tree. That vine was thick too.

Yu slipped on his membrane-thin gloves and gently, ever so gently, used his thumb and forefinger to touch the edges of the vine.

It was softer than the vines he was used to, and the exterior was thin. So thin, in fact, that he was afraid the very presence of his fingers would rupture it.

Which presented a whole new problem. He didn't want the vine to disintegrate on him.

He made himself take a deep breath of chemical tinged air. He had to relax. Something could go wrong. And what was the worst case?

Worst case was that he would move on, see if he could find another flowering fidelia. It might take months, it might take years, but he would be all right.

He hadn't notified his client of this find yet, so she had no expectations of success. She had warned him that he would only get one chance at getting a flowering fidelia for her. She gave him a time limit—eight years—to find one. If he found one and failed to bring it to her, or worse, killed it in the process, she wouldn't pay him. Worse, she would tell all her very rich friends that Yu was a cheat, a liar, and an incompetent.

She would make certain he never had work within the Alliance again.

Her threats terrified him almost as much as the big payout attracted him. That was one reason he took so many lessons in botany. Another was that he usually avoided such large payouts. Usually, he found small items for people who had lost them.

Lost was a loose term. Perhaps it was better to say he recovered items for people who did not have them. Why they didn't have those items wasn't his concern. Sometimes those items were legitimate heirlooms, truly lost or stolen. Sometimes the items were merely things that the client wanted and couldn't have, things that might, in the strictest sense of the word, belong to someone else.

Yu's recovery policy was simple: He never asked the client for proof of ownership for an item he went after. He always assumed the client owned the item and somehow misplaced it. Such a defense had worked when he'd had a run-in with authorities, most of whom couldn't touch his clients—either because the clients had too much money, too much clout, or weren't Alliance members.

This client, Magda Athenia, had both money and clout, and she had opted out of the Alliance decades ago. She claimed to be retired, but she kept her hand in a score of businesses.

Yu had researched her before he had taken on the search. First, he wanted to know if she had the kind of money she claimed she had. She did. Then he wanted to know if she honored all agreements she entered into, even handshake deals. So far as he could tell, she did. Never once had a case been brought against her in any existing court for breach of contract. All employees, past and current, had nothing bad to say about her.

He did not take the research much farther. Some of his colleagues—the ones who specialized in large payouts like this one—often tried to find out why the client wanted an item. Sometimes the client was a collector. Sometimes the client needed the item to enhance his business. And sometimes he wanted it to humiliate a rival.

Yu didn't care why his clients wanted their items. To be truthful, his clients weren't that important to him. The importance—for him at least—was the hunt. If he were more of a collector himself, he would gather his own items. But he didn't have a permanent home, and he loved to travel light.

So he used the clients as a way to keep himself fed, and as a way to keep himself active and searching. He got paid when and if he delivered.

For the past twenty years, if he took a job, he delivered.

He hadn't missed.

Not once.

It was that statistic that had brought Athenia to him in the first place. The high-end Recovery Men (and all but a few in this profession were male, for reasons he never fully understood) had a failure rate of about 50 percent. Some of that wasn't their fault. Sometimes they found themselves pursuing items that didn't exist. Even with the legend factor taken out of the equation, though, the high-end Recovery Men failed 25 percent of the time.

Now, standing in this swamp, facing away from the flowering fidelia but still bathed in its light, he wondered why he had ever taken this case. It certainly wasn't for the money. He had known from the start that he might not get paid.

It was the challenge, the near-impossibility of the idea.

The hunt.

At least one Recovery Man had failed before him. That made this particular hunt even more tempting.

Yu took a deep breath, tasting chemicals. He hadn't failed yet. Even if he killed this flowering fidelia, he wouldn't fail.

The very idea soothed him, calming his nerves.

Then, before he had a chance to think, he whirled toward the flowering fidelia, steel blades flashing. With one quick movement, he slashed a circle in the colesis tree—a big circle that cut through the vine as well as a large section of the tree's interior.

With one hand, he tipped the container upside down, dumping the dried, straight colesis into the murky water. With the other hand, he pried the circular cut off the standing colesis. As the first colesis hit the water, he moved the container, catching the twisted colesis, its vine, and the precious flowering fidelia.

The light continued to pour from the flower.

So far, it seemed, the vine and the fidelia didn't sense anything wrong.

He slammed the lid on the container and shoved it into his travel pouch. Then he scurried out of the copse of trees.

The Alliance might believe that the colesis weren't sentient, but he wasn't going to gamble his life on that fact. He ran through the swamp, hitting the summon button for the skimmer.

He stopped a few kilometers away to make sure the container was stowed properly. When he was certain it was, he took out his scanner, checking for other colesis trees. There were, he remembered, half a dozen that stood alone between here and the swamp's entrance.

He was going to do everything he could to avoid them.

He was going to do everything he could to survive.

* * * *

The skimmer reached him twelve Earth hours after he had found the flowering fidelia. He was never so happy to see a machine in his entire life.

The skimmer was long and flat—a costly rental that he never would have splurged for if it weren't for the fact that Athenia paid for all expenses promptly. The interior formed only when a passenger was on board. As he stepped inside, the once-flat top of the skimmer became a dome made of clear black material. He gave the skimmer verbal orders to find the quickest way back to Bosak City, where his own ship was.

He went into the captain's quarters—a fancy name for the skimmer's only sleeping compartment—removed his clothes, and showered not once but five times, finally giving up when he realized the stench of the swamp probably wouldn't leave his nostrils until he physically left the area.

Then, and only then, did he go back into the main cabin and open the travel pouch.

The container still glowed with that bluish-purple light. As long as he saw that, he knew that the flower was still alive.

He slumped in the pilot's chair. Relief filled him, even though he knew the journey wasn't done. He still had to get the flower to Athenia.

The question was, when did he notify her? If he waited too long, the flower might die of its own accord. If he did so too soon, he might lose his one chance at success.

What mattered most was timing.

If he could find out where Athenia was staying and how far it was from Bosak, then he would know if he had time to make certain the flower lived.

He couldn't make that determination on the skimmer. He might not even be able to make it on his ship. The Nebel had a good computer system, one that could tap into the systems of most ports, but he wasn't sure if it would work with Bosak's port.

The place truly was as far away from the Earth Alliance as he liked to go.

Since he could do nothing except wait, he closed his eyes. He needed the rest.

He knew that leaving a planet with contraband material could be tricky. It could be even trickier when that contraband material was a living plant.

He needed to be alert when he faced Bosak's version of space traffic control.

The last thing he needed was yet another arrest.

* * * *

Hadad Yu had been arrested fifty-six times. Forty-nine of those arrests had been within the Earth Alliance and three of those forty-nine had been so serious he thought he was going to have to spend decades of his life in prison.

But he'd managed to slip away each time. Most of the lesser charges he could talk his way out of. The seven times he'd been arrested outside the Alliance, he had used his clients—or his clients’ lawyers—to free him.

But the three serious charges had taken a lot of smarts, a lot of bargaining, and in one instance, a case of bribery that was even more illegal than the crime he'd been charged with.

As a young man, he'd looked on the arrests as part of the game.

Now, though, he hated them—not just for the time they wasted, but for the luck he was using up. Some day, he knew, that luck would run out.

He thought of all of this as he sat on the bridge of the Nebel, waiting for permission to leave Bosak City. Each of the three ships ahead of him had received permission, only to be stopped just inside the dome. Inspectors boarded and hadn't emerged for at least two Earth hours.

The Nebel was four times the size of those other ships. It was a cargo vessel that he had purchased five years ago with the proceeds of his last big job. It was a Gyonnese ship, which meant that it had a lot of wonderful equipment that was so unusual most Earth Alliance inspectors had never seen it, even though Gyonne was a long-time member of the Alliance.

Yu hadn't followed all Alliance protocols either. The cargo bays probably weren't as clean as they should have been. If a ship went through standard Alliance decontamination procedures, then it also got a thorough inspection. He didn't want the interior of his ship on any port database.

One of the things that had saved him in the past was that his ship didn't fit any known model. Inspectors didn't realize that the interior of the ship was larger than it appeared. Nor did most know how many separate environmental systems it had.

So if an inspector tested the air for contaminants in, say, the bridge, he'd get a completely different reading than he would in one of the cargo bays.

Usually, though, Yu didn't have such sensitive cargo. He had to keep the flowering fidelia near him. The plant needed all the atmosphere he could provide. He had it in a darkened room off the bridge itself, a room he kept as humid as possible, and he hoped that would be enough.

So far, the fidelia still glowed. He hoped it would for another day when he could finally—safely—contact Athenia.

Nebel, said an official voice. Prepare for interior scan.

Yu let out a breath. He had already protected this deck from the scan by creating a shadow deck, one that would look good on most equipment in most ports. He hoped it would work here.

Scans show you have living material near the bridge that is not on your manifest. Please explain.

Yu cursed silently. He could try to tough it out or he could pull his only bargaining chip. He didn't have time to research Bosak law, so he didn't know how closely it was bound to Alliance protocol.

If Bosak law followed Alliance protocol, he had no shot, not with the contaminants this ship had been exposed to.

He waved his hand over the console. His movement had switched on his side of the communications array.

“Space Traffic,” he said. “I have a special license that allows me to carry items not listed in the manifest. I am sending that license to you now.”

He passed his fingers over a different part of the console, then sighed. Either the port would reject the license outright or it would take time to examine it.

The license claimed that he carried top-secret cargo that had already been screened by various government regulators. It was legitimate. It would hold up to examination.

The problem was that the license had come from Athenia's company. Now he would have to notify her, whether he was ready to or not.

The silence on the other end both encouraged and worried him. If they were going to board him, they would do so in the next few minutes.

He sat very still, watching the monitors. Then the digitized voice returned.

Your license is in order. Thank you for spending time in Bosak City. You are cleared to leave.

He bowed his head, letting relief course through him. If he had been arrested this far out, he had very few options and even fewer bargaining chips. Athenia had been one of those chips, and he wouldn't have been able to use her twice.

Then he straightened his spine, passed his hand over the console to initiate the take-off procedures, and let the ship do the rest.

He had to contact Athenia before Bosak City did.

He had to let her know that the flowering fidelia was on its way.

* * * *

Fortunately Athenia picked a rendezvous spot only an Earth day away from Bosak. She had been excited to hear that he finally found a flowering fidelia, excited enough to pay his current expenses and to promise him a bonus if the thing bloomed for longer than the expected week.

Yu finally got some much-needed sleep. He sprawled on the large bed he had indulgently placed in the captain's cabin, secure in the knowledge that in a few hours the fidelia would no longer be his concern.

But it felt as if he hadn't been asleep more than a few minutes when the ship woke him up. An image floated above the bed—the Nebel surrounded by a dozen ships, some above, some below, some to the sides—all of them blocking his way.

“Is that a threat of something to come?” he asked the ship. “Or is that really happening?”

“It's really happening,” the ship said. The seductiveness of the voice, which he had programmed for solo trips, suddenly seemed inappropriate.

“Have they contacted us?” Yu sat up, rubbed his hand over his face. He felt bleary. How long had it been since he slept so deeply? A week? Two? A month?

“No contact,” the ship said.

Yu's stomach clenched. That wasn't good. He got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. “Can you show me a better image of the ships?”

“This is how they appear,” the ship said.

Yu wasn't sure what that meant. Was that how they appeared when the ship scanned them or was that how they appeared through the ship's various portholes?

“I'd like to see the ships’ identification,” he said.

“They have no markings.”

He was shaking now. The Nebel had no weapons, because he so often flew the large cargo ship solo. Instead, he had opted for great speed and all sorts of interior shadowing technology, which allowed one section to appear to be something it wasn't.

“The shadowing technology is on, right?” he asked.

“It is,” the ship said, “but we have not been scanned.”

No contact, no scan. His heart was pounding. “Have we been boarded?”

The ship did not answer. His mouth went dry. He walked to the door of his cabin and waved his hand over the locks.

They didn't open.

“Ship,” he said again. “Am I the only one on board?”

The image of the Nebel surrounded by a dozen ships vanished. A woman's face appeared in front of his door.

She had vertical blue lines running from her forehead to her chin, making it seem as if her face had been taken apart in sections and put together badly.

“You will be alone in a few moments, Hadad Yu,” she said. “We have let you know our presence as a courtesy. And we want to give you our thanks.”

“For what?” he asked, although he was afraid he knew.

She didn't answer. Instead she smiled and the image vanished.

He tried the door again. It didn't open.

“Secure channel YuPrivate,” he said, giving one of the many codes he had programmed into the ship.

“Yes?” The ship's seductive voice had vanished.

“Open the goddamn door to my cabin,” he said.

It slid open and he stepped into the corridor. The air had a slightly metallic odor that was unfamiliar—something the environmental systems hadn't yet cleaned out.

“Am I the only one on the ship?” he asked.

“Yes,” the ship said.

He cursed. He thought of grabbing a weapon, but decided against it. There was no point. If the images he had seen were accurate, there were too many people surrounding his ship. A weapon would only make him seem desperate and might, in fact, put him in danger.

Instead, he hurried through the empty corridor to the bridge.

It was empty. A small black holo-emitter sat beneath the pilot's seat. The woman's image, looking almost real, filled the chair itself. She had to have sat there at some point to get such a clean image.

She was shapely, her body stronger than most that spent a lot of time in space. She had muscular legs and powerful arms, visible through the ripped top she wore. The image smiled at him. The blue lines on her face were less disturbing when the rest of her body was attached.

“Hadad Yu,” she said. “The Black Fleet thanks you. While we will not return the flowering fidelia to you, we are forever in your debt.”

The Black Fleet.

He had thought they were a myth, something made up to scare Recovery Men and other solo travelers. The stories were wide and varied, but they all boiled down to one fact:

When a ship was filled with valuable cargo, it would find itself at the mercy of the Black Fleet. Sometimes the Black Fleet killed the occupants; sometimes it stole the ship.

“You're in my debt?” he said to the holoimage.

The woman smiled. The image had been programmed to respond to simple—and expected—queries.

“We would not be here without your expertise. We have used that expertise many times without your knowledge. After a while, even we feel guilty at not paying for a service.” Her smile grew. “And now, thanks to you, we can afford to be magnanimous. So we honor that with a one-time debt, payable in anything except the return of the flowering fidelia.”

She touched a hand to her forehead, and the image winked out.

He wanted to pick up the box and fling it across the bridge. But he knew better. The box could provide him with some answers. It also was the only proof he had of this debt. Not only that, he suspected the box had a way to contact the Fleet built-in.

If the rumors about the Black Fleet were true, then the rumors about its attitude toward debts were true too. The Black Fleet honored all debts, considered them life debts, and as such they were quite valuable.

He stared at the box. He supposed he could tap it for its secrets. Maybe the box itself provided him with the answers he needed—not just to the Black Fleet itself, but also how its members got on board his ship.

But he wasn't going to examine the box now. Instead, he walked to the room beside the bridge.

The door swished open to reveal complete darkness. The flowering fidelia's light had gone out. He wasn't sure what was worse: the idea that the flower had died or the idea that the Black Fleet had stolen it from him.

“Lights up 10 percent,” he said.

They came up slowly, revealing an empty room.

The container, with the fidelia inside, was gone.

He nodded. Then blinked at an unaccustomed moistness in his eyes.

“Ship,” he said. “How long has the fidelia been gone?”

“Two hours,” the ship said.

“What about the Fleet surrounding us?”

“It was here for thirty minutes.”

“Why didn't you wake me?”

“You left no such instructions,” the ship said.

He opened his mouth to argue, then paused. While it was true he had left no instructions to wake him during that nap, it wasn't true that the ship had no instructions about waking him.

It was supposed to wake him whenever a ship was in the vicinity, or if someone or something was trying to communicate with him.

The ship certainly should have awakened him if someone tried to board.

“Can you show me what the intruders did after they entered?” he asked.

“Certainly.” The ship displayed the same image that it had when it had awakened him—all of the ships surrounding the Nebel. Then it showed him the face of the woman. He suspected, if he hadn't waved it off, he would have watched her reappear in his chair as well.

They tampered with his systems. Now he had to figure out whether they had tampered before or after they boarded.

“May I see what happened after they left?” he asked.

“They have not left,” the ship said.

His stomach clenched. All of the messages suggested that they had left. Everything they had done suggested they were long gone.

He walked to the nearest porthole and looked out. He saw no ship. He went to the next porthole. No ship.

They had tampered with his systems. His ship still believed it was surrounded.

He needed to get around whatever blocks they had put into his shipboard computer. He tried a different question, one the Black Fleet probably wouldn't think of.

“Is there some kind of trail that suggests that ships have left the vicinity?”

“Yes,” the ship said. “More than a dozen ships have departed this area in the last twenty-four Earth hours.”

A dozen ships, like the ones on the screen.

“When did they leave?” he asked.

“I cannot tell from the trails, but they should thin within twelve hours. They have not.”

“Can we follow them?”

“You have programmed in a rendezvous point and time. If you wish to make the scheduled point and time, then we cannot follow.”

He didn't want to see Athenia. “Even if the ships are close?”

“They are not close. I can track the trails past this solar system. To chase them would mean you would miss any possibility of the rendezvous.”

“Can we find them if we follow?” Yu wasn't sure what he would do if he caught up, but he was contemplating an attempt.

“I do not know.”

“Did the ships leave at the same time?”

“Judging by the trails, they did.”

“And head in the same direction?”

“Yes,” the ship said.

“Can you make a map of these trails for me and plot a possible trajectory based on their directions?”

“Yes.”

“Save that for me,” he said. “I might need it.”

He looked at the maps themselves, then at the images of the ships. If the images were accurate, he would have had no chance of going up against them even if he had weapons. Every one of those ships could destroy his.

They got the better of him and he knew it.

So he headed to the rendezvous point. Athenia was the only chance he had. Her employees were scattered all over the known universe. She might be able to get someone to chase those ships and capture them before the bloom on the flowering fidelia died.

* * * *

“They offered me the flower at twenty times the price of my payments to you.” Athenia stood in front of wall with clear panels showing the blackness of space. She was a large woman with flowing silver hair. She wore a matching silver gown and silver rings on every finger. Silver dots outlined her eyes, accenting her dark skin.

Yu felt lost. He stood on a platform seven steps down from her. He could just barely see his own reflection in the clear panels. His eyes seemed larger than usual, his lips caught in a grimace. An illusion of the light made his curly black hair seemed streaked with gray. He looked older than he had just a few hours before.

Maybe he was older. Decades older.

He had lost the fidelia, and he knew it. The leader of the Black Fleet had tapped into his equipment and opened the ship's locks from the inside. Only one person had come on board, imprisoning him in his room, reprogramming the ship's computer, and taking the fidelia.

“Did you take the offer?” he asked Athenia.

“The idiots didn't know the flower could die if mishandled. They had no idea that there is a time limit on the bloom. They want payment up front, and they're too far from here to meet within the seven-day window.” Athenia stopped pacing, her skirts swirling around her. “So, no, I didn't pay them. And I'm not going to pay you.”

He had known that was coming. “I'm sorry. I had no idea they were monitoring my transmissions. It seems that they knew what I was searching for.”

“They knew what I was searching for,” Athenia said. “The moment you contacted me, they were alerted. They had plenty of time to plan their little heist.”

“I can go after them. I can find them—”

“And we still miss the window,” Athenia said.

Yu's palms were sweating. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his pants. “There may be more flowering fidelias in that swamp. If I found one, I can find others.”

She crossed her arms and looked down at him. “You forget our agreement. You had one fidelia. You lost it. You will not work for me again. Nor will you work for any friend or acquaintance of mine. I've already sent word through the various networks that you are inept. You should have planned for something like this.”

You should have warned me that the Black Fleet knew you were after the fidelia, he thought, but didn't say. Instead, he said, “I'm trying to make this right.”

“No, you're not. Had you done that, we wouldn't be in this situation. Now I'm out three years and more money than I care to think about.”

“You haven't paid me any fees,” he said.

“For which I am grateful. But you will repay your expenses.”

He felt cold. He couldn't afford that. “Our agreement stipulates that I get to keep those expenses.”

“Provided you made a valid search for the fidelia. I have no evidence of such a search.”

“I found a flowering fidelia,” he said. “I notified you of that.”

“I have no proof that such notification is accurate. For all I know, you were trying to justify those inflated bills you sent me every quarter.”

“I didn't inflate the bills,” he said. “And I didn't lie about the fidelia. I have holoimages of the plant. I can prove to you that I had it.”

“But can you prove to me that you didn't already sell it to someone else? Maybe that's how the Black Fleet got it. They paid you double what I offered and are now offering it back to me at a much higher price.”

A flush rose in his face. “I'm not that kind of man.”

“No,” she said. “You don't call yourself a thief. You call yourself a Recovery Man. You don't steal. You recover.”

That flush was so deep he felt like he was burning up from the inside out. “That's right. I recover things. I'm a professional. All of my interactions are professional. I trained with botanists so I wouldn't hurt the fidelia when I recovered it. That's the sign of a professional. Another sign of a professional is that I make agreements and I keep to them. I work for other people, not for myself. I do not steal. I trust that the people I work for truly need personal items recovered.”

“In other words, you're not the thief,” she said. “I am.”

Yes. That's exactly it. You're the thief. I'm the one who works for you and asks no questions.

“No,” he said. “All I'm trying to say is that I work in good faith. I do the very best I can.”

“And thieves don't? It seems to me that the Black Fleet was quite prepared and very professional. They certainly got the better of you.”

And you, he thought. Especially if it was your transmissions they were monitoring.

“Let me set this right,” he said. “I'll get you a new fidelia and I'll recover the one from the Black Fleet. Think of what you could learn from a flowering fidelia past its bloom and one in the middle of blooming.”

She glared at him. “I needed the blooming fidelia. You could not get that for me, so you're fired. On your way out, you will receive an exact accounting of the amount you owe me. I want the money within six Earth months, or I will add straight financial theft to the bulletin I sent out about you. At that point, I also will press charges through the Earth Alliance. You will be a wanted man.”

The second threat frightened him less than the financial one. He had been a wanted man off and on throughout the Alliance most of his career.

She must have sensed that her threats didn't impress him. “You will pay me. Or at the end of six months, I will hire Trackers to find you, confiscate everything you own, and turn you in to the Earth Alliance. Is that clear?”

Yu nodded. It was clear, and it was much more of a threat than she knew. If he cleared out all of his accounts, he would have enough to pay her back, but he would have nothing left. It had taken him a lifetime of work to compile that amount of money. The expenses had been fierce on this case, and he had paid them willingly because he never thought he would have to reimburse her.

But she had the upper hand. She could do all the things she threatened and more.

“Surely we can come to some kind of arrangement,” he said, his voice sounding timid even to himself.

“We already have an arrangement,” she said and left the room.

* * * *

Six months was not enough time to make the money that it had taken him a lifetime to earn. He considered with various options: he could find another flowering fidelia and sell it, like the Black Fleet was doing. He could track down the Black Fleet and exact some kind of revenge. Or he could hire himself out for the large jobs he had avoided until this one.

But it had taken him three years to find the first fidelia, and without Athenia's money, he might not be able to find another.

He could go after the Fleet. But he was one unarmed ship against at least a dozen. And what could he do when he got there? Call the debt by asking them to return the fidelia? They said he couldn't do that. And besides, by the time he found them, the bloom would probably be gone. He would gain nothing, except maybe the Fleet's enmity.

And that was if he could find them.

He settled for the remaining option—hiring himself out for big jobs—only to learn that no one would take him. Athenia had ruined his reputation in all the circles that counted.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He went to the Gyonnese.

Ostensibly, he went to have them repair his ship. He assumed the Black Fleet had done something—tapped in, ruined a section, figured out a weakness he didn't know—and he wanted the Gyonnese to fix it.

But his actual reason for approaching them was to see what kind of off-the-books work they could muster for him.

In the past, he had turned down their off-the-books jobs. Those jobs always skirted the edge of Alliance laws in ways that made even a Recovery Man nervous.

But he couldn't afford to be so picky now.

* * * *

Yu understood the Gyonnese as well as a member of one species could understand the members of another. He had lived among them off and on for the past decade, not because he liked them (he really didn't) but because their engineering skills fascinated him.

It was almost as if they saw the universe differently, as if the way things worked was an additional dimension, one that humans couldn't quite grasp. That was why he bought a ship modified by the Gyonnese, and why he did his best to gain their trust.

New Gyonne City spread like tendrils across a flat plain. From close orbit, the city's tendrils were impossible to distinguish from the tributaries of the continent's only river.

New Gyonne City was the Gyonnese's first colony city, founded on a moon not too far from Gyonne itself. Yu preferred the city, mostly because a section had been designed after the Gyonnese joined the Earth Alliance. That section of the city had things that Yu considered necessities—chairs, tables, a variety of human-compatible foods served in actual dishes.

As he landed, he sent out word that he was available for work. He had never done that before.

After he had gone through decontamination, customs, and immigration, he emerged into the main section of the port to find a group of Gyonnese officials waiting for him.

The Gyonnese were slender creatures, as fluid as their city. They weren't much wider than his thigh, with long bodies and even longer heads.

This group included some of the city's leaders. Most humans wouldn't have recognized them, but Yu had worked hard at distinguishing the Gyonnese's features.

The Gyonnese had eyes, placed in roughly the same position as human eyes, but whiskers composed the rest of their face. The whiskers were tiny and varied in color and length depending on age and gender. The Gyonnese rubbed their whiskers together to create the sounds that composed their speech. To be understood by most humans, the Gyonnese had to use an amplifier.

Yu didn't need one to understand them. He also knew that speaking in a normal human tone would hurt their ears (which were hidden somewhere in their midtorso).

“Hadad Yu.” The Gyonnese closest to him was the one who spoke. The Gyonnese often designated one of their number to communicate with humans.

Yu nodded toward the speaker in acknowledgement, but spoke to the entire group.

“You have broadcast that you are available for hire. Is this thing true?” When the Gyonnese spoke, it looked like the flesh beneath their eyes undulated. In reality, it was just their whiskers as they rubbed together.

This was the moment Yu could back out, and he probably should. To have so many high-ranking Gyonnese waiting for him did not bode well for the job they wanted to hire him for.

But this might be his only chance at work. And the Gyonnese paid well, even if they often asked for vaguely illegal things.

“Yes,” Yu whispered. He made sure the sound was so faint that most humans would think he was whispering to himself. “I sent a message that I am available for large jobs.”

“You have angered someone in the Alliance,” said the speaker. The others bobbed—their version of nodding.

“I have,” Yu whispered. “I had been warned that she was an unreasonable client. I spent three years on her job, but she would not let me finish. Instead, she is spreading lies about me.”

“That you are unreliable,” said the speaker.

Yu wished he knew their names. When he was speaking to humans, he tried to use names to put them at ease. But the Gyonnese did not use names.

Instead, they had honorifics, which were based on what stage of life the Gyonnese was in. Some were Elders, others were Apprentices, and there was a whole list of honorifics in between.

“She has said I am unreliable,” Yu whispered. “But an unreliable man does not work on a job for three years without payment. You know me. I have always worked well for the Gyonnese.”

“That is why we are here. We need to hire you.”

He figured as much. Normally, he would suggest a private place to discuss the work, but the Gyonnese did not meet aliens in private. Carrying on the discussion in the port was the best they would do for him.

“Tell me the job,” he whispered, “and I will tell you if I can help you.”

“We will pay your debt to this liar,” the speaker said as if Yu hadn't spoken. “And then we will pay five times your normal fee.”

He felt cold. His normal fee for the Gyonnese was always ten times larger than the fee he charged human clients. This job had to be huge.

“And,” the speaker said, apparently taking his silence for reluctance, “we will pay your personal expenses in advance. Any change in the cost will work to your advantage. If the expense amount is more, you will submit a final bill. If it is less, you will keep the difference.”

The muscles in Yu's back were so tight that they ached. He had to turn this job down now, before he heard their proposal. Because he knew the Gyonnese. They understood that this job wasn't one he would want to do. They were trying to bribe him.

And it was working. He would be able to keep his private funds, pay off Athenia, and have money enough to return to the small work that he preferred.

“What's the job?” Yu was glad he was speaking in whispers. He wasn't sure his voice would be steady enough to ask the question.

“We need you to recover a Fifth,” the speaker said.

It took him a moment to understand. They didn't mean a measurement. They meant a type of Gyonnese. The Gyonnese had great trouble having children. Most Gyonnese only had one child, which was called the Original. But at the larval stage, the Original Gyonnese divided into several other matching Gyonnese. Humans couldn't tell the others apart. Biologically, there didn't seem to be a difference. But the Gyonnese could tell. A Second, Third, Fourth, or Fifth was, to the Gyonnese, an inferior creature, subject to greater rules and stricter living conditions than the Originals.

Yu knew enough about the culture to understand that the Gyonnese who faced him now were all Originals. He was stunned that they had even mentioned the existence of a Fifth to him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered—and he truly was. He would have loved the money. “But while I am familiar with your culture and respect it a great deal, I am not sure I could tell a Second from a Fifth.”

He knew better than to say an Original from a Fifth, which was the actual truth.

The Gyonnese surrounding him raised their whiskers over their eyes. The gesture made a whispery clicking sound, which was their version of laughter.

“We do not send you after a Gyonnese Fifth,” the speaker said when after the whiskers had returned to their usual position. “We send you after a human Fifth.”

Humans don't have Fifths, he nearly said, and then he realized what the Gyonnese meant.

“You want me to go after a clone?” He spoke out loud.

The Gyonnese scuttled backward. He had done the equivalent of shouting.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I did not mean to speak so loudly. But by law, clones are humans, not items to be recovered.”

That wasn't entirely true. Within the Alliance, clones were considered human for some parts of the law—if one was killed, it would be considered a homicide—but in other parts, clones were just as insignificant as the Fifths of the Gyonnese. In many parts of the Alliance, clones had no economic legal standing. The original child received the inheritance and all the protections accorded to a child in a family. The law considered the cloned child as if it were an orphan.

As far as Yu was concerned, however, clones were humans. He did not recover humans.

“You'll need a Retrieval Artist to find this Fifth,” he said. Retrieval Artists usually hunted for Disappeareds, people who went missing on purpose, usually to avoid prosecution or death by any one of fifty different alien cultures.

“We have contacted seven such highly recommended ‘Artists,'” the speaker said, “before it became clear to us that none will take our money. They work for humans only.”

Of course. Yu hadn't thought of that. Retrieval Artists worked against alien cultures, not with them.

“A Tracker, then,” Yu whispered. “Someone used to finding people. I find things.”

“A Fifth is not a person as we understand it,” the speaker said.

That statement was accurate as far as it went. “Person,” as the Gyonnese used the word, only counted the Original.

“Does this Fifth live within the Alliance?” Yu asked.

“Yes.” The speaker scuttled toward him. He realized that the Gyonnese thought the question meant he would take the job.

He took one step back, which was the Gyonnese equivalent of putting up his hands. “The reason I ask is this. If I recover a human Fifth that lives within the Alliance, I am breaking human laws. The action would be called a kidnapping. I could go to prison for the rest of my life.”

He wasn't sure they understood what a kidnapping was, but they did understand prison. The Gyonnese had something similar for their own people, which was, he had heard, degrees worse.

All of the Gyonnese turned away from him. They merged into a small circle. They were discussing something, but he couldn't hear because they had shut off their amplifiers.

His stomach ached. He hadn't eaten well since Athenia ruined his life, and now the stress of this encounter was making him both hungry and nauseous. He wanted this meeting to end. He couldn't help the Gyonnese, and he wasn't sure how long it would take to convince them of that fact.

After a few minutes, they separated. They formed around him in a semicircle. The Gyonnese used circles as their primary meeting formation, and to include him inside one was a great honor.

“We understand kidnapping. We have studied much human law,” the speaker said to him. “We did not realize that such an act would apply to a Fifth. Our apologies.”

Yu felt his shoulders relax. He would be able to leave soon. “I accept your apologies.”

“We have another proposition for you instead,” the speaker said.

Yu had hunch he wouldn't like this one either, but he couldn't very well leave the circle.

“What's that?”

“We need you to recover a human criminal.”

He was so nervous he wanted to make a joke: would any human criminal do? But he said nothing. He waited.

“Her name is Rhonda Flint. She has murdered generations of Gyonnese. She has been found guilty in Alliance court, but she has not complied with the court's orders.”

“She's Disappeared?” he asked.

“No,” the Gyonnese said. “She must turn over her Original child. But she has not done so. That child has Disappeared, or so we believe.”

“And no Retrieval Artist will help with this either, I suppose,” Yu said. “But I know for a fact that Trackers will.”

“Trackers believe the child dead.”

Despite himself, Yu was intrigued. “You don't?”

“We think the Original might indeed be dead. But Rhonda Flint lives with a child, which we believe to be a Fifth. If the child is not a Fifth, we want that child. If the child is a Fifth, then Rhonda Flint is in violation of her court order. She has hidden the Original in such a way as to invalidate our legal rights. We want to take her to court, but the only way we can do that is to bring her ourselves.”

“Trackers,” Yu whispered. “They are your only hope.”

“Trackers must be hired through a human government. None will cooperate with us. We have a human lawyer who claims that such refusals negate Alliance law, but as we said, we cannot bring the case without her. So bring her to us. The same terms as before.”

“I don't understand,” he whispered. He had never seen the Gyonnese so serious. “The court can compel her to come forward.”

“The court believes circumstances have discharged her debt,” the speaker said.

“For mass murder?” The shock almost made him raise his voice again, but at the last second he caught himself.

“That is the problem. The Alliance—the humans within the Alliance do not believe that she has committed a true crime. That is the problem with this system all along.” The speaker crossed his long arms over his torso. It was an attempt to mimic the human gesture, but every time Yu saw it, it looked like sausages wrapped around a stick.

“I still don't understand,” Yu whispered.

“You humans allow what you call Disappearance Services for people like Rhonda Flint—”

“I thought she hadn't Disappeared,” Yu whispered.

A nearby Gyonnese touched the speaker behind his back. The speaker's whiskers flailed slightly, making a sound that didn't reach the amplifier.

“She did not Disappear, because the court and her corporation protect her. But let me be clear. It is the same thing. You humans commit crimes, serious crimes, and they do not fit in your customs, so you allow those criminals to escape, to build new identities. It is causing rifts in the Earth Alliance, one that may lead to the exclusion of humans from the Alliance if the situation isn't remedied.”

Yu's head hurt. This was much more complex than he was used to.

“Okay,” he whispered. “By your standards, she's a criminal.”

“By anyone's standards,” the speaker said. “She has committed mass murder. She is not going to be punished. We are going to demand punishment.”

“Or what?” Yu asked. “Cause an interstellar incident?”

“That is not your concern. Your concern is recovering this woman for us.”

It sounds like you never had her, Yu almost said. But he knew better.

“I'm not licensed for human trafficking,” he whispered. No one in the Alliance was.

“It is simply the recovery of an unwilling criminal,” the speaker said.

“Which I'm not trained for either. I work with things. Hire a Tracker.”

“This woman works for one of the largest corporations in the human universe. No human government is going to cross it.”

Which, Yu realized, was the crux of the problem.

“We will double the fee we initially offered you,” the speaker said.

The coldness grew worse. Clearly, he was their last hope.

“Show me what she did,” he whispered, knowing he was already lost.

* * * *

Rhonda Flint worked for one of the largest corporations in the known universe. Aleyd developed products all over the Alliance. Twenty years ago, the corporation had leased a lot of land on Gyonne, and had negotiated various deals with the Gyonnese to market the Gyonnese's farming techniques to poor regions of planets with difficult environments.

The Gyonnese had a terraforming technique that worked extremely well with unusual environments. Aleyd would market that in exchange for permission to lease Gyonnese land for its work on colonial products.

One of those products was a new fertilizer designed by Rhonda Flint. It was an aerial spray, which she tested near one of the Gyonnese's larval beds.

The spray was lethal to Gyonnese larvae. Sixty thousand Gyonnese larvae died. Had these larvae grown, they would have been Original Gyonnese. One hundred and twenty thousand families probably lost the ability to reproduce. The effect to the Gyonnese was devastating. It was as if an entire section of the planet had been wiped out.

For the first time in his life, Yu understood both sides of an argument. The Gyonnese larvae had already split. The genetic material had been preserved in a secondary larval bed. From a human perspective, the equivalent of a twin's fetus had been lost. While that was a tragedy, it wasn't like losing an existing child.

But to the Gyonnese, who considered anything divided from the Original to be inferior, entire families had been destroyed forever.

The Fifteenth Multicultural Tribunal had no Gyonnese sitting on that particular bench at that particular time. For the court, the incident was an intellectual exercise. While it understood the Gyonnese position, it did not show much compassion for what was, to the Gyonnese, the loss of sixty thousand children.

As her punishment, Rhonda Flint was to give up all her children—living and any born in the future—to the Gyonnese. But Rhonda Flint's daughter died in a horrible accident not long after the court's final ruling. If Flint had succeeded in cloning the child, the clones would not be considered children under the ruling or, indeed, under Gyonnese law.

But the Gyonnese were sophisticated. They understood that to humans, children—whether they were cloned or created naturally—were considered human. They knew that Rhonda Flint would consider the clone a true child. So they, rightly, believed she had circumvented the rule of law.

The Gyonnese had given Yu all this material and sent him to a diplomatic conference room to learn about it. He watched the spraying, saw the Gyonnese mourn their young, watched the end of the trial. He saw a visibly frightened human woman burst into tears when the verdict was called. Her lawyer had argued that she wasn't liable for her actions, that the corporation was.

While the Gyonnese had ended all of their contracts with Aleyd, they believed punishment needed a living face. And that face belonged to Rhonda Flint.

The court agreed.

It was convenient that Flint's daughter died shortly thereafter.

Yu was shaking when he finished with the materials. Not just because of what he had seen, but because he knew—on a visceral level—that the woman he saw sobbing on the holoimages before him was a mass murderer.

The Gyonnese adored their children. Because families could only have one—not by law, just a simple matter of biology—the Originals were so precious that they were kept from outsiders until they reached young adulthood. Even then the Gyonnese treated the young with an affection that touched him more than he wanted to admit.

If the Gyonnese were right, and this woman had her daughter—the original child—cloned, then she was skirting the law and the legal ruling. And that was wrong.

Of course no Tracker would take this case. Human governments wouldn't understand it.

And Retrieval Artists—at least the ones Yu had met—would think that the Gyonnese were overreacting. After all, there were four other identical “children” per larva. Humans would believe that those children should be treated equally with the Original. But the truth of it was, those children were not equal to the Gyonnese.

And that was what mattered.

Before, Yu hesitantly took the case for the money. Now he was going to bring back Rhonda Flint to face the courts again because it was the right thing to do.

Hadad Yu was normally not the kind of man who did the right thing.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with his strong visceral reaction to Rhonda Flint's crimes. Perhaps he had learned a kind of empathy for the Gyonnese that he hadn't realized. Or perhaps he needed a kind of hatred to go against his essential nature and recover a human instead of an item.

Whatever the cause, he was now on the case. He would remain that way until Rhonda Flint was in Gyonnese custody—something he would bring about with the same kind of precision he used toward finding missing items.

* * * *

First, he used the Gyonnese's information as the basis for his own research. He quickly learned that Rhonda Flint had moved from Armstrong on the Moon to Valhalla Basin on Callisto, one of Jupiter's moons. Callisto was the home base for Aleyd, which had turned Valhalla Basin into a company town where everyone had a connection to the corporation, even the visitors.

Second, Yu made certain that the original daughter was truly dead. He looked at the police reports, studied the visuals. He soon learned that Rhonda Flint now called herself Rhonda Shindo. Flint had been her married name. She had followed an old-fashioned custom and taken on the identity of the man who had fathered that daughter, a man Rhonda Flint/Shindo eventually abandoned.

Finally, Yu hired an assistant, a man he'd worked with before. Janus Nafti was strong and compliant. He was a big man who shaved his head and wore tattoos as if they were disguises. He wasn't very smart, but he worked hard. Nafti didn't question, did as he was told, and rarely spoke unless spoken to.

Yu promised him double the usual fee, telling Nafti that the Gyonnese were paying him twice as much as usual.

The rest of the preparations were simple. Yu researched Aleyd, Valhalla Basin, and Flint/Shindo herself. He learned that she now had an on-site job. She was allowed no contacts with races other than humans, and she kept her name off most research, even projects she spearheaded.

She claimed, in one paper she had delivered at an Earth-based conference, that she had taken a less adventurous position so that she could be home after school every day to be with her daughter.

Which led Yu to the Aleyd recruitment information system. He put in a request for Valhalla Basin, claiming he had family, and learned exactly how the systems worked there.

The houses were owned by the corporation and given to the employees according to pay grade. He even found floor plans and rough smart house schematics. He learned when the schools started, when they let out for the day, and which schools catered to what level of income.

Income was a specious term, since much of Aleyd's payments for its Valhalla Basin employees came in services, from medical care to shopping bonuses, all of which varied by pay grade. Essentially, everything he wanted to know about the entire community was available on Aleyd's recruitment site, including how to get through the port at Valhalla Basin with a minimum of fuss.

All of that relieved him. Kidnapping a human—no matter what the law or the Gyonnese called it—would be the most difficult thing he had ever done. He was happy that finding her, and figuring out the best times to take her, was easier than he expected.

He hoped everything else would be as well.

* * * *

Getting into Valhalla Basin's port required very little cunning. He bought seventy-five pieces of high-end Earth-made real wood furniture and resold them to Aleyd Corporation. His arrival on Callisto, then, was just that of a businessman making a delivery. He claimed a crew complement of three—two men and one woman—and hoped that no one would check how many crewmembers he brought into Valhalla Basin because the only one traveling with him was Nafti.

They unloaded the furniture quickly. They had permission to stay for three days, should they need it. Yu hoped they wouldn't need it.

He had memorized the map of Valhalla Basin, but nothing had prepared him for the real thing.

He had expected Valhalla Basin to resemble the Moon's largest city, Armstrong, with its cobbled-together dome, built over time, and buildings of all different styles and shapes.

But Valhalla Basin was uniform. The buildings in the downtown area seemed to have been built at the same time by the same architect. The dome was also uniform—one arched vista dominated by Jupiter, which loomed over the city like a round attacking ship.

He didn't need public transport to get to the neighborhoods. When he landed, he received credits, courtesy of Aleyd, to spend in local hotels, restaurants, and stores. The credits let him rent a vehicle for the day.

He wasn't sure if he should call the vehicle a car: it was larger than any car he'd ever seen, with six wheels instead of the usual four. The driver sat in the center, and any passengers had their own section behind him.

He had chosen the vehicle because the sectioned areas could be shut off and the doors double-locked from the front—a child-protection feature, he was told, but which seemed more like a prison to him.

Everything about Valhalla Basin seemed geared toward families and business. The downtown, with its austere silver buildings that turned color when the dome itself did, had the no-nonsense image cultivated by most Earth-based corporations. But the neighborhoods had a regimented personality.

He drove himself, Nafti, and what little equipment he'd brought into the neighborhoods, leaving the vehicle's talking guidebook on. The guidebook was designed for prospective employees, so its patter was upbeat and positive.

Even without the talking guidebook, Yu could tell when he got to the upscale neighborhoods. The more upscale the neighborhood, the more housing color varied. The houses got larger as well.

The talking guidebook explained all of this, also mentioning the perks of the house computer systems, something Yu had studied in depth before he arrived.

He'd paid a colleague to hack into the systems of the company that designed all the household computers for Valhalla Basin. The colleague had downloaded all the specs for the various systems, with a step-by-step guide for diverting the security system, wiping the memory clean, and taking over the House system without alerting the authorities.

Yu had run through it all on a practice model. He had made no mistakes, and his colleague believed he was ready to handle an actual House system.

Yu hated field-testing, but in this case, he had no choice. He had to disable Flint/Shindo's House computer before he did anything else.

He parked half a block away from the address he had obtained through Aleyd's corporate records. Rhonda Shindo and daughter lived in upper-level professional housing. Shindo had opted for the best possible kitchen and a spa in the corner of the back yard instead of a bonus room. She used the spare bedroom as a home office and added the optional second bathroom.

Yu had reviewed those plans so many times that he felt he knew this house. He'd toured the holographic model, he'd opened all of the various security systems, he had slipped through the doors as if they were his own. He was ready.

He only hoped Rhonda Shindo wasn't.

He had planned his arrival for the middle of the day, when Rhonda Shindo would be at work and her daughter would be at school. He wanted to establish himself in the house before either of them arrived, shut down the House system, and use the element of surprise to get Rhonda Shindo out of there with the minimum of fuss.

He had to deliver her alive and undamaged to the Gyonnese. He also had to check to make sure that Shindo hadn't done a secondary bait and switch. There was the slight possibility that her so-called cloned daughter, named Talia, was the actual original daughter, Emmeline.

Before he left, he needed to check for the mandatory cloning number, which was usually tattooed on the back of the head.

The house had a side entrance, made invisible from the neighborhood houses by nooks and crannies in the design. Valhalla Basin residents were encouraged to use the front entrance, in full view of the neighbors and the street. Most residents did, but Shindo didn't.

She did a number of things that weren't typical for Valhalla Basin residents, including a refusal to upgrade her House computer to the best model possible.

Yu's hacker colleague had already given Yu the repair code for the House system that Shindo was using. All he had to do was touch it into the small security panel on the side door, and the door clicked open.

“Nice,” Nafti whispered.

Yu whirled on him. Nafti had prepared himself for this job by tattooing his entire face and extending the whites of his eyes so that his blue irises looked like mere slits.

“I was just saying...” Nafti shrugged.

“Nothing,” Yu whispered. “You're saying nothing from now on.”

Yu knew that wouldn't last, but it would cut down on the random chatter. He stepped inside the house. The side door opened into a kitchen that smelled faintly of real Earth coffee.

“We have not put in a request for service,” the House said in a kind, matronly voice. “I shall notify the homeowner of your presence immediately.”

“The homeowner requested our presence,” Yu said. That claim would stall the House system while it verified his statement.

He went into the living room—sparsely decorated with the provided Aleyd furniture and a few personal items—and opened the House's control panel. One glance confirmed that Shindo had the system he expected her to have, with no upgrades and no internal modifications.

This was the system he had already disabled in his practices, and he did the same here. He set up the system to shut down any human's internal links, so no one could contact the authorities from the inside. He left the House's overall system mostly intact—so that environment, cleaning, and general maintenance went on as usual—but he dismantled every aspect of the security systems except the ones that would trigger an automatic silent alarm.

Which meant that the exterior security barrier was still active. All he did there was disable the cameras closest to the side door.

He saw that feature as a protection for himself as well. If anyone unexpected—even a police officer—approached the front door, the House would comment on it and ask him if he wanted to take action. The part of the House system that notified anyone outside of the house of an approach had already been disabled by the homeowner, probably because it would be annoying to be interrupted at work every time a neighbor came by.

Even though the work was easy, his heart was pounding. He was used to quick jobs. When he was recovering things, all he would do was enter, shut down the security system, and recover the item. He would already know where the item was, what it looked like, and how hard it would be to carry.

“Okay, we're in,” Nafti said from the kitchen. “Now what?”

“You let me work,” Yu said. “Go to the bedroom and wait. The woman will be here soon.”

But not that soon. Yu figured he had about three hours to prepare the scene. He wandered through the common area. He had to set up the repeating holographic message that the Gyonnese wanted to leave behind. The message explained Rhonda Shindo's crimes, in case the Valhalla Basin police did not know she was a convicted felon under Earth Alliance law.

The message would give Yu time to escape with his prisoner and get to the rendezvous point. Because even though the Valhalla Basin police department was on Aleyd's payroll, it had to enforce Earth Alliance laws. And Earth Alliance laws allowed for the capture—or in this case, recapture—of a convicted felon.

The thing that the holoimage did not mention was that, as far as the Earth Alliance was concerned, the conditions of Shindo's sentence had been met and there was no need to take her back into custody.

If the Valhalla Basin police force was like any other force, it would take them a while to access that information and even longer to act on it.

By then, Yu hoped to have already turned Shindo over to the Gyonnese.

The side door rattled, then banged open. Yu jumped, half expecting some kind of exclamation out of Nafti. But, for once, the big man said nothing. Maybe he hadn't heard.

“Mom?” A young girl's voice echoed through the silent kitchen.

Yu's heart pounded. He had hoped to avoid the girl entirely. She should have arrived home long after her mother had.

“Your mother has not returned from work as of yet,” the House said.

Yu felt a half second of relief. The House hadn't revealed his presence.

“What's that smell?” the girl asked.

Nafti's cologne. Yu had gotten used to it, but it probably trailed behind him everywhere he went.

“It is a mixture of yicia leaves and synthesized scent enhancers, probably initially sold in a spray form,” the House said. “I am unfamiliar with the brand name, but I could find it for you.”

“No,” the girl said with irritation.

Yu pressed himself against the wall. She walked past him into the nearest bedroom. She was as tall as he was, and rail thin. She also had the blondest hair he had ever seen.

“Just tell me where the smell is coming from,” the girl said.

“That information is not available to me,” the House said.

“What?”

Yu headed toward the bedroom, hoping it wasn't the one Nafti was waiting in. He didn't want Nafti to get to the girl first.

“What do you mean it's not available to you?”

“Exactly that,” the House said. “Certain things are no longer within my purview. If you would like the controls reset, you must contact the homeowner and have her use the established protocols.”

“Homeowner?” the girl said. “What—?”

Her voice cut off suddenly. Then there was a large bang, followed by a female grunt. Apparently Nafti had been waiting in that room after all.

Yu hurried in. Nafti had his strong arms wrapped around the girl. Her eyes were a pale blue and they flashed with anger.

“Who the hell are you?” the girl shouted. Then she said, “House! House! Notify security! Call the police! Call Mom!”

“I'm sorry,” the House said. “My emergency system has been disabled. If you would like to reinstate the programming, you need to...”

The House system continued speaking, but the girl screamed over it. She kicked at Nafti but he held her tighter, cutting off her scream.

“You're not supposed to damage her, remember?” Yu said. He had made that rule when he hired Nafti. Yu didn't want anyone to get hurt on this trip, particularly the girl and her mother. Not to mention the fact that the Gyonnese wanted Rhonda Shindo to be undamaged.

Nafti let the girl go. She staggered forward, gasping for air.

“Grab her arms and hold her, but don't hurt her,” Yu said. “I have to check something.”

Nafti reached for the girl and she slapped at him. The movement was ineffectual. She was still gasping for air.

Nafti caught the girl by the arms and pulled them behind her. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Not so tight,” Yu said.

Nafti loosened his grip. Yu walked up to both of them.

The girl stared at him in complete hatred.

“Sit her down,” Yu said.

Nafti sat. The girl had no choice but to do the same.

Yu crouched beside them. The girl continued to watch him, her pale eyes defiant.

“Bend your head forward,” Yu said.

She raised her chin ever so slightly. She never took her gaze off him. He both admired her spirit and worried about it. If the Gyonnese had sent someone else, her attitude could have gotten her injured or worse.

“Bend your head forward,” he said in his most menacing tone, “or we'll do it for you.”

“No,” she said. “And you can't make me.”

The answer was childish. He hadn't expected it from her. She continued to watch him, her cheeks turning a pale rose—whether from fear or anger, he couldn't tell.

Yu sighed and nodded to Nafti. Nafti clutched her arms with one beefy hand and put the other on top of her head, pressing it forward.

Yu brushed Nafti's fingers, releasing a little of the pressure. Then Yu pushed aside the hair at the base of the girl's neck.

He didn't see a cloning mark. By Earth Alliance law, clones were supposed to be marked with their number—the first clone getting a 1 and so on. He had expected to find a five.

That he found nothing made him nervous.

So had her behavior. Maybe he just wasn't used to sixteen year olds, but he didn't remember them being quite as reckless and childish as this girl. Maybe the Gyonnese had gotten it wrong. Maybe she wasn't the original child or a clone.

Maybe she was a sibling.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“How old are you?” she snapped back.

Nafti grinned at him. Yu glared. He didn't want the girl to know that she was impressing them.

“Cooperate, child,” he said. “Then we won't have to hurt you.”

She didn't say anything.

Nafti clutched the top of her skull and slowly turned her head until the strain showed in her neck muscles. Yu shook his head at Nafti but didn't verbally remind him to leave the girl alone.

Yu moved so that he could see the girl's face. It was red. Tears stained the corners of her eyes.

He wanted to tell Nafti to stop, but before he did, he needed to get control of this girl. So Yu said, “It doesn't matter to us what condition you're in, so long as you're alive. Doctors can repair almost any injury these days, so long as you don't die first. But they can't take away the pain you'll experience until the injury is fixed. You'll always have the memory of that. We can guarantee it.”

She blinked at him.

“Now,” he added, “tell me how old you are.”

“I'm thirteen,” she said, tears in her voice.

He was trembling. If she was a sibling, he had to take her and the mother. He wasn't prepared for that. He'd only said that the ship had a crew complement of three. He'd have to find a way to explain the girl's presence.

“Thirteen?” he said. “Stop lying.”

“I'm not lying.” The tears made her voice thicker. “Honest I'm not.”

“You can't be thirteen,” he said.

“I am.” Her hands clenched against the floor, but she no longer tried to get away. “You've got the wrong family.”

He felt a thread of panic. The houses did all look the same.

“You're Rhonda Shindo's daughter, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you confused my mother with someone else.”

He didn't answer that. She had no idea who her mother was.

Nafti kept his hand on the girl's head, but he watched Yu. “Maybe the mother shaved twenty-nine Earth months off her age.”

Yu thought about that for a moment. Maybe the mother lied to the daughter. She had lied about everything else.

“Or maybe they're counting her age in units other than Earth time.” Yu turned to the girl. “Tell me your age in Earth years.”

A tear ran down her cheek. She looked confused. “I'm thirteen Earth years.”

Yu cursed.

“The tag has to be on the back of the neck,” Nafti said.

“Only in the Alliance,” Yu said. What if Shindo had cloned the daughter outside of the Alliance? Then he wouldn't be able to tell if she was a clone or not.

“What tag?” the girl asked. “What's a tag?”

Yu ignored her. He reached for his pouch and said to Nafti, “A couple places do put the tag under the skin.”

He opened the pouch and brought a pen shaped laser identifier. He hated these things. They weren't always accurate. But it should at least reveal if she had a hidden tag.

She was watching him. “You're not going to cut me open, are you?”

The identifier couldn't cut open skin. It was designed so that it wouldn't harm anyone. But apparently, she didn't know that. So he decided to use it to his advantage.

“Naw, honey,” he said coldly. “Head wounds bleed.”

He moved the identifier toward her. She closed her eyes.

Nafti turned her head back to a normal position and Yu held the identifier about the base of the skull.

“Nothing,” he said in frustration. He didn't want to take her with him.

“Some of these places allow tags anywhere on the back of the head, so long as they're not in front of the ears for humans.” Nafti said. Yu wondered how he knew this.

Yu moved the identifier. He shoved more hair aside and then moved the delicate edge of her right ear. A number flared up at him.

“There it is!” Nafti said as if he had discovered it himself.

But Yu wasn't excited. He was irritated. The Gyonnese had it wrong. She wasn't a Fifth.

“It's a six,” he said. “A damn six. When were you born?”

The girl was shaking. She gave the date and the year in Earth time, then repeated it in Alliance Standard.

“Thirteen Earth years ago,” Nafti said as if Yu couldn't do the math himself.

“Six. That bitch put her here as a decoy.” How many children had that woman created for the sake of her own ego? How many had been captured by the Gyonnese before being let go as unworthy?

“What?” the girl asked.

She had the right to know what her so-called mother did to her. She had to know that she wasn't here as a beloved child, but as an extra round of protection for her mother.

“You weren't born, you know,” Yu said. “You were hatched. You know that, right?”

“What?” she asked again, her voice even smaller.

“Maybe she doesn't know,” Nafti said. Was the girl getting to him, too? “Or maybe she had things erased. You want to check?”

For once, Nafti had outthought him. Of course he would want to check. If the girl knew where the original was, then Yu could go back to the Gyonnese with that information—and without Rhonda Shindo.

“Please don't mess with my brain,” the girl said. She sounded truly terrified for the first time.

Yu ignored it. He had to.

“I don't have the skill to do a full memory recovery,” he said. He didn't have the skill to do a memory recovery at all. “I was just supposed to bring her back. Humans are out of my league.”

“There are truth drugs,” Nafti said. “I've used them before. Here, hold her.”

And then he swung the girl toward Yu. Yu grabbed her, feeling startled. Nafti must have worked with Trackers. Otherwise he would have had no need for truth drugs.

Nafti got up and left the room. Yu's heart was pounding. Would truth drugs hurt the girl? He had no idea.

The girl didn't say anything. She just trembled. He respected that silence. She was terrified, but she wasn't going to beg.

Nafti returned with a small vial. He poured some leaves from it into his hand. Then he grabbed the girl by the face, forced her mouth open, and shoved the leaves into it, massaging her throat until she swallowed.

She coughed and then choked. That was enough. Yu didn't care what she knew. He reached around and pulled the herbs out of her mouth.

Her eyes were already lolling in the back of her head.

“How much did you give her?” Yu asked.

“Normal dose,” Nafti said.

“For what size human?” Yu snapped. The girl fell limply against him.

“I dunno. Most.”

“This girl is younger than most. Get some water.”

Nafti disappeared again. When he came back he had a glass. Yu rinsed the girl's mouth. He'd hate it if she died.

“Can this stuff kill?”

Nafti shrugged.

Yu glared at him. “House,” Yu said. “Do you have medical protocols?”

“I do,” the House said.

“And a baseline for the daughter of Rhonda Shindo?”

“I do,” the House said.

“Analyze this and tell me if it will harm the girl.” Yu looked at Nafti. “Go pour that truth drug on the card near the main control panel. Now.”

Nafti disappeared into the living room. There was a momentary silence, and then the House said, “There are no harmful herbs here. Depending on the dose, the girl will either be quite talkative or she will sleep for several hours.”

“Looks like we got sleep,” Yu said to Nafti.

“If you would like,” the House said, “I will do a body analysis to see if the herbs have interacted with anything in her system.”

“Yes,” Yu said. “Do that.”

A small needle formed out of a nearby piece of rug. It took some skin and blood samples from the girl and then disappeared into the rug again.

Yu stared at it. He knew there was a reason he didn't own his own home. It could attack him at any time.

“She will sleep for twelve Earth hours,” the House said. “She has ingested no other drugs. She will awaken slowly and might be confused about what has occurred.”

But he wasn't sure he would be off-planet within twelve hours. He had to make sure she didn't notify the authorities.

“Put her in that closet,” Yu said to Nafti. “Make her comfortable. I'll take care of the rest.”

* * * *

The rest was reprogramming the House computer yet again. He locked the girl in the closet for twenty-four hours, making sure the House wouldn't let her out. He programmed the House computer to reset its security protocols in thirty hours, so that the girl could call for help if she couldn't figure out how to leave on her own.

That was the best he could do for her.

Then he prepared his message for the authorities.

He attached a holo unit to the side door. The unit replayed a recording of the spraying that Shindo had done. The Gyonnese had designed the holo unit. The Gyonnese had kept cameras on the field where their larvae were growing. The cameras were for the parents, so that they could see each moment of their child's development.

The recording had been edited down to just a few short minutes. First, it showed a wind-swept field under a blue sky. Light seemed thin, washing out the tall grass and the mountains beyond.

A running clock in both alien characters and regular numbers showed time lapsing. A vehicle hovered low over the grass, spraying a liquid.

Then the flying car disappeared and the grass died. The ground was brownish red, but parts of it turned black. The Gyonnese showed up, their whiskers moving in agitation. They bent in half and dug at the dirt, pulling up the dead larvae.

Larvae were usually light brown. These were black and shriveled.

The Gyonnese folded themselves in half, hands raised to the sky in a sign of complete and utter distress.

Eventually the image faded and words covered the screen: Ten thousand died in the first wave. Twenty thousand families lost generations of genetic heritage. This act was repeated twice more. Sixty thousand Gyonnese have paid with their futures.

How has Rhonda Flint paid?

The Gyonnese had set up a contact button at the corner of the image, and that proved the hardest to attach. Because the House's communications with the rest of Valhalla Basin had been shut off, Yu couldn't test to make sure he had set up the contact button correctly.

He had to hope that the instructions the Gyonnese had given him were correct.

He finished with very little time to spare. He checked on the girl—she was still unconscious, and she seemed unharmed. He made sure the closet was secured, then he went searching for Nafti.

Yu found Nafti watching a holoshow in the other bedroom. He had sprawled on the bed as if the place belonged to him.

Yu flicked the show off. “You were supposed to be monitoring the House.”

“The House monitors the House.” Nafti stood like a kid who'd been caught in his parent's room.

“And we shut that off, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Yu had to remind himself that he had hired Nafti for his muscles, not his brains. “We're going to wait for the woman outside.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to catch her in here?”

It would have been, if Yu hadn't already shut down a lot of the House's systems and installed the holoimages in the kitchen. Rhonda Shindo would know the moment she walked in the house that something was wrong.

“Stop asking questions. Just do what you're told.”

Nafti must have caught the note of exasperation in Yu's voice because he nodded. They collected everything they had brought, then Yu stopped and directed a housebot to thoroughly clean every room except the kitchen and the closet part of the girl's bedroom. It wouldn't prevent the authorities from figuring out who took the woman—especially since the girl had seen him—but it would slow them down and give them time enough to authenticate the message the Gyonnese had left.

That message would turn the attention from him to the Gyonnese. Then he could continue with his quiet life, finding little objects for people who paid him too much money.

He helped Nafti out of the house, found the man a hiding spot near the back yard—one that would be in the line of site from Yu's hiding spot—and instructed Nafti to move only when he got the signal.

Then Yu slipped into his own hiding spot, not too far from the side door.

Rhonda Shindo arrived five minutes later. She was slim like her daughter, but not as tall. She had the same bronze skin, but her hair was dark and pulled back. Her eyes were dark too. The girl had apparently gotten her striking looks from the father who believed her dead.

Shindo wore a pants suit and heels, conservative like the rest of this place. She carried a briefcase, which surprised Yu. So far, she didn't seem to notice anything wrong.

He wanted her to just get inside the door before he grabbed her. Then he and Nafti could drag her to the back yard and their vehicle without catching much attention.

But she touched the door before opening it and drew her hand back, as if she had been shocked.

He could hear her speak—and the House answer—but the words weren't clear. He cursed silently. He hadn't expected her to talk to the House from the outside.

He crept forward. The House was reciting an ad for an upgrade and Shindo was looking annoyed.

She set down her briefcase as she said, “Just tell me if Talia put the electronics on the door.”

“Not this time,” House said. “The electronics were placed by a man who deleted his identity from my files. He conducted a thorough scrub but forgot to delete the section in which I monitored his deletion.”

Yu silently cursed. What else had he forgotten? Or just plain missed? Could the House still notify security? Had it?

“Would you like me to bring that up on the wall panel to your left?” the House asked Shindo.

She was frowning, deepening the lines around her nose and mouth. “Yes, I would like to see that.”

The visual would alert her to the problem. The element of surprise was slipping away from him, and he wasn't in the right place to alert Nafti.

So Yu stepped forward. He stopped right beside her. She was his height and thinner. He could probably subdue her himself.

“There's no need to see it,” Yu said. “I did it.”

She turned. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, the only sign that she was startled. “I don't think we've met, Mr.—?”

Politeness. He hadn't expected that. He waved his hand beside him, a small signal for Nafti, but he wasn't sure if Nafti could see it from this angle.

“We haven't met, ma'am,” Yu said. He could be as polite as anyone else—more polite, even, if he needed to be. “But I know who you are. You're Rhonda Shindo. And just so that we remain on an even footing, let me tell you that I'm a Recovery Man.”

Her body stiffened. “I've never heard of a Recovery Man.”

“I think it's pretty self-explanatory.” He was watching her, but out of the corner of his eye, he was hoping to see Nafti. “I recover things. Sometimes I even recover people.”

That last was a lie, at least until today.

He added, “I work for the Gyonnese.”

Her mouth opened. He couldn't tell if she was surprised or not.

“And don't play dumb about the Gyonnese,” he said. “It's all on record.”

That seemed to help her find her voice. She raised her chin, just like her daughter had done. It seemed to be the family gesture of defiance.

“That was settled,” she said, “long ago, under Earth Alliance law.”

She glanced toward the front of the house. She was thinking of running. If she got too far out, she would be able to call for help through her links.

“Actually,” Yu said, staying close to her, “the case would be settled if you'd handed over your daughter to the Gyonnese. But you didn't. You hid her.”

His words startled him more than they startled her. He wasn't talking to her just because he was waiting for Nafti. Yu still wasn't sure he wanted to do this.

He wanted to hear how she answered.

“No,” Shindo said. “I didn't hide my daughter. Talia's been with me the whole time.”

Nafti took that moment to show up. He approached silently, stopping half a meter behind her.

“Talia's not the child the Gyonnese want and you know it. Talia is too young.” Yu took one step toward her.

Shindo took a step back and ran into Nafti. He didn't touch her—apparently remembering Yu's instructions this time.

She glanced over her shoulder and had to look up at Nafti's tattooed face. She looked from Nafti to Yu and then toward the front again. She was trying to figure out a way out of this.

“Talia is the only child I have,” she said.

Her answers weren't helping. She actually sounded panicked for the girl.

“Technically, she is the only child you have,” Yu said, “but she's also what the Gyonnese call a false child. Very clever of you to have the number placed inside the skin, behind an ear. The tag itself intrigued me. The number we found was six. There are five others out there.”

She looked trapped for the first time. Trapped and terrified.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Tell me where the real child is.” If she did that, he could leave without her or the girl. The Gyonnese wouldn't complain so long as they got the original child.

“Talia is my real child,” Shindo said, and it sounded like she believed it.

Which disappointed Yu. Maybe she had killed the others, so that the remaining clone would be the only child. Or maybe she had just killed the original. Sometimes it took several attempts to get a viable clone. Five attempts wasn't unheard of.

“Technically,” Yu said, “Talia's yours. But the Gyonnese want the original. The true child. Remember? I'm sure you do. It's the heart of the case against you.”

“Please,” she said. “Leave us alone.”

She glanced toward the street.

“You know I can't do that,” Yu said.

“I don't know that.” Now she did sound panicked. “I've already told you where my child is.”

“Give us the true child,” Yu said, “or we take you.”

Her mouth opened, and the panic became even more visible. She clearly hadn't thought anyone would take her. The courts only ruled on the children, as a punishment to her.

“You can't take me.” Her voice shook. “I'm not on the warrant.”

“We are under orders to take you.” Yu was staring at her in contempt. She hadn't created those clones to have a child. She had created them as a buffer, to keep herself away from the Gyonnese.

Children, be they human or Gyonnese, didn't matter to her.

She raised that damn chin even higher. “Show me the legal document giving you that right, and I'll come freely, so long as you let me contact my attorney.”

Nafti was watching all of this in confusion. He held his arms out slightly so he could grab her if he needed to.

“We don't need a legal document.” Yu was going to take her. He knew that now. And he didn't care what the Gyonnese did to her.

At least the child would be all right. In fact, the child would be better off without her.

Shindo's chin came down. Her eyes were wild. She had finally realized that Yu meant to take her, no matter what.

“You need a warrant,” she said. “The Gyonnese are part of the Alliance. They have to go by Alliance law, just like the rest of us.”

Stupid, arrogant woman. As if she cared about the law.

“If you went by Alliance law,” Yu said, “you would have given up the true child fourteen years ago. Humans flout this law all the time, with their Disappearance Companies that aren't prosecuted for secreting criminals away and giving them new identities. The Gyonnese decided if you people can do that, they can hire a Recovery Man.”

Shindo lunged toward the front of the house. Nafti didn't even have to run after her. Instead, he just wrapped his arms around her, imprisoning her against him.

His grip was so tight that tears came to her eyes.

“You're coming with us,” Yu said.

“Let me contact my lawyer.” She didn't struggle like her daughter. She must have realized how futile struggling would be.

“If you had one, you'd've sent a message through your links by now.” Although Yu knew better. He'd blocked link access this close to the house. “And he couldn't help you anyway.”

“Kidnapping is a capital offense in human societies.”

Yu shrugged. “We're just taking you for questioning.”

“Against my will.” Her voice rose in panic.

Nafti inclined his head toward the back, silently asking if Yu wanted him to drag the woman away.

“What did you do to Talia?” Shindo finally asked. It had taken her long enough.

“Nothing,” Yu said.

“But you said—”

“I said we found the tag.”

“How?” Shindo's voice broke. Now she was going to pretend that the daughter mattered to her. Although it was much too late to convince Yu.

“Just a little touch behind her head,” Yu said. “She'll wake up soon enough. Then she'll miss you and go to the authorities and someone will find our message attached to your door, and they'll know that you're a mass murderer, who has so far managed to escape justice.”

Her face was flushed. “Gyonnese law supercedes here. That's Alliance precedent, and under Gyonnese law—”

“The Gyonnese have true laws and false laws,” Yu said. It was one of the many quirks of their civilization. He'd had trouble with that from the moment he started working with them. “They seem to thrive on more than one system. And while they prefer the known universe to see their true laws, sometimes they have to rely on the false laws.”

“Like now,” Nafti said into her hair.

“But Talia...” Shindo said.

“You don't need to worry about her any more,” Yu said, as if she had ever truly worried about the girl. “Now it's time to start worrying about yourself.”

* * * *

“I'm not going to be able to listen to this any more,” Nafti said. “I have a headache.”

He'd been saying that since they got back to the ship. They had imprisoned Shindo in a cargo bay and she'd been pounding on the door ever since. Even though the ship was large, the sound echoed throughout, thrumming into the bridge like the base line of a particularly bad song.

“I mean it,” Nafti said. He rubbed his bald head for emphasis. He had cleaned the tattoos off his face and removed the whitener from his eyes. Now his skin was dark and pristine and his eyes a deep, royal blue. “I'm getting sick here.”

So was Yu. His head ached as well, but he wasn't sure if it was from the woman pounding below or Nafti's reaction to it.

“All right,” Yu said. “Go down there and make her shut up.”

“Do I hurt her?” Nafti had been frustrated ever since they got back from Shindo's house. Every time he'd come close to hurting her, Yu had stopped him.

“No,” Yu said. “Just bargain with her. Or tie her up. Or something.”

He didn't care as long as it got done. He had more important things to think about.

Like getting off this rock. It hadn't been hard to get Shindo to the ship. In fact, it had been surprisingly easy. No one questioned the way they hauled her to the vehicle, hauled her out of the vehicle, and dragged her through the port.

He supposed they figured if she really needed help, she'd send a message through her links. But he was using a small handheld that blocked any link communications. The device had limited range—it literally had to be on the person it was blocking—so no one else's links were effected.

To passersby, she looked drunk or crazy or both.

Valhalla Basin's port had its own departure customs, and they were almost as annoying as Bosak City's. Yu monitored the equipment, and finally the promised holoimage appeared in the center of the bridge floor.

The image showed his cargo ship in yellow, the ship ahead of his in green, and all the ships behind in red.

Yu had to acknowledge the notification. He brushed his hand across the top of the board, then got a timeline in response.

Not long until liftoff.

Then, in the little holoimage, the top of the port swiveled, and an opening appeared above his ship. His board confirmed: the first stage to liftoff had occurred.

His stomach turned. The moment he left Valhalla Basin with Shindo, he would have committed a major crime within the Alliance.

He had his defense ready—he had holoimages of the Gyonnese confirming the work as well as their promise that they were acting under the advice of their own legal counsel.

He was going to argue—if he had to—that what he had done was no different from a Tracker recovering a Disappeared.

Even though he had a hunch the Earth Alliance would see this differently. It certainly felt different. He kept thinking about that poor girl, stuffed in the closet, and wishing he had set the controls to free her sooner than twenty-four hours from the moment he left.

“Hey, Hadad?”

Yu jumped. He'd never heard any voice on the ship's speakers before except the voice of the ship herself. But this voice belonged to Nafti, and he sounded hesitant.

“What?” Yu made sure he sounded as annoyed as he felt.

“Um, this woman down here, she says the cargo hold is poisoned.”

Yu punched a button to the left of the no-touch board. Nafti's ugly bald head appeared next to the image of the ships awaiting liftoff.

“I'm busy here,” Yu snapped. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Because she listed at least five of the cargos that we carried in the last six months.” Nafti looked scared.

“So? She found a manifest.”

“You said we don't keep a manifest.”

They didn't. Yu frowned. “How would she know?”

“She says that there's contaminants in the hold.”

“Nonsense,” Yu said. “We have a service that cleans everything.”

It wasn't really a service. It was a bunch of cleaner bots he'd liberated from a previous owner. They were supposed to glow red when they reached their limit of hazardous materials.

“Well, the service ain't working,” Nafti said.

The timer was blinking. His ship on the holoimage in front of him had turned a pale lime as the yellow blended into the green.

“I don't have time for this,” Yu said and deleted Nafti's image.

Then Yu ran his hand above the board, feeling how easily the ship rose upward. Silent, maneuverable—empty.

His sensors told him that the port had indeed opened its roof for him, there were no shields, and he was clear to take off.

Which he did.

Then he flicked an edge of the board.

“Your wish?” The ship asked in its sexy voice.

His cheeks flushed. He needed to change the voice to something more appropriate. “Scan cargo hold five for contaminants harmful to humans. And I don't want the chemical names. I want the street names.”

“Such a scan would be harmful to the life form inside the cargo hold.”

“Then do a scan that won't hurt her,” Yu snapped.

“I have a list of the contaminants,” the ship said. “Some do not have street names. I am confused as to how you would like this information. Would you care for the chemical names in the absence of street names? Or would you like symptoms and cause of death?”

“Just scroll through it,” he said.

The ship created its own holoscreen and presented a list that scrolled so fast Yu had trouble reading it.

But what he did see chilled him.

He cursed. “Ship, how good are our medical facilities?”

“Adequate to most needs.”

“How about someone exposed to all that crap you're scrolling at me?”

“Ah,” the ship said as if it were human. “We have adequate equipment, but no guiding medical persona. I can download something from the nearest human settlement, but I can't guarantee its ability to solve any problems that might arise—”

“How soon before someone trapped in that cargo hold starts showing symptoms?”

“From which contaminant?” the ship asked.

“Any of them,” Yu said, wishing the damn computer wasn't so literal.

“Well, the first compound—”

“No,” he said. “When will the first symptom from anything in that hold show up?”

“Mr. Yu,” the ship said in that rich voice, which at the moment seemed more sulky than sexy, “symptoms should have started appearing within the first hour of contamination.”

“Scan the life form. Is it healthy?”

“I do not have a baseline for my scan. I do not know what condition the life form was in before it got on the ship.”

“Just scan her, would you?” He clenched a fist, then opened it slowly. He didn't dare hit a ship that ran on touch.

“The scans are inconclusive. If the life form was in perfect health, then it is showing symptoms,” the ship said.

Yu cursed again. “How long do we have before the illnesses caused by this stuff become irreversible?”

“Impossible to say without a baseline,” the ship said.

“Assume she was healthy,” Yu snapped.

“Then two to twenty-four Earth hours. I would suggest a treatment facility, since you do not want to download a medical persona. Would you like a list of the nearest venues?”

Yu rolled his eyes. Any treatment facility in this sector of the solar system would be an Earth Alliance Base. He didn't dare go near those places.

“Download the best persona you can find,” he said. “Better yet, download two or three of them. Pay the fees if you have to. I want cutting-edge stuff. Modern technology. Nothing older than last year.”

“Yes, sir,” the ship said. “This will take fifteen Earth minutes for the various scans and downloads. May I suggest you remove the life form from the cargo hold and put it in quarantine?”

“You may suggest any damn thing you want,” he muttered. But he opened his links and sent a message to Nafti.

Get her out of there, but don't go near her. Put her in the quarantine area, the regulation one for humans, okay?

How do I get her there without touching her? Nafti asked.

I dunno, Yu sent. Tell her she's going to die if she doesn't do what she's told.

But you said we can't kill her, Nafti sent.

Not us, stupid, Yu sent. The hold itself'll kill her. Tell her the quarantine room is our exam facility. She'll run for it.

Hope you're right, Nafti sent, then signed off.

Yu hoped he was right too. Because this job was a lot more trouble than he had bargained for.

* * * *

Yu monitored the decontamination from the bridge. He wanted to avoid the woman as much as possible—not because she was contaminated, but because he didn't want her face burned into his memory any more than it already was. He wanted to be done with this job—and quickly.

Unlike some of his equipment, the decontamination machine was state of the art. He needed the best for his own use. Often he went into areas that weren't Alliance supervised or Alliance approved. He didn't want to wear an environmental suit all the time, and he didn't want to bring back any exotic diseases.

Shindo's decontamination went well. The machine caught and eliminated more than 95 percent of the contaminants. The remaining 5 percent would be tough to get, however, and that was why he needed the medical personas.

He had them installed in the medical lab, which he had never used. He kept the lab well stocked, however, since he traveled alone so often.

Nafti had supervised Shindo's trip from the cargo hold to the decontamination unit to the medical lab. Then Nafti had locked her in there, and had gone exploring the rest of the ship himself.

Yu didn't know what Nafti was about, but he could guess. The man was a horrible hypochondriac, and he was probably trying to see if those contaminants had spread from the cargo holds to the rest of the ship.

A bell sounded. It was an audio alert that he had set up so that he would notice any unusual behavior.

“Yes?” he said to the ship.

“The medical lab has sealed itself off,” the ship said.

“What does that mean?” Yu asked.

“I can no longer access information from the medical lab,” the ship said.

“How is that possible?” Yu asked. But he knew. The ship had several systems grafted one on top of the other. If a knowledgeable person managed to tap one system, that person could lock out the remaining systems.

Apparently Shindo was more knowledgeable about ship's systems that he knew.

Yu cursed and bent over the board, trying to override whatever the hell she had done. He had investigated her as best he could before taking this job. He had thought he knew the limits of her knowledge.

She was a scientist, but one that specialized in chemical and biological systems. She had never flown a ship, never taken piloting classes, never so much as hired a private vehicle.

She seemed to have no technical skills at all except for the ones needed for her job.

Apparently she had more technical skills than he realized.

The door to the bridge opened and Nafti came in, wearing a battered environmental suit.

“You were wrong to trust those bots,” Nafti was saying. He tapped on his suit. “You should be wearing one of these. You should go through the decontamination just like that woman did.”

Yu didn't say anything. He had to concentrate on getting the medical lab back on line. Whatever the hell that woman was doing—good or bad—it worried him.

He was hoping it was just the new medical personas causing a glitch in the system, but if that was the case, so far he couldn't find it.

“You're not listening!” Nafti said.

Yu sighed. He hadn't been listening. But he lied. “I am listening. You don't understand.”

“What don't I understand?”

“That you're a hypochondriac.”

“What?”

“You got a headache when she started pounding. Then the canny woman mentions contaminants, which all ships have, and you go off the deep end. You put on that suit, which, by the way, looks like it might have some integrity issues, and you go all over the ship looking for contamination, forgetting that the suit is probably contaminated from its contact with the hold.”

Nafti looked down. The suit creaked as he did so, and Yu saw a rip along the neck.

“I did carry the wrong cargo in the hold,” Yu said, “and I clearly didn't double-check whether or not the bots were full. I thought they worked. Obviously they didn't. But the ship is fine or we wouldn't have been allowed in and out of the ports, especially the ports in the Earth Alliance.”

Which wasn't really true. He had dozens of ways to make sure his ship wasn't thoroughly inspected.

“Honestly?” Nafti sounded vulnerable.

“Yes, honestly,” Yu said. “Remember that the holds have their own environmental systems. I showed you that when I hired you years ago. You asked about it.”

Nafti reached up and removed the helmet. His face was covered with beads of sweat and his skin was red. Obviously the suit's environmental system hadn't worked properly either.

Yu tapped a few areas on the security monitor, trying to get access to the medical lab.

“I did ask, didn't I?” Nafti said.

“Yes,” Yu said.

“I'm not a hypochondriac,” Nafti said.

“Then what are you?”

“A worrier.”

“What would you have done if this entire ship were contaminated and I refused to pay for your medical help?” Yu asked.

“It's not, right?” Nafti asked.

Yu ran his hand along the security board. “What did I just say?”

“You said it wasn't.”

“Then maybe you should believe me,” Yu said, “and stop thinking about the authorities.”

“I wasn't,” Nafti said.

“Deny that you would demand a full decontamination of the ship when we got to the next port,” Yu said.

“It was only sensible if the ship's contaminated.”

Yu leaned forward. “Think, you dumbass. What happens when you get a full decon?”

“The ship gets inspected....” Nafti's voice trailed off. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Do you know how many unapproved systems I have on this ship?”

“Is that why you've never had an inspection?”

“What do you think?” Yu snapped.

Nafti wiped at his face with his gloved hand. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Yu said. “When I hired you, I demanded your full trust. You violated that today.”

“I got scared.”

“I know.” Yu double-checked the security board a final time. “Take off the suit.”

“I'm not sure I should.”

“It's got a rip in the back. It never worked right. We've got to destroy the thing.”

Nafti reached around back, then stuck a gloved finger inside the rip and started. Apparently, he had touched his own skin. He cursed.

“Next time, let me do the thinking, okay?” Yu said. “I didn't hire you to think.”

Nafti unhooked the front of the suit. The fasteners still worked. They opened themselves quickly once he started the sequence.

“Sorry,” Nafti said again.

He stepped out of the suit and left it in a pile near the navigation controls.

“I need you to get back to work,” Yu said.

“Can I go to my quarters first? I'd like to change.”

And he'd probably shower and linger, making sure he hadn't contracted anything from the flawed suit.

“No,” Yu said. “Get to the medical lab.”

“Why? They're diagnosing her. She should be there for a while.”

“She should,” Yu said, “and so far as I can tell, she still is.”

“What do you mean, so far as you can tell?”

“The lab isolated itself.”

“What does that mean, isolated itself?”

“Maybe the three medical programs we just bought overloaded the system. That's what I hope it means.”

“You think she could've done something.”

“I doubt it,” Yu lied.

Nafti squared his shoulders. He looked reluctant to leave.

“When you're there,” Yu said, “you can have the medical system make sure you're healthy, okay?”

Nafti brightened. “Okay.”

He kicked the suit aside and left the bridge.

Yu summoned one of the cleaning bots and gave it orders to pick up the suit and send it through the ship's disintegration unit.

Then he tried the security monitor again. Nothing. He couldn't get through to the lab. He tried opening a back door and going at the lab from the basic part of the system. Still not possible.

He might have to dismantle the system from the outside just to get to her.

Yu sighed. That would be too much work.

If she wasn't out by the time they got to the rendezvous point, he would dismantle the system.

Otherwise, he would wait to see if Nafti could bully his way inside.

If anyone could do that, it would be his hypochondriac employee. Nafti was too scared to be denied access for long.

* * * *

Yu was beginning to panic.

The medical lab had been on its own for almost an hour, which was long enough for someone with hacking abilities to find links to the ship's control panel.

Yu had realized that about ten minutes ago and set the panel to respond only to his vocal and touch commands, hoping he wasn't too late.

Damn that woman. She was smarter than he had thought.

And Nafti hadn't contacted him, which Yu had thought he would. The moment Nafti had gotten a diagnosis from the medical personas, he should have told Yu. He would have told Yu.

Which led Yu to believe that Nafti hadn't gotten into the lab yet.

Then the door to the bridge opened. Finally. He checked the controls and saw that the lab was still offline.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Yu said. “What's she doing down there?”

Something felt wrong. He couldn't quite say what it was—a faint scent, a sound—but whatever it was, it made him turn.

Just in time to avoid being jabbed with a hypo.

The woman was in front of him, her hair falling across her face, her skin covered with reddish blisters, her eyes wild. She dropped the hypo and grabbed something from her belt.

He reached for her.

She slashed at him, and he yelped. Pain burned through his palm.

She was holding a laser scalpel.

He cursed and backed away. A laser scalpel was a close-up weapon. His hand was useless. His fingers ached, and two of them wouldn't bend.

She'd severed something.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked as he continued to back away. She came forward, the scalpel extended as if it were a knife.

“Saving myself,” she said.

“Where's Nafti?”

“In the medical bay,” she said. The tone of her voice was odd.

Yu's heart started to pound even harder. Nafti had confronted her, and he wasn't here. Had she attacked him too?

She lunged at Yu, and he moved to the right, grabbing her shirt with his left hand. More hypos fell onto the floor. She whirled, slashing with that vicious laser. It nicked his side—he felt the burn, knew it wasn't as deep as the cut to his right hand.

He had to do something, and quick.

He yanked her toward him with the shirt, let go, and for a brief moment, thought she'd regain her balance. She didn't. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back.

He shoved his foot into her knees, forcing her down. She slashed, getting a thigh this time, and the wound brought tears to his eyes.

He felt a moment of surprise—she might actually win this fight—and then he smashed her face into the side of the console.

She went limp, but he didn't trust it, so he smashed her face again. Then once more just because she had pissed him off.

Stupid woman.

He let go of her hair and she toppled.

She didn't move.

He hadn't expected that. He stood above her for a moment, catching his breath, feeling the ache from his various wounds.

She had no training as a fighter. It would have shown up in her records.

But then she'd had no computer training either, that he'd known of, and look at what she had done in the medical lab.

The medical lab. Where she had gotten her weapons.

Then somehow she had snuck up here without letting the computer know where she was and nearly taken over the bridge.

Nearly taken over his ship.

He was shaking. She could have killed him.

He collected the laser scalpel and its friends—she had hidden two more—as well as the hypos. He found cydoleen pills in her pocket and recognized them as extreme antitoxins. He put those back. The medical personas had probably given them to her to help with the contamination.

Then he searched the rest of her, finding two more scalpels—one against her ankle and another between her breasts.

He set all the makeshift weapons aside, dragged her to a chair on the far side of the bridge, and threw her in it. She listed to one side. She was covered in blood—and it looked like he had broken her nose.

“Computer, lock her into zero-g position in Chair Six.”

The chair closed around her, so that she couldn't float. Zero-g position also kept her a prisoner, unable to move, unable to set herself free without the proper commands.

Still, he made sure. This woman was smarter than he had given her credit for.

“Release her on my command only.”

The computer cheeped its affirmative.

Her head lolled forward, hair covering her face.

Yu studied her for an extra minute, stunned she had gotten so close.

Then he examined his wounds.

His thigh was cut open. She'd barely missed the artery. He would need some medical attention to close the wound properly, but that one wasn't life threatening.

Neither was the wound on his side. He'd lost a chunk of skin, but nothing else. He didn't know enough about his own internal anatomy to know if she'd gotten close to anything important.

But his hand was an issue. He could see the bones and the connective tissue, some of it severed. The pain was exquisite.

Repairing that might take more than three cheap medical programs and some bandages. He'd probably have to stop at some space dock and have a real expert repair his hand.

Or replace it.

He shuddered, then he kicked Chair Six. The woman's head lolled to the other side. Blood dripped from her nose. Yu'd done some damage of his own.

He was pleased about that. He'd leave her untreated. She could feel the pain for a while.

Behind him, the computer cooed. That was a different kind of alert, to let him know that whatever he'd been working on had succeeded.

In this case, he'd been trying to get into the medical lab. The computer had finally broken through whatever she had set up.

He turned to the nearest console and saw images of the medical bay.

Nafti was crumpled on the diagnostic table, clearly dead. None of the medical avatars had appeared around him. So much for state of the art. Somehow Nafti had been murdered in the very place that should have saved his life.

Dammit. Yu had liked Nafti, no matter how much of a worrier the man had been. The big dumb lug wouldn't complain any more. He'd been so worried about dying from a disease that he probably hadn't realized he was in more danger from the woman.

Nafti had underestimated her.

They both had.

And Nafti had paid for it with his life.

* * * *

Yu limped to the medical lab. He thought about having the bots bring the medical supplies to him, but he wasn't sure it was a good idea. The medical lab had been offline, and he wasn't sure if Shindo had tampered with more than the security protocols.

Maybe she had damaged the bandages or the medicine. He wanted to see for himself.

And he had a hope—a tiny hope—that Nafti wasn't dead, just unconscious. Or maybe even imprisoned, the way that Yu had imprisoned Shindo. Maybe she had somehow rigged up the cameras so that the image Yu saw of Nafti's body was a false image.

Yu had left her on the bridge, imprisoned in the zero-g chair. He'd also put a security bubble around her, so that she couldn't wake up and start talking to the ship. No matter what she had rigged—if she had rigged anything—she wouldn't be able to access it from inside that bubble.

He was so light-headed by the time he reached the medical lab that he thought he was going to pass out. The lab's door stood open, and he could see Nafti, sprawled on the diagnostic table, just like he had been in the image.

Nafti's eyes were closed, but his skin was an unhealthy shade of whitish blue. The diagnostics were running on the screen behind the table, and all of them read flat.

Nafti was dead.

Still, Yu touched his hand ever so lightly. The skin was cooler than it should have been. Nafti had been dead for some time.

Yu stood over Nafti for a long moment. The man looked lonely in death. Lonely and terrified, even though the dead human face never held an expression.

Yu clenched a fist. Damn Shindo. Killing Nafti like that. Cold-bloodedly. No wonder she had been able to kill the Gyonnese larvae, if humans meant so little to her.

He touched Nafti's hand one final time. “Sorry,” Yu whispered.

And he was. As irritating as Nafti could be, Yu didn't mean to get him killed.

Black spots appeared in front of Yu's vision. He was going to pass out soon if he didn't do something.

He scanned for a chair, and saw one not far from the diagnostic table.

The rest of the lab looked ready for use. He'd been expecting a war zone. Instead, he saw medications lined up on a nearby table, laser scalpels and bandages sticking out of drawers, and a drug list cycling on a screen nearby.

“I need assistance,” Yu said as he slumped into the chairs.

A medical avatar appeared. It had the form of a woman. The avatar was carefully formed so that she wasn't too tall or too thin. She had light tan skin and eyes that were rounded with a touch of angle at the edges. Her hair was a neutral brown, her eyes also brown, and her features spaced in that precise way that computer programmers thought average. The avatar wore a white smock over her brown slacks, and fake compassion filled her fake eyes.

“What happened here?” she said.

“Drop the patter and treat me,” he said.

She examined his wounds, picking at the edges of each carefully. After a moment, she said, “None of your wounds are life-threatening. But you need more than a medical avatar for that hand. I can bandage it up, but I cannot make it useful.”

“I just need it functional enough to get me to the next base,” he said, even though he wasn't going to the next base. He was going to drop off Shindo and get the hell out of the sector. Then he would deal with the hand.

“Understood,” the avatar said.

She cleaned the hand and put some kind of disinfectant in it, shooting him up with all kinds of medicines that she explained as she worked.

Finally, he said, “I don't care what you're doing. Just don't tell me about it.”

He didn't even want to watch her work. If she did it wrong, she did it wrong. The doctors on whatever base he stopped on could fix the mistakes the avatar made.

So Yu ordered up a visual of Nafti's last moments. The poor guy seemed to have had no trouble getting into the lab. Shindo had been staring at the laser scalpels, probably planning to use them as weapons. She had turned when the door opened.

Nafti had looked like the patient, not her, despite the pustules forming on her face. He just looked frightened.

He said, I thought we got medical programs.

You did, she said. I turned them off.

Why? The word was plaintive.

Because they have no more training than I do, she said.

“Stop playback,” Yu said. His stomach turned. That was how she had gotten Nafti onto the diagnostic tables. By pretending an expertise that she didn't have.

Or maybe she did have that expertise. She specialized in biology and chemistry, after all.

Yu looked at his hand, now carefully bandaged. The medical avatar was working on his leg.

Shindo certainly seemed to have a lot of knowledge about where to damage him. He had been twisting away from her. If he had faced her, she might have sliced right through him.

She was dangerous, more dangerous than the Gyonnese had led him to believe. She had seen Nafti's weakness, exploited it to get him to trust her, and then she had killed him.

Big, dumb bastard.

“Hurry up,” Yu said to the medical avatar.

He didn't dare leave Shindo alone too long.

* * * *

He managed to make it to his cabin, clean up, and change clothes long before Shindo opened her eyes. When he got back to the bridge, she was still unconscious. He took down the security bubble, made sure that the ship was still on course for the rendezvous, and then set about finding any modifications that Shindo had made to his ship's systems.

He had been working for an hour before she woke up.

“I could have suffocated.” Shindo's voice was nasal and thick. Her broken nose was making it difficult for her to talk.

He turned away from the console and crossed his arms. The movement hurt, but he didn't let her see that. He didn't want her to know how badly she had injured him, although he figured she probably had a clue from the heal-it field bandages the avatar had placed on him.

“You didn't suffocate,” he said.

Her face was black and blue and so swollen that she barely looked human. But those eyes were the same. They flashed as they met his.

“You never leave an unconscious person with a broken nose untended,” she said. “You don't know where the blood will go, what happens to the shattered bits of bone. You have no idea if that person is going to make it through the next few hours.”

“Yet you did well enough to wake up and harangue me.” He leaned against the console. “I monitored you. No sense delivering a dead criminal to the Gyonnese. Then you're not worth anything—to me or to them.”

He had to work to keep his voice flat. In fact, he had to work at remaining near that console. He wanted to walk over to her and slap her across that bruised face.

“Don't worry,” Yu said because she was just staring at him. “The rendezvous time is close. You'll be able to move then.”

She licked her lips, but he couldn't tell if that was from nervousness or from the pain. “I'll pay you double what they're paying you to take me home again.”

He smiled. So she was afraid. Terrified, not just of him but of the Gyonnese.

He liked the fact that she was terrified. It made him feel better.

“On the salary Aleyd pays you, you would pay me?” He shook his head. “It would take the rest of your life to pay my fee. Two lifetimes to double it.”

“I would get the money from Aleyd,” she said.

“Because they have an interest in keeping you out of Gyonnese hands?”

“Yes,” she said.

So that was how she had gotten so far. Her corporation had backed her. They had probably provided the lawyers and maybe even the cloning service for her child. Had they killed the original child too? Or just Disappeared it?

No wonder the Gyonnese were angry. They knew that they had no chance of getting justice, even before the case began.

He walked toward her. He let his smile fade and the hatred he felt for her show in his eyes.

She squirmed in the chair, but she couldn't get free. She was breathing shallowly, a sign of growing fear.

“You killed my partner,” he said.

“He wasn't your partner,” she said. “He was your employee.”

Interesting that she believed the distinction was important. Did she rank human lives the way she ranked humans above aliens?

If so, she would never understand why Nafti's death made Yu so angry.

So he said, “You tried to kill me.”

She nodded, hitting her chin on the edge of the chair and wincing. “I felt like I had no choice.”

Well, that excused everything. He was willing to die because she had no choice. He kept that sarcastic thought to himself and made sure he kept his arms crossed despite the pain.

“And now do you feel like you had a choice?” he asked.

She licked her lips again. “I hadn't realized you were being paid.”

She was lying. And even if she wasn't, he wasn't going to let her know that he thought her stupid.

“Why would I steal you otherwise?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “You could have been some kind of vigilante.”

“Out to get mass murderers and bring them to my ship?” He permitted himself a small chuckle. “So I'm some kind of vigilante hero in your fevered imagination.”

She winced. “I'm not a mass murderer.”

“At least, not intentionally,” he said, knowing the lie she would tell him. The Gyonnese believed the deaths were intentional, that she had been testing a weapon. He had no idea who was right.

The result was the same. The larvae were dead.

“Not intentionally killing someone makes it better, right? Like feeling you had no choice in killing me. That mitigates it, doesn't it?” He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice now.

Her wince grew into a frown. He wasn't sure if he was reaching her or just convincing her that she had no hope of getting away from him.

“Now you've killed a man with your bare hands,” Yu said, unable to let it go. “How does that feel?”

She raised her chin. He had gotten to her.

“How does it feel beating a woman within an inch of her life?” she asked.

He smiled again. And this time, he meant it. “After she tried to kill me? Exhilarating.”

She studied him for a moment. Then she bit her lower lip, as if she were thinking.

Finally, she said, “I can get Aleyd to pay you. We can set something up, some off-world account, and they can send the money. They will do it. They paid for my defense—”

“And that didn't work, did it?” Yu said.

“—and they paid to relocate me. They want me to stay away from the Gyonnese. Not all the suits are settled.”

He tilted his head back. She actually thought he would bargain with her. Did she think everyone as crass as she was?

“If Aleyd kills you,” Yu said, “then the Gyonnese won't have you.”

“If Aleyd wanted me dead,” she said, “it would have happened long ago.”

That was probably true. They wanted something else from her.

Or they felt she was too valuable an asset to lose.

“You're asking me to trust you,” Yu said.

“No,” Shindo said. “I'm trying to figure out the best way for you to make a profit.”

She wasn't even a good liar. “And for you to survive.”

“Of course,” she said. Then coughed so hard that she spit blood on the travel chamber's exterior. “You injured me badly. You might want to get those fake medical idiots up here to set the nose.”

“You injured me just as badly. I might lose my right hand.”

Her expression didn't change. She didn't care. The woman had no empathy at all.

“They build better hands now than we're born with,” she said. “Consider yourself lucky.”

He clenched his good fist. “You're a cold bitch.”

“And you're a coward,” she said.

He blinked at her, startled.

“If you had any guts at all,” she snapped, “you'd take my proposal.”

“If I had any guts at all, I'd take your proposal and then sell you to the Gyonnese.”

Her eyes opened wide. She clearly hadn't thought of that.

“Why do they want me so badly?” She was trying for plaintive. It wasn't working. “The case they had against me was settled.”

“They think you broke the law.”

“I did, according to the court,” she said. “That's why I lost.”

“After the case got settled. They think you hid your child from them.”

“You saw Talia. I didn't hide anyone.”

“The original child,” he said.

“Is dead.”

For the first time, he couldn't tell if she was lying. And he wasn't even sure he cared. She wouldn't tell him where the original child was, not even to save herself. That much was obvious.

But then, she also knew that he wouldn't kill her. So she had no reason to tell him.

She might tell the Gyonnese.

“The Gyonnese think the child is alive,” he said. “They're going to use you as an example.”

Her eyes seemed to get even wider. “An example of what?”

“They're trying to prosecute anyone who helps Disappeareds.”

“But I'm not a Disappeared.”

“Your child has Disappeared.” He let his arms drop, then winced again as his right hand bumped his leg. “Where else could they have gotten the cloning material?”

It was his last gamble. He wanted to know where that child was if it existed. Then he could get rid of her, however he wanted to.

He was no longer sure how he wanted to.

“We got the DNA from her body,” Shindo said softly. “They clone the dead on Armstrong. There's a whole industry that does it. I thought you knew that.”

She wasn't lying now. He could tell. Still, the news disgusted him. He hadn't known that the Earth Alliance allowed the cloning of the dead anywhere within its borders.

Cloning the dead was forbidden on most worlds where cloning was allowed.

He shrugged, pretending a nonchalance he didn't feel. “You'll never convince the Gyonnese of that. They want you. They want this case. They want to punish Aleyd. They lost an entire generation of children.”

“They lost what they call original children,” she said. “They weren't even sentient yet.”

He clenched his left fist. His right hand hurt too much to move.

“More excuses?” he asked.

“Those larvae divide.” Her eyes were bright. She had made these arguments before. “The genetic material is the same in all the subsequent larvae. Just because the originals were killed doesn't mean the individuals are gone.”

For someone who was supposed to be smart, she didn't seem to understand the flaws in her argument. He wondered if she would make that argument about human children.

Probably not, since she supposedly lived with a clone.

He said, “You'll never understand the Gyonnese, will you?”

“Why, do you?”

He shook his head.

“You live among them, don't you?” she said. “That's your home, isn't it? On the fringes of the Alliance.”

He had gone cold. He had never met anyone like her. Brilliant, but dead inside. He thought brilliant people were the most capable of empathy, but she was proving that theory wrong.

“I'm taking you to them,” he said. “This is all too fraught for me. Then I'm going back to non-living things. They don't try to kill me.”

“Oh, they will,” she said. “That cargo hold of yours is deadly.”

“I don't spend a lot of time there,” he said.

“It nearly killed me,” she said. “I kept some pills for the last of it. What happened to them?”

The cydoleen. He'd left the pills in her pocket. “They're on you.”

“Maybe you can get me some medical help and let me take one. I'd like to keep improving. Unless you want me to die before the Gyonnese get me...?”

He sighed. Then he waved his good hand over a nearby console. “Computer, transfer the medical programs to the bridge.”

“They're not designed for transfer,” the computer responded.

He cursed.

“You only need one of them,” she said. “Get whichever one has the capacity to touch. I need someone to set my nose.”

Stupid woman. All the medical persona touched. Otherwise they wouldn't work properly.

“I can't swallow otherwise,” she said.

“Send the expensive one,” he said to the computer. “And have the avatar appear in human form.”

“What about equipment?” the computer asked.

“Have a bot bring anything the avatar needs when the avatar asks. And do it quickly.”

The computer chirruped as it set about following his commands. Yu leaned toward Shindo, his face only centimeters from her battered one.

“I'm not doing this for you. I'm not helping you in any way. I'm getting my money, and I'm getting out of the human recovery business. If the Gyonnese kill you, fine. If they destroy the Disappeared programs, fine. If they exact revenge on Aleyd, fine. It'll have nothing to do with me.”

“It'll have everything to do with you,” she said. “Until you found me, this case was dead.”

He grinned. The look was mean. “I have news for you, lady. I didn't find you. I just recovered you.”

She was frowning as he turned away. She hadn't understood him. He went back to the console.

Then she moaned.

The Gyonnese had found her long before they hired him. Even if she went back, they would come after her again.

Her nightmare was just beginning.

And he couldn't have been happier.

* * * *

The rendezvous point was a closed science base on Io. The base looked like it had been abandoned a hundred years ago. Parts of the structure had fallen down. Other sections were scattered across Io's surface, as if some giant wind had come and shaken the place apart.

The landing had been scary. It was the first time he'd tried to maneuver the ship into a port without benefit of a copilot or space traffic controllers.

But he managed it. When the ship touched the old-fashioned pad that showed he had landed safely by lighting up everything around him, he felt relieved.

He glanced over his shoulder at Rhonda Shindo. She was unconscious. He had kept the bubble around her and cut off the oxygen until she passed out. Then he had given her a shot of something that would make sure she stayed out until he was long gone.

He had packed her into a moving crate that looked like a cold sleep coffin. Her face was still a little bruised. There had been a lot of damage, apparently, or the nanobots he'd been using hadn't functioned as well as he thought.

Her clothing also had blood on it, and was ripped along one side. He hadn't thought to bring anything else for her, and he really didn't want to change her unconscious form. So he left the ruined clothing on her, hoping that the Gyonnese didn't know enough about humans to care that her clothing was seriously out of order.

He wished now that he'd gotten more than his expenses and the payment to Athenia up front. Normally, he would have contacted the Gyonnese, have the bots deliver her in that coffin, and then leave.

But he couldn't do that. He had to make sure he'd get some payment, and this was the only way. He was afraid the Gyonnese would complain about her physical condition. Technically, he had not violated his agreement with them, but he'd worked with them enough in the past to know how picky they could be, and he worried about that bruised face.

He shut down all of the ship's systems except the essential ones. Then he touched the frame of the coffin, activating its float mechanism. He sent it to the nearest downshaft and followed, feeling like he was walking to his own death.

He shook off the thought and went to the lower levels of the ship. The science station only had an environment in selected sections and since the landing pad was open to the atmosphere, he had to trust a corridor that automatically attached itself to the side doors.

Considering how old this place was and how damaged, he wasn't going to do that. Instead, he was going to don one of the working environmental suits, let the coffin lead the way, and head out the cargo bay. He would wait until the suit let him know that the environment was suitable before he removed his helmet.

The coffin was already on the lowest bay level when he arrived. He opened a secret compartment off one of the corridors, removed his favorite suit, and put on a thick helmet with a mirrored visor.

According to his suit, the bay he walked through was as contaminated as the hold where he'd originally stashed Shindo. Maybe her face wasn't healing because the bruises there weren't caused by the broken nose. Maybe it wasn't healing because of the contamination.

That was her problem now. He'd given her the pills. She could decide whether or not to take them.

He sighed, then opened the bay doors.

The lights were still on full, revealing a rusted, ruined port, filled with a lot of broken materials and destroyed ships. The landing pad looked like the only patch of ground that wasn't covered with ruined equipment.

The coffin floated toward a sealed doorway. A green light rotated above it, theoretically telling him that everything was clear inside. He'd be able to breathe, he'd be able to stand without gravity boots, he would be warm enough.

Still, he tramped to the airlock doors, feeling like a giant in his suit. There was some Earth-level gravity here or his legs wouldn't feel like they were glued to the floor with each step.

Everything felt right—and if he were in one of the lesser suits, he might pull off the helmet the moment the airlock doors opened.

But this suit still hadn't cleared the area. It claimed that the oxygen, carbon dioxide, and carbon monoxide ratios were off. There was also another chemical that the suit didn't have the sophistication to identify.

At that moment, he decided to leave the thing on permanently. He wasn't going to trust that the unknown chemical was safe.

The airlock doors slid open and he stepped inside. The coffin came with him, crowding him as the doors closed behind him. Shindo looked peaceful even though she wasn't. He tried not to look at her. He didn't want to think about her more than he had to.

The interior doors finally opened, and the suit approved. The environment was perfect for him.

Still, he kept the thing on.

A welcoming committee of five Gyonnese ringed the exit from the airlock doors. Yu knew he'd seen all five of these Gyonnese before. In fact, before he had met them, he recognized them from the air vids the Gyonnese used to distribute news. These five Gyonnese weren't leaders of the Gyonnese, but they were the leaders’ assistants, famous in their own right among the Gyonnese people.

But Yu didn't know their honorifics and didn't want to guess.

“Where is the woman?” the nearest Gyonnese asked.

“Here,” Yu said, putting his hand on the glass coffin.

“You have killed her,” the Gyonnese in the center said. “She is worth nothing to us dead.”

Yu expected the comment, but hated it anyway. The Gyonnese were quick-tempered and violent. He'd been grabbed by one once: it was like being held by a braided rope made of gooey flesh.

“She's not dead,” he said. “She's unconscious. This was the easiest way to move her. I have to warn you. She's very, very difficult.”

“We know that,” the center Gyonnese said. “If she was not, she would not have killed our children.”

Yu sighed, hoping that the visor caught the sound. “I mean hard to handle. You'll need to restrain her from the first. And don't expect her to give in to anything. She's a fighter.”

He lowered the coffin so that they could see her face.

“That's a bruise.” He ran his hand over her face. “I broke her nose trying to keep her from killing me.”

“Will she live with that injury?” asked another Gyonnese.

“I had the injury repaired,” Yu said. “Even if I hadn't, she could have lived with it. Humans are resilient.”

“Then what has disfigured her face, if not an injury?” asked yet another Gyonnese.

“The injury disfigured it, and the technique I used to heal it hasn't gotten to that part yet. Also, she was exposed to some contaminants around the time she boarded my ship, so she has some medication to prevent an illness from them.”

“I thought humans could remove contaminants,” said the center Gyonnese. “Or is that a lie from the Aleyd corporation as well?”

“It's no lie,” Yu said, hating discussions with the Gyonnese. They were always circular, but somehow they never ended up where they started. It was as if the discussions did move forward, but in a way he didn't quite understand. “I used the standard method to remove 95 percent of her contamination. The remaining part is slower and requires the pills. Make sure she takes them if you want her to remain healthy.”

“We do not understand human physiology,” the center Gyonnese said. “We cannot be responsible for her care.”

“If you like,” Yu said, “I can download a medical program that will take care of things for you. I'd have to transfer it from my ship to the original computer in this science facility.”

“Do so,” the first Gyonnese said.

“However,” said the center Gyonnese, “do not expect payment for this program. We would not need it without your negligence.”

“I could have kept her from you until she healed,” Yu said. “I thought you wanted her quickly.”

“We do,” the first Gyonnese said.

The center Gyonnese said to the first Gyonnese, loudly enough for Yu to hear, “This human is cheating us. We can't even quiz this person to see if she is indeed Rhonda Shindo.”

Yu had forgotten that humans looked the same to the Gyonnese, just as Gyonnese looked the same to most humans.

“She is,” he said. “She has identification chips in her hands.”

“Which we cannot access,” the center Gyonnese said.

Then Yu understood. They weren't sure they could open the coffin. So he pressed the side and the lid slid back. The Gyonnese scuttled backward, swaying as they moved.

Yu grabbed her hand and hung it off the side of the coffin. “Check now.”

The Gyonnese stared at her. Their arms flailed behind their backs, fingers touching, obviously communicating in a way he did not understand.

Finally the first Gyonnese scuttled forward. With clear trepidation, he took her hand in his fingers and touched the nearest chip.

He started, then his whiskers spread out wide, and then he dropped her hand as if it had burned him.

“It is she,” he said to the others.

A visible shudder ran through him. He excused himself and scuttled into the darkness. A liquid sound, like water filling a bowl, echoed from that spot.

The other Gyonnese bent in the middle, their arms going up.

“Is he all right?” Yu asked.

The Gyonnese rose slowly, as if they were underwater.

Yu's heart pounded. He was afraid he had violated some kind of protocol.

Finally, the Gyonnese who hadn't spoken said, “Touching her has made him ill. He will recover, but he will never forget the shame of it.”

Yu wasn't sure what his reaction should be. “I didn't know. I could have found another way to verify.”

“There is no other way,” said the same Gyonnese.

Then the remaining four stared at him as if they expected something.

“Look,” Yu said, “I can download the medical program from my ship. She's going to wake up on her own in about four Earth hours. She'll be ready to fight. As I said, make sure she's restrained before that.”

“You are certain she is not dead?” the center Gyonnese asked.

“Positive,” Yu said, “and if you want, double check with the guy who touched her. Living humans are warm to the touch. She should have been warm. She still is, if someone else wants to verify.”

They all scuttled backward. He was glad they couldn't see inside his visor because he smiled at their reaction.

“She is warm.” The first Gyonnese came out of the darkness. His skin had turned an orange-yellow.

“See?” Yu said. “All I need is my payment. Then I'll send the download and leave you to do whatever you're going to do.”

“No,” the center Gyonnese said.

Yu froze. He'd expected some argument, but not an outright no.

“I delivered her,” Yu said. “You promised payment upon receipt. I trusted you. I didn't even take a deposit, and this woman cost me. She murdered my partner. See why I'm warning you?”

“We have no proof that your partner is dead,” the center Gyonnese said.

“I can give you his body,” Yu snapped. “You want it? I don't know what to do with it.”

Four of them scuttled even farther back, but the center one stayed in position.

“We shall pay half.”

“Half?” Yu asked. He hadn't expected this. The Gyonnese had always been fair until now.

“She is damaged. We know nothing of your kind. She might live until you are far from here and then die. We need her alive for court.”

“She's fine,” Yu said.

“You have told us she's ill.”

“I also told you it was nothing major.” But had he? Bruised meant that she was fine to humans, but what did it mean to Gyonnese? And the contamination. He'd explained the 95 percent but not how severe the 5 percent was.

“We have no external verification for that.”

“You'll have the medical program,” Yu said.

“Which you will give us,” the center Gyonnese said. “We cannot trust it.”

They had a point, but he wasn't going to concede it. “I want full payment.”

“You will get the second half when she appears in court,” the center Gyonnese said.

“Pay me three-quarters,” Yu said. “I've lost my assistant.”

“Half,” the center Gyonnese said.

“I'll take her away,” Yu said.

“Half.” The center Gyonnese took his long arms and folded them across his body. He had clearly negotiated with humans before.

Yu had already negotiated a full price higher than anything he'd ever received from the Gyonnese. Maybe they'd figured that out. Half would still be more than he'd ever made from them.

“Half,” he said, “if you pay me the rest after she wakes.”

“You are not staying,” the center Gyonnese said.

“Nope,” Yu said. “I'm going to get my hand repaired. When it's done, I'll come back, and you give me the rest.”

“When we take her to court.”

“No,” Yu said. “If I don't get the second payment in the next few Earth days, I'm taking her now. You get nothing.”

He heard a shushering sound and realized that was the other Gyonnese talking softly, without benefit of the amplification device.

Finally the center Gyonnese said, “Half. The second payment will come within one Earth week.”

That was about how long it would take him to find an adequate medical facility, to have the repair, and then to return.

“Fine,” Yu said. “I want the first half now.”

“Done,” the center Gyonnese said. “You owe us a medical program.”

“You'll get it as soon as I return to the ship.”

“How do we take custody of the woman?” the center Gyonnese said.

Yu pressed the side of the coffin. “Where do you want it?”

“We want it to follow us,” the center Gyonnese said.

“As soon as I verify payment, I'll program that,” Yu said.

Instantly his links hummed. They had been blocking most of the nearby network. He quickly scanned the account he'd given them when they made the deal, and then he tapped part of the coffin.

“She's all yours,” he said. “Good luck with her. You'll need it.”

* * * *

And finally, Yu was free. He hurried back to his ship, closing all the doors behind him and setting double locking protocols. He used an emergency voice command to power up the systems before he got to the bridge, and he didn't even remove his environmental suit as he moved through the ship.

He stopped at decon and went into the machine himself. He left the environmental suit in a secondary decon unit.

Neither unit recorded any problems, but he still felt dirty.

He knew that was because of the job.

The job, the injuries, the loss of Nafti. All the mistakes Yu had made. He almost regretted leaving the woman behind. She would find no sympathy from the Gyonnese. But they wouldn't kill her.

No matter how much she deserved it.

He got to the bridge and sank into the pilot's chair. He had to be careful as he took off because he had no help. If he was going to make more mistakes this was where he would do it.

The ship rose quickly and the lights on the pad went out. He didn't breathe deeply, though, until he was outside Io's orbit and on his way out of the solar system.

Shindo was with the Gyonnese. And if he didn't register his flight plan with anyone, no one would come after him for a while.

He had his onboard computer search for a base outside this sector that specialized in human hand repair.

It took a while for the ship to locate one, but when it did, it gave him the information. He programmed it into the navigational system.

Then he set the ship on autopilot and went into his cabin for a long, much-deserved rest.

* * * *

The ship woke him in some weird asteroid belt that didn't show up on any of the charts. The ship didn't believe the autopilot was enough to avoid collision.

He felt that it was, but stirred himself anyway. He had some other business that had to be completed here.

He went onto the bridge and called up the readings for the belt. The asteroids were closer together than in any other belt he'd traveled through. No wonder the ship wanted extra guidance.

He waited until they found a fairly large gap between the rocks and ordered a full stop. Then he ran a hand over his face. He was still tired. Deep down exhausted, in fact, and sick of himself. He knew this would only make him feel worse.

He could have had the bots do it.

But he was having enough trouble living with himself these last few days. Shrugging this job off on the bots would only make him feel worse.

He went to medical lab and stared at Nafti. Nafti's skin had gone a horrible whitish color that showed the veins in his face and hands. His eyes, which no one had bothered to close (which Yu hadn't bothered to close), had clouded over.

Nafti didn't look human any more.

But that didn't excuse what had happened or the way Yu had treated him. Yu had never given Nafti any respect, even though he had hired Nafti for his strength and experience.

Yu could use that strength now. The trek to the smallest cargo bay would be a difficult one.

Yu ran a hand over his hair. He didn't know what to say over Nafti's body or if he should say anything. He didn't even know if Nafti left a family behind. He had no idea if there was someone to contact about Nafti's death. He'd never had Nafti fill out any forms.

Yu wasn't even sure if Janus Nafti was the man's real name.

Yu sighed. Then he hit buttons on the side of the diagnostic table, unhooking it from the floor and giving it wheels instead of feet. He tucked Nafti's arms on his torso and grimaced. The corpse was ice cold. At least it wasn't in rigor any longer. Yu would have hated having those arms hanging over the side, bumping into corners as he wheeled the table out of the medical lab.

It took longer than he expected to get to the cargo level. He had to go around some tight corners, and once the wheels got stuck. Yu struggled, but eventually freed them.

He didn't want to remove Nafti sooner than he had to.

Using his good hand on the back of the cart, Yu pushed the body into the smallest cargo bay. This bay was empty of everything. Yu rarely used it, except to jettison cargo that he didn't want. And since he didn't want valuable items disappearing into space, he just made sure nothing stayed in that bay at all.

He pushed the diagnostic table into the bay. It was cold, with unpainted metallic walls and a matching floor. Not much to look at, and certainly not enough to pass as a ceremonial transition spot from one life to the next—if, indeed, Nafti had believed in that kind of thing.

Nafti would go out into space unprotected, which seemed wrong, given how much Nafti wanted to protect that huge body of his.

Yu pushed the table to the exterior door. Then he looked at the man he'd worked with for years and hadn't really known.

“I'm sorry,” Yu said again, and used his one good hand to shove Nafti off the table.

The body landed so hard that the table bounced. Yu winced. He didn't look down. He didn't want to see if he had done any more damage.

Instead, he grabbed the edge of the table and pulled it behind him as he scurried out of the cargo bay.

Then he sealed the interior door and opened the exterior door to space.

He closed his eyes and counted to two hundred. Then he closed the exterior door.

With luck, Nafti would float out here with the asteroids, and no one would ever find him. He would show up as another bit of space debris on other ships’ sensors.

Space debris.

Yu shook his head and opened his eyes. Then he stood on tiptoe and peered through the window into the bay.

No body lay on the floor.

Nafti was gone as if he had never been.

* * * *

The medical base Yu's sensors had found doubled as a spaceport. The base had been built by one of the corporations as it expanded throughout the known universe, but that corporation had long ago sold it to a medical company that specialized in delicate procedures.

People came from all over to receive new limbs or to get high-end augmentations. The enhancements that were standard on places like Earth were discouraged here. If someone wanted a prettier face, they could go to some medical base in Earth's solar system.

If they wanted to upgrade their hand or augment their sense of smell to equal that of a dog's, they came here. This base improved on the human condition; it didn't repair the human condition.

Normally, Yu would have gone somewhere that specialized in repair. He didn't need a high-end hand. But this was the most reputable medical base the farthest from Earth, and it would be hard to track him here.

In fact, the base's information stressed privacy. No one would ever know if a piano player improved his dexterity or a chef upgraded his sense of taste.

Or if a Recovery Man who—by this point—was probably running from authorities got a new and better hand, replacing the one he'd damaged delivering a kidnapped woman to the Gyonnese.

The medical facilities were stunning—a luxury in and of themselves. He felt like he was going into a spa instead of an examination room. Everything was calibrated to his tastes—the spicy scented air, the goldish-brown lighting, the subtle reds and oranges on the walls. The medical personnel spoke in hushed tones, probably because someone had noted the Gyonnese influence on his ship, and they treated the wounds as if they were fresh instead of days old.

After intensive examinations and a lot of consultations, the surgeons here told him that medical avatar had been right; his hand could not be saved. He would receive an artificial hand that was, as Shindo had so snidely observed, much better than his own.

He received medication, instructions, and a helper who would see him through the latter stages of the procedure. At the moment, all he had to do was choose the make and model of the hand he wanted. He was stunned to realize he could afford several hundred of the high-end models, not because they were cheap, but because the Gyonnese had paid the first half of the last quoted price—the one that he had inflated beyond measure. He figured they would pay half of the first quoted price and cheat him of the rest.

They were being fairer than he expected.

So he ordered the most expensive hand. It looked like all the others to him, but it had features that the others didn't have, from various external chips that worked with his links to internal mechanisms that allowed him to set the hand's strength depending on the task before him. He could push a finger-sized hole in the hull of his ship if he wanted to, or touch a goblet without shattering the crystal.

They offered to replace both hands so that his strengths would balance. He knew that a lot of clients did such things, but he wasn't going to replace body parts unless he needed it.

Part of him was appalled he had to replace this one.

The doctors had him start the procedure immediately. They were afraid of infection in the damaged hand. So they unceremoniously cut it off.

He felt no pain—the initial injury had been a lot more painful than the loss of the hand—but it shocked him to look at the stump. They had sealed the skin, but they wanted him in the most sterile parts of the medical wing.

The risk of infection was too great to have him go to the recreation area or back to his ship.

So he had to find a way to pass the time.

Drinking was out. He didn't want to view the entertainment holos, and the live entertainments in the medical unit didn't interest him. His external links had been disconnected—too many false emergency calls from links happened during surgery—and he had shut off many of the other links.

He didn't want to be traceable.

But before he went completely off the grid, he had to check his messages. He wanted that final payment from the Gyonnese.

The message center of the medical wing looked oddly alien. Each message unit had its own privacy booth that rose around the equipment like a pointed egg. The booths were opaque, but transparent enough so that medical personnel could see if the person inside was in some sort of distress.

As he went inside, he felt like he was going into some kind of cocoon.

The privacy booth didn't seem that sterile. The opaque interior light made him nervous and exposed. All he could see through the walls were moving shadows.

He cradled his right arm to his chest, wishing he already had the new hand.

Once he settled inside, he ran his own diagnostic, checking for tracers that attached themselves to messages and stole the information.

Just as he finished, he'd gotten an urgent notice on his own links. The notice had come from the message center, saying he had a communication waiting.

He used his personal code to call up the message.

One of the Gyonnese filled the screen in front of him. Its whiskers moved, then an automated voice with a flat tone said, “You have cheated us. We tried to stop the original payment and could not. You will not get your second payment.”

“What?” Yu said, but Gyonnese did not respond. The message was as automated as the translator's voice.

“The woman is dead.”

Dead? Yu blinked in astonishment. There was no way she could be dead. She wasn't that badly injured.

He wondered if the Gyonnese were trying to cheat him. But cheating wasn't something they usually did.

Had she played a trick on them?

The message continued. “The medical program you sent confirms it,” the Gyonnese said. “You told us she lived and took our money. You will get no more from us. You will never work for the Gyonnese again. Do not appeal this decision. The woman's employer has placed notification all over the Alliance that she has been kidnapped. If you appeal, we will prove that you acted alone. Do not contact us again.”

And with that, the image winked out.

Yu ran his remaining hand over his face. Maybe the Gyonnese had killed her. Or maybe she had died from the contamination.

The contamination. Something niggled at his brain.

He ran the message again. The automatic voice was flat, but the Gyonnese was angry. Its eyes widened and its whiskers moved rapidly as it spoke.

They hadn't killed her—or if they had, they had done so accidentally.

He hadn't realized she was so sick. If he'd known, he would have sent the good medical program, not the cheap one.

And he had given her the pills.

The pills.

Cydoleen.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember how many were in that bottle. He remembered the weight of it, the way it felt solid in his hand.

There had been more than enough cydoleen to kill her if she took it all at once.

She must have poisoned herself.

He wondered: was that an admission of guilt on her part? Or was it fear of facing the courts alone, without corporate support?

Yu sighed and shook his head. He would never know.

But he would always wonder. Why would a woman who claimed to love a child—even if it was a Sixth—kill herself? Was what she was facing from the Gyonnese that bad?

Yu made himself stop thinking about her. He had to focus on himself now.

The fact that the Gyonnese wouldn't pay any more didn't bother him. He had enough for the new hand, some ship upgrades, and a year without working—and that was just from this job. The remaining money in his various accounts would last him a decade or more even if he didn't work again.

He might be able to make that stretch.

Yu played the message one more time, recorded it onto his links, and shook his head.

The Gyonnese had never understood how the Alliance legal system worked. Just because they said they knew nothing about the kidnapping didn't mean that there wasn't proof of their involvement.

Yu had worried about this case, so he had kept everything—and not just on his own system. He had it on his ship, in one of his accounts, and on a back-up network that he occasionally used.

If the Gyonnese turned him in, they'd suffer the consequences. He'd make sure of it.

He double-checked to make sure he had a copy of the Gyonnese message, then he deleted the message from the private server.

Then he stared at his damaged arm. Maybe he'd get some kind of sterile sling or something to put over the wrist. He needed a drink—and not the crappy stuff they had in the medical wing.

He needed a drink and maybe some companionship and some kind of entertainment.

He needed to explore the rest of the facility so that he wouldn't have to think of the woman he'd given them, and wonder how she'd died.

With his good hand, he pulled the door open, and froze. People surrounded his booth. They all wore silver uniforms with gray logos and badge numbers along the sleeve.

Earth Alliance Police.

He willed himself to be calm. He'd run into them before, and survived. If he kept his wits, he'd survive this one.

The woman nearest him had ginger hair and skin so dark it made the hair glow. Her eyes were a silver that matched her uniform.

“Hadad Yu?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, since there was no point in denying it.

“You're under arrest.”

For any one of a thousand crimes. He wasn't going to guess. “I don't have to go with you unless you tell me what the charges are.”

“Kidnapping,” she said. “Transporting a human through the Alliance with the intention of selling her. Related theft and assault charges. And attempted murder.”

“Murder?” he blurted. They couldn't have found Nafti's body. It floated in the vastness of space between here and Io. There wasn't even proof that Nafti had been on his ship; Yu had cleared all that off.

Nor was there obvious proof he'd held Rhonda Shindo either.

“I didn't try to murder anyone,” he said.

“A young woman named Talia Shindo disagrees,” the officer said. “Now, would you like to stand or do we get to drag you out of there?”

He held out his damaged arm. “I'm here for medical treatment.”

“And you'll get it, in the prison wing. We'll leave as soon as they've grafted something on there.”

“I ordered a hand. I paid for it.”

“Fine,” she said. “You're still under arrest.”

“What am I supposed to have kidnapped?” he asked.

“A woman named Rhonda Shindo on Callisto.”

The Gyonnese had turned him in anyway, the bastards. They were vicious when they were denied their revenge.

“If I tell you a few things, will you let me go?” he asked.

“Not with charges like this,” she said. “But you can see what an attorney will do for you. Do you have something to bargain with?”

“I always have something to bargain with,” he said as he stood and let them lead him away.

The attorney Yu hired was brilliant. Not only did he get Yu cleared of all charges, he got rid of the evidence too.

And did all of it using Yu's one and only bargaining chip:

The Black Fleet.

The Fleet owed Yu a favor. He concocted one and requested a meet.

Then he set up his ship so that a shadow version of himself sat at the helm. He removed the ship's computer and replaced it with another, so the authorities couldn't track all of his movements.

And then he gave the authorities the ship, contaminants and all.

Yu wasn't the one who was going to meet the Black Fleet.

The Earth Alliance Police were, armed with the device the Fleet had given Yu, confessing to stealing the flowering fidelia. He had a hunch the Alliance would find a lot more on them.

He was sure the Alliance had a lot more on them.

Not that it mattered to him.

All that mattered to him was learning how to use his new arm, buying a new ship, and figuring out his future.

His future was the hardest part.

He was tired of working hard and gaining nothing. He had put three years into the flowering fidelia, and all it had gotten him was the enmity of Athenia, a near loss of his life savings, and a willingness to break all his rules.

Not to mention the worst part: two deaths that he felt responsible for—Nafti's and Shindo's.

And then there was the daughter. The Sixth, as the Gyonnese would call her. The one who had pressed the charges against Yu.

Because Yu had spent three years tracking down the flowering fidelia, because he had lost it to the Fleet, because he had decided to take a job he didn't believe in, Talia Shindo's life was ruined.

She no longer had a mother. She didn't really have an identity either.

Sometimes, at night when he couldn't sleep from the pain of the procedures, he kept hearing her plaintive voice. That tiny “What?” after he had cruelly told her she was hatched.

He wondered if she thought of that. He wondered how she had dealt with it.

He wondered where she was now.

He would never know.

He didn't dare know. He couldn't track her down. That would violate his agreement with the Earth Alliance Police.

They made him promise not to break Earth Alliance laws again.

It was a condition of his release.

In the past, he would have laughed at that condition. But he was no longer the same man.

For the first time in years, the universe was open to him.

But he was no longer thinking of it as a place full of things. It was a place full of creatures—sentient beings with lives of their own, problems of their own, loves of their own. Creatures he had never gotten to know.

He had been afraid to get involved with others, afraid they would hurt him.

And one of them had. He had a new hand to show for it.

But he had hurt her worse.

And her daughter—her innocent cloned daughter—was paying for all of it.

Yu couldn't make up for what he had done to Talia Shindo. But he could make sure he didn't do anything like that again.

And the first way he could do that was to stay out of the Recovery business. To live an honest life, whatever that meant.

He wasn't sure how to do it, but he could learn anything. If he could remove a flowering fidelia from its colesis tree without killing the tree, the vine, or the flower, he could do anything.

He just had to concentrate on it.

And he had to think through the consequences, something he had never done before.

Everything he did effected someone else.

Strange that he had to live half of his life before realizing it.

But he knew it now.

He'd learned that lesson.

And it changed everything.

Copyright © 2008 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

ANALOG

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Reader's Department: GUEST REFERENCE LIBRARY
by Ian Randal Strock

The Valley-Westside War, Harry Turtledove, Tor, $24.95, 288 pp. (ISBN: 0-7653-1487-8)

Year Million: Science at the Far Edge of Knowledge, edited by Damien Broderick, Atlas & Co., $16.00, 336 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-9777433-4-6)

Victory of Eagles, Naomi Novik, Del Rey, $25.00, 384 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-345-49688-1)

Juggler of Worlds, Larry Niven and Edward M. Lerner, Tor, $24.95, 352 pp. (ISBN: 0-7653-1826-1)

Laugh Lines, Ben Bova, Baen, $23.00, 528 pp. (ISBN: 1-4165-5560-9)

The Reel Stuff, edited by Brian Thomsen and Martin H. Greenberg, DAW, $15.00, 456 pp.

* * * *

The Valley-Westside War is the sixth book in Harry Turtledove's “Crosstime Traffic” series, but it works just fine as a stand-alone novel. The series is set in the many parallel worlds accessible through the technology discovered by the company Crosstime Traffic. This particular story is set a century and a quarter after a nuclear war didn't destroy the planet, but did knock all of humanity back to a pre-electricity era. Buildings are left, along with a partial knowledge of the time before, but none of the comforts the home timeline is used to. In this milieu, Liz and her family are researching the causes of the nuclear war. They know it happened in 1967, but they are trying to figure out who started it (the US or the USSR?) and why.

Teenaged Liz has recently graduated from high school in the home timeline, and is on assignment with her researcher parents. She's thinking of becoming a crosstime researcher herself, and is hoping to bulk up her resume before entering college. Her parents’ grant has sent them to this timeline, where they're living as traders in the mini-kingdom known as Westside. The cover works, as Liz spends most of her days at the remains of UCLA, in the library, reading 150-year old copies of Time, Newsweek, and any other contemporary news sources she can find.

Her research is threatened when the neighboring kingdom of The Valley invades Westside, in response to the Westsiders attempting to charge their neighbors a toll through the wall across the 405. The war is limited in the ways a war with bows and arrows, a few flintlocks, and the exceedingly rare high-powered guns from a distant past must be. Indeed, one machine gun discovered by the king of the Valley is enough to turn the tide, and suddenly Liz and her family are living under an occupying force while trying to continue their research. Keeping their heads down as unremarkable traders wouldn't be terribly difficult ... if Liz hadn't attracted the attention of Dan, a soldier in the Valley army who is smitten with her.

Young Dan has the stirrings of intelligence that is untapped in this world. It isn't just Liz's looks and attitude that keep Dan coming back. He isn't sure if she's different, or suspicious, so he keeps coming around. Liz, for her part, finds him an uncultured savage, and barely tolerates his attention, which of course makes Dan suspect even more.

Dan's suspicions and intelligence also come to the attention of his superiors, he is promoted, and life becomes too hot for Liz and family. They flee, only to return through another transposition chamber to try to continue their research. Unfortunately, as with all historical research, there is never a definitive answer.

Liz and Dan are fully fleshed-out characters, though most of the rest seem little more than ciphers to me. All in all, this is an interesting exploration of what a post-apocalyptic world might be, and how our more advanced descendants might interact with it.

* * * *

Year Million is a collection of essays, ostensibly describing what life will be like a million years from now. It's an excellent source of ideas for the writer looking for stimulus. For the reader interested in the future, there are a lot of thought experiments that involve the reader in the process of extrapolation. Ultimately though, the book falls victim to its incredibly long view of the future: given enough years, anything that is not forbidden will happen. And that's what we get when the contributors (mostly Analog authors and PhDs) start extrapolating too far into the future.

I was hooked when I found fascinating ideas that are broadly applicable in the first two essays. And for the most part, the essays maintained my interest and kept me reading through to the end. But at some point, it simply becomes a travelogue of all the wonders that may be, rather than extrapolation of how we get from here to there, and what will happen as we go.

Right off the bat, Jim Holt (in “The Laughter of Copernicus") grabbed me with his simple version of the Copernican Principle, which I found myself applying everywhere I could. His explanation, that “you're not special,” says the odds are that nothing we see has just started or is about to end (the odds of not seeing the first 2.5% or the last 2.5% are, by definition, 39-to-1). And the book is even littered with throwaway lines that will keep you thinking (for instance, Catherine Asaro's “The progress of the human race could be described as the history of how we didn't know what we didn't know"). Wil McCarthy scoffs at Star Trek's transporters, but offers an alternative possibility: sending ourselves all over the galaxy via fax. Robert Bradbury moves on to redesigning the solar system more to our liking (or to a form we can more easily make use of). Rudy Rucker's “The Great Awakening” talks of technological telepathy, which may be simply a by-product of ubiquitous nanotechnology, and he makes it sound good.

Broderick has divided the fourteen essays into four sections ("The Expanding Human Universe", “Deep Space in Deep Time", “The Mind/Body in Year Million", and “Into the Very Deepest Future"), but I see it as simply moving from more concrete extrapolations ("How will the human body evolve?” “How will we live among the stars?") to more abstract blue-skying ("Is the universe open or closed?” and “What form will intelligence take in a run-down universe?").

Most of the contributors to this collection should be well known to Analog readers. They include: Jim Holt, Dougal Dixon, Steven B. Harris, Lisa Kaltenegger, Catherine Asaro, Wil McCarthy, Robert Bradbury, Robin Hanson, Pamela Sargent & Anne Corwin, Amara D. Angelica, Rudy Rucker, Sean M. Carroll, Gregory Benford, and George Zebrowski.

* * * *

I'm a hard-SF guy all the way, so I read Naomi Novik's first Temeraire novel, His Majesty's Dragon, partly out of curiosity (who was this young author who'd sold her first three books as a trilogy, having never sold a novel before?). I read the second and third in rapid succession because the first grabbed me, and they were good.

Victory of Eagles is now the fifth book in the series that Peter Jackson has optioned for feature film production. This is a sequel that requires knowledge of the previous books to truly appreciate what's going on. In short form, the series is the Napoleonic Wars in a world much like ours, except that intelligent dragons are part of the fauna, and these dragons are large enough to carry tens or even hundreds of people.

In this volume, Lawrence is living with the results of his treason at the end of Empire of Ivory. Lawrence is the second son of a British noble, and therefore lives a life defined and circumscribed by duty and honor. They dictate his career, actions, relationships, dress; everything about him. And thus, having willfully committed treason for a higher purpose, he is forced to live as an unexecutable, but condemned, man under his codes of duty and honor. Temeraire, his dragon, is under no such strictures.

Novik has adroitly created the world of two hundred years ago, and then inserted dragons which not only change the face of warfare, but inject a much more modern sensibility. Temeraire understands, to a degree, the difficult circumstances Lawrence finds himself in, but the much more pragmatic dragon is at a loss as to why they do not simply leave the land where Lawrence is condemned, and live elsewhere in peace.

This is the most depressing book of the series yet, suffused as it is by Lawrence's dark mood and defeatist attitude. Even the high points are dimmed by his brooding fatalism. This book also seems to have the most fighting and military action per page.

Napoleon, with the help of the Lien (the Chinese dragon who defected in order to avenge herself on Temeraire) has finally invaded England, and Napoleon (only seen from afar) has apparently taken her counsel to heart and to head far more easily than the British. Allowing Lien to dictate tactics for efficient dragon use, the invasion seems almost unbeatable, until the British officers are finally browbeaten into accepting dragons as thinking beings, rather than speaking beasts of burden. Then Temeraire's nascent genius is allowed to shine, and the French suddenly find themselves with a worthy opponent.

Novik's military tactics are wonderfully rendered, and the infusion of dragons into the mix only adds to the spice.

* * * *

If you grab every new story of Larry Niven's “Known Space” as it comes out, you don't need to hear from me to know you're going to get this book and read it, too. And if you haven't read them all, but did read Niven and Edward M. Lerner's Fleet of Worlds, you're probably on your way to the bookstore simply knowing Juggler of Worlds is out. So I'm writing mostly for those who haven't completely immersed themselves in Niven's thousand-year set of stories set in a bubble nearly one hundred light-years across, encompassing dozens of planets, many species, and some big ideas (and all this is still two hundred years before the discovery of the Ringworld).

Juggler of Worlds takes up the story in a time-jumping fashion, moving ahead a year or three between chapters, and telling events that some readers have already seen in other stories. But for the newcomer, the authors do a good job of explaining who and what we're dealing with, without bogging down the narrative for experienced Known Space readers. To start, we meet paranoid Sigmund Ausfaller, a forensic financial analyst who is a natural recruit for ARM, the United Nations’ global police force. It's Ausfaller's new job to protect what is effectively an empire based on the foundations of the United Nations. And while his coworkers have to develop their paranoia through the use of drugs, Sigmund's innate paranoia makes him a natural at his job (who better to look for unknown threats than someone who suspects everyone and everything?). We truly feel the universe is out to get him (and us) as he investigates chains of coincidences and fortuitous accidents, and ultimately winds up unraveling planet-spanning plots.

The biggest problem is continued from the previous books: the galactic core is exploding, which will result in the end of life as we know it in several tens of thousands of years. While that's not such an imminent danger for humans who live a scant one- or two-hundred years (life extension is one of the minor technological improvements taken for granted in these books), for the Puppeteers (a race descended from herd-animals who are natural cowards), that's a danger which will cause them to make their way out of the galaxy. But rather than stuffing a huge population (three orders of magnitude more than humans) into spaceships, the Puppeteers are taking their planets with them.

It's this sudden decision to leave the galaxy, allowing their massive General Products corporation (which makes the hulls for all the starships) to collapse and disappear, which causes massive economic and social repercussions throughout Known Space. And it's up to Sigmund and his ever-changing cadre of acquaintances (to call them friends would imply a lot less paranoia on Sigmund's part) to figure out where the Puppeteers have gone (their cowardice keeps their home worlds hidden and their actions always secret), why, and what can be done about it.

Throw in the Outsiders (an immensely old, immensely powerful, and very slow-moving race), who appear to know everything and are willing to sell that knowledge, and the wheels within wheels are big enough to crush even the strongest paranoid personality, or the largest worlds-spanning economy.

Sigmund investigates the disappearance of the Puppeteers, the causes behind the birth-license riots, how pirates are pulling ships out of hyperspace, and why the world's richest man seems to be in league with everyone on the wrong side of the law. And after Sigmund's death, the stakes get even higher.

Niven has been writing in this universe for more than thirty years. But even after that amount of time, he and co-author Lerner are telling a fresh story that is easily read and enjoyed, and it stands just fine on its own. In other words, if you haven't read the preceding stories, don't let that stop you from reading this one. You'll find a whole new universe of tales you'll want to read.

* * * *

Since it's a collection of reprint stories, I'll just briefly mention that Ben Bova's Laugh Lines is now available. The book is a collection of humorous SF stories that also attempt to make social commentary. This volume includes two complete novels and six shorter works originally published between 1974 and 1996, along with new introductions for each of the shorts.

“Crisis of the Month” talks about broadcast news, and specifically the need for bad news to keep eyeballs glued to the sets. “The Great Moon Hoax” is Bova's attempt to turn his own writing career on its head, explaining UFOs, NASA's dullness, and more. “Vince's Dragon” is his answer to The Godfather and The Sopranos, for, as he says in the introduction, “most of the guys in the Mafia were not the best and the brightest ... but they were unconsciously funny a lot of the time.” In “The Angel's Gift,” the deal is not with the devil, but with an angel.

The other pieces in the book are “The Supersonic Zeppelin,” “A Slight Miscalculation,” and the two novels, The Starcrossed and Cyberbooks. If you haven't read these, you'll want to pick up this book, and the Bob Eggleton cover is an added bonus.

* * * *

Brian Thomsen and Martin H. Greenberg's The Reel Stuff is the second edition of the reprint anthology that was first published ten years ago. That book collected eleven memorable, sometimes classic, science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories that were the inspirations for Hollywood movies. Thomsen is an excellent editor for such a volume; he seems equally interested in and enamored with written stories and filmed stories. He's come up with an excellent selection: some of the stories are by names everyone knows, some by authors more people should now. And they've resulted in a wide range of films.

You don't have to like or care about the movies that came from these stories in order to enjoy the book, but if you do, it'll be a doubly nostalgic journey through some of speculative fiction's great works.

The two new stories in this edition are: “Who Goes There?” by John W. Campbell, which first appeared [in Astounding] in 1938, and was the basis for two movies called The Thing (1951 and 1982); and “The Minority Report” by Philip K. Dick, which was published in 1956 and became a movie in 2002. The rest of the contents include: “Mimic” by Donald A. Wollheim (originally published in 1942, the movie by the same name came out in 1997); “Second Variety” by Philip K. Dick (1953, became Screamers in 1996); “Amanda and the Alien” by Robert Silverberg (1983, became a cable movie with the same name in 1995); “Sandkings” by George R.R. Martin (1979, became an Outer Limits episode with the same title in 1995); “We Can Remember It for You Wholesale” by Philip K. Dick (1966, became Total Recall in 1990); “Air Raid” by John Varley (1977, became Millennium in 1989); “The Forbidden” by Clive Barker (1985, became Candyman in 1992); “Johnny Mnemonic” by William Gibson (1981, became a movie with the same name in 1995); “Enemy Mine” by Barry Longyear (1980, became a movie with the same name in 1985); “Nightflyers” by George R.R. Martin (1980, became a movie with the same name in 1987); and “Herbert West—Reanimator” by H.P. Lovecraft (1922, became Re-Animator in 1984).

Copyright © 2008Ian Randal Strock

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Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Hi Stan,

As you can tell, I'm running a bit behind in my Analog reading.

I wanted to comment on your April 2008 editorial, “Mirrors and Might-Have-Beens.” At the end, you said, “In any case, however we get it, more knowledge about how individuals are related to the cultures that produce them should be valuable and potentially useful.”

I am a management consultant and a part-time (as Indiana Jones might say) professor of Industrial/Organizational Psychology. There is quite a bit of research in I/O Psych on culture, what it is, and how individuals behave as part of a culture.

MIT's Ed Schein defines culture as the residue of success: it is the accumulated lessons of things that worked or are perceived to have worked. Over time, these lessons become encoded as the way to behave in various situations; the original decision or experience may be long forgotten. Eventually, the behavior becomes taken for granted by members of the culture. Culture is a touchstone for how to behave; in that capacity, it reduces anxiety and provides a measure of perceived control over the world. From a purely practical perspective, the cultures in which we grow up, live, and become part of through our professions all contribute to our perspectives and beliefs about the world. Consider how upset you might become if you walked into a social situation in which you thought you knew all the rules, but suddenly found them different in small or large ways.

Groups within a larger culture draw from the parent culture in establishing their own nascent group culture. A group can inherit from several parent cultures, leading to unexpected behaviors by members of that culture. To give a very real example, there exists an American non-profit educational corporation that has its roots in Japanese martial arts training. This organization draws from three separate primary cultures: American egalitarianism, Japanese martial arts with all its hierarchical structure, and the American education subculture. Ask a question of some of the older members of this organization and your response will depend upon which cultural antecedent you activate. Your question might get answered, you might get a lecture about being excessively formal (if you activate the American egalitarian meme), or a lecture about the correct protocol for asking your question (if you activate the Japanese meme).

Cultural artifacts are very deceptive. People will adopt the apparent trappings of a culture, but not the deeper meaning. For example, the example of Japanese politeness is one I hear frequently. Susan Wheelan, a psychologist specializing in group dynamics, found that group development is culturally independent. The exact forms of some of behaviors may vary, but the stages appear in every culture. At the point where American businessmen would be yelling epithets at one another, the Japanese businessmen are engaging in the culturally equivalent behavior. It may look polite to us, but to them it is anything but. The particular way they are being polite means something very different in Japan than in America.

There are, in this model, no good or bad cultures. There are merely cultures that are or are not well adapted to their environment. You can see this manifestation best in businesses. Every business forms its own culture. That culture tends to change slowly as the business matures and the environment changes. Sometimes, though, the environment changes rapidly and the culture cannot adapt. Digital Equipment Corporation is a primary example: their aggressive engineering culture catapulted them from obscurity to a preeminent position the field of computer hardware. In the 1980s, they were seen as the primary competitor to IBM. The market changed, they grew too fast, and the culture could not adjust fast enough. DEC is now a part of HP.

The effects of culture are deep, subtle, and often taken for granted.

Stephen R. Balzac

* * * *

Hi Stan,

In your October editorial, “RSVP,” you comment on arguments made by a correspondent about the temperature profile of the troposphere, particularly in the tropics. This has indeed been a problem for global warming modelers. The theory says that the troposphere should be warming up faster than the land surface, but that wasn't being observed.

The dispute, however, turns out to be a perfect example of your main point, which was that in looking at complex phenomena, scientists don't expect everything to line up perfectly, and need to be careful not to throw babies out with bathwater.

In this case, follow-up studies wound up strengthening the global warming model, not weakening it. That's because, in a paper in Nature, on May 6, 2004, Qiang Fu et al, of the University of Washington and the NOAA Air Resources Laboratory in Silver Spring, MD., found that the anomaly was actually the result of a measurement error. When the measurements were corrected, they fit the theory nicely.

The measurements had been done with satellite-based microwave instruments. But Fu's team discovered that rather than zeroing in on the upper troposphere as expected, these instruments getting a mixed reading from it and the stratosphere. That produced a muddled result because the stratosphere is cooling (due to ozone depletion, among other factors). Taking this into account shows that the troposphere is warming at just about the rate predicted by global warming models.

So it's a perfect example of why politically oriented people shouldn't jump to conclusions based on a single anomalous finding—and why scientists themselves (most of the good ones, anyway) are quite loath to do so.

Sincerely,

Richard A. Lovett

* * * *

Editor,

Please temper my comments with the fact that I haven't read Analog in about forty years.

I found the story “Tracking” annoying. At first. Once I was mentally able to translate the style into one I understood, I appreciated it very much. For me, “Tracking” marks the texting generation becoming mainstream. Writers in my world of complete sentences and paragraphs with coherent subjects have a much easier time of presenting ideas. The texting style of stream of consciousness, with little or no punctuation, is one that is very difficult to present ideas more than the length of a sound bite. The author, David R. Palmer, did a good job. The story itself was fun and colorful, though it had its share of inaccuracies (e.g. An EMP will destroy unhardened electronics powered on or powered off.)

I am glad to see that after all of these years that Analog is still able to stimulate ideas and generate discussion.

Gregg Ferry

* * * *

Actually, the narrative style in Tracking has nothing to do with texting—it came first in Emergence, by at least twenty years.

* * * *

Dear Analog,

Congratulations and thank you for one of the very best stories that I have recently read—not just in your pages but anywhere. Candy is easily the most engrossing character that I have encountered since Bean (of the Ender series). I'm also impressed with the literary tactic of “transcribing the stenographic notes” because, for me at least, it captures the tempo of the heroine's life so very well.

Not a question, but more like food for thought: Is the creation of heroes/heroines with fully adult capabilities, but strong residues of juvenile or infantile morality—I recall fondly the teen on Mars a year or so ago—a metaphor for the world we are creating? Or even, with your own and your contributor's guile, might it become such a metaphor?

Gordon Love

* * * *

Dear Stanley Schmidt,

I just finished reading the October Analog, and I want to thank you for publishing David Palmer's “Tracking.” That was a really enjoyable and rewarding read. Pure thrilling adventure SF, pure entertainment, but I'm not ashamed to say I loved it! I had never heard of David Palmer before (I've subscribed to Analog since 1992), but I hope you will keep on publishing his fiction (I suspect there will be a sequel to “Tracking"); meanwhile, I intend to read “Emergence.”

Also, thank for providing us with veteran author Dean McLaughlin's “Tenbrook of Mars,” a deeply satisfying story.

Fabrice Doublet

France

PS: If you could harass Tom Ligon and Jeffery Kooistra so that they produce more fiction for Analog...

* * * *

Hello,

I've been reading Analog since 1965, and the October issue was one of the best in a long time. “Stealing Adriana,” “The Meme Theorist,” “Vita Longa,” and “Tracking” were all great stories of the type I look for in Analog. Keep it up!

Joe Cunningham

* * * *

Stan:

Just finished David Palmer's “Tracking.” Crackling good story. Found shorthand format captivating after getting over initial hurdle of writing style. (Had forgotten previous stories.) Aviation specs and lingo solid throughout. Much appreciated that many varied literary and other references were not explained; those who understood would, but plenty of others to entertain those who didn't have a specific referent. Otherwise might have bogged down.

Was afraid Candy would have blown it by calling Kazimirov three seconds before the 50 cal hit, giving him time to duck (or perhaps have a messier end?) but closure for him and Fedka still happy-making.

Had forgotten Billy Batson's “Shazam.” Latest use remembered was by Gomer Pyle. Memory recalls Z for Zeus, others less sure. S for Socrates, H for Hera, A for Apollo, A for Aristotle, M for Minerva?

Puzzled by warning about “disturbing” scenes. All quite natural and in character here. More puzzling were sex scenes in recent Mars story; humble opinion—unnecessary in Analog. Skilful writer wouldn't need to be as explicit and could still get point across, probably better.

Switzerland sequel obvious. Can't wait.

I've been an Astounding reader since the late 1940s. Currently I'm author/editor of books and have a 64-page bi-monthly magazine to produce. I flew B-52s in the early 1960s and we had flash curtains and eye patches, shades of the “Man in the Hathaway Shirt.” Talk about bringing back memories. After that airline captain. About 24,000 hours total time, or, to respond to questions about flying experience “almost three years.”

Minor grumble: This story did not include a post-script reference to the previous one, as is usually given. Accompanied by kudos: For a brief period, serialized works did not show the vital information (such as “Part I of III"), but now have returned to that essential practice.

Keep up the good work,

Robert P. Odenweller

Bernardsville, NJ

* * * *

Analog,

I just received my November 2008 Analog. Being an engineer with a lot of math background, numbers and equations are important to me. In the editorial, Stanley Schmidt talked about a graph that “becomes practically indistinguishable from the vertical line y = x.” The formula y = x is a straight line with a 45 degree angle (assuming the x and y scales are identical), not a vertical line. The formula he needed was a vertical line of y = 1. Keep up the great work. I enjoy your work and look forward to each edition.

Nick Rickenbaker

Actually, the vertical line is x = 1. Thanks for pointing out my obvious error, and for helping me demonstrate how easily even someone with lots of experience in a field (like us) can be thinking one thing and write something quite different!

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2008 INDEX

Here is the Index to 2008, Analog's Volume CXXVIII. Entries are arranged alphabetically by author, with month and page. When the author's name and/or part of the entry's title is omitted, it is the same as that of the previous entry. Multiple entries by the same author are listed alphabetically according to the story/article title. Collaborations are listed under all authors with cross references. Unless otherwise noted, each entry is identified as an Alternate View (av), editorial (ed), fact article (fa), guest editorial (ge), novella (na), novelette (nt), poem (pm), Probability Zero (pz), serial (ser), special feature (sf), or short story (ss).

Asaro, Catherine—

The Spacetime Pool (na) Mar 8

* * * *

Bagwell, Timothy J.—

Tangible Light (nt) Jan/Feb 76

Bartell, David—

Misquoting the Star (nt) Dec 8

Test Signals (na) May 9

Baxter, Stephen—

Project Boreas: A Base at the Martian North Pole (fa) Mar 54

Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn—

Junkie (ss) Jul/Aug 134

Bova, Ben—

Waterbot (nt) Jun 46

Burns, Stephen L.—

Mea Culpa (ss) Nov 99

Righteous Bite (ss) Apr 68

The Fourth Thing (ss) Sep 65

* * * *

Canfield, Tracy—

Starship Down (ss) Oct 60

Carlson, Paul—

Shotgun Seat (nt) Jul/Aug 156

Castle, Sarah K.—

Still-Hunting (ss) May 72

Chase, Robert R.—

Not Even the Past (nt) Mar 64

The Meme Theorist (ss) Oct 49

Cramer, John G.—

“All About Teleportation” (av) Jul/Aug 128

“Noise as a

Quantum Signal” (av) Dec 40

“There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Universe” (av) Mar 82

“The Falling Dominoes: The Source of Ultra-high-energy Cosmic Rays” (av) May 82

“Tracking Adolf” (av) Oct 71

Creek, Dave—

No Traveller Returns (nt) May 46

Stealing Adriana (nt) Oct 34

* * * *

D'Ammassa, Don—

The Natural World (nt) Jan/Feb 114

DeLancy, Craig—

Amor Vincit Omnia (nt) Apr 52

Demand Ecology (nt) Jun 64

Drummond, Oz—

ReCreation (ss) Nov 106

Dulski, Thomas R.—

Guaranteed Not to Turn Pink in the Can (nt) Apr 8

* * * *

Easton, Thomas A.—

The 3D Trainwreck (fa) Nov 50

The Reference Library Jan/Feb 226

——— Mar 136

——— Apr 134

——— May 134

——— Jun 134

——— Jul/Aug 228

——— Sep 134

——— Oct 134

——— Nov 134

——— Dec 102

Elam, Bond—

A Plethora of Truth (ss) Jul/Aug 101

* * * *

Flynn, Michael F.—

Sand and Iron (nt) Jul/Aug 86

Forest, Susan—

Back (ss) Jun 88

Foster, Alan Dean—

Cold Fire (ss) Nov 81

Frederick, Carl—

Greenwich Nasty Time (nt) Nov 64

The Challenge of the Anthropic Universe (fa) Jul/Aug 62

The Engulfed Cathedral (ss) Jan/Feb 128

The Exoanthropic Principle (nt) Jul/Aug 70

Vita Longa (ss) Oct 76

What Drives Cars (ss) May 97

* * * *

Glass, James C.—

Helen's Last Will (ss) Mar 99

Gleason, William—

Into that Good Night (ss) Apr 80

Once in a Blue Moon (nt) Sep 50

Goldman, David W.—

Invasion of the Pattern Snatchers (ss) Sep 80

Goulart, Ron—

Conversations with my Knees (nt) Jan/Feb 140

Grace, David—

Forever Mommy (ss) Sep 74

* * * *

Haldeman, Joe—

Marsbound, part I of III (se) Jan/Feb 10

Marsbound, part II of III (se) Mar 110

Marsbound, conclusion (se) Apr 96

Hemry, John G.—

The Bookseller of Bastet (ss) Mar 78

Hendrix, Howard V.—

Knot your Grandfather's Knot (ss) Mar 86

Honken, Henry—

Strange Croaks and Ghastly Apparitions (fa) May 37

* * * *

Kirkland, Kyle—

Imprint (ss) Jul/Aug 144

Kleine, Walter L.—

Petite Pilferer Puzzles Piedmont Police (ss) May 86

Kooistra, Jeffery D.—

“Einstein and the Ether” (av) Jan/Feb 72

“Return of the Warlock's Wheel” (av) Jun 84

“The Hospital of the Future” (av) Apr 74

“Turnings” (av) Nov 102

“What is ‘Old-Fashioned’ Anyway?” (av) Sep 70

* * * *

Lambert, Ronald R.—

Consequences of the Mutiny (nt) May 106

Landis, Geoffrey A.—

The Man in the Mirror (nt) Jan/Feb 98

In ‘69 (pm) Sep 49

Lerner, Edward M.—

The Night of the RFIDs (nt) May 119

Follow the Nanobrick

Road (fa) Sep 38

Where Credit is Due (pz) Oct 74

Levinson, Paul—

Unburning Alexandria (nt) Nov 116

Lewis, Anthony—

Upcoming Events Jan/Feb 240

——— Mar 144

——— Apr 144

——— May 144

——— Jun 144

——— Jul/Aug 240

——— Sep 144

——— Oct 144

——— Nov 144

——— Dec 144

Ligon, Tom—

The World's Simplest Fusion Reactor Revisited (fa) Jan/Feb 60

Longyear, Barry B.—

The Purloined Labradoodle (ss) Jan/Feb 198

Lovett, Richard A.—

A Deadly Intent (ss) Jan/Feb 186

(with Mark Niemann-Ross)

Biolog: David Bartell (sf) Dec 7

Biolog: Mark Niemann-Ross (sf) Oct 33

Biolog: Mia Molvray (sf) Jan/Feb 175

Brittney's Labyrinth (na) Jun 8

Bug Eyes (ss) Nov 90

Green Nanotechnology (fa) Dec 22

Here Be There Dragons: the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker and Other Mysteries of an Explored Planet (fa) Oct 26

Hook, Lure and Narrative: The Art of Writing Story Leads (sf) Jul/Aug 123

New Wineskins (nt) Oct 8

(with Mark Niemann-Ross)

Nuclear Autumn: The Consequences of a “Small” Nuclear War (fa) Apr 30

Peroxide Snow, Ejected Moons, and Deserts that Created Themselves (fa) Jun 38

Lundy, Robert—

Good Morning, Class (pm) Apr 73

On the Evolution of God (pm) Jun 83

Lyon, Richard K.—

Finalizing History (ss) Jun 98

* * * *

McCarthy, Wil —

How the Bald Apes Saved Mars Crossing (ss) Jan/Feb 158

McLaughlin, Dean—

Tenbrook of Mars (na) Jul/Aug 174

Moffitt, Donald—

The Beethoven Project (nt) Apr 36

Molvray, Mia—

Low Life (ss) Jan/Feb 176

* * * *

Niemann-Ross, Mark—

A Deadly Intent (ss) Jan/Feb 186

(with Richard A. Lovett)

New Wineskins (nt) Oct 8

(with Richard A. Lovett)

Norwood, Rick—

Aliens (pz) Dec 30

Oltion, Jerry—

A New Generation (ss) Jan/Feb 166

Outside the Box (pz) Jul/Aug 132

The Anthropic Precipice (ss) Apr 86

* * * *

Palmer, David R.—

Tracking, part I of III (se) Jul/Aug 10

Tracking, part II of III (se) Sep 90

Tracking, conclusion (se) Oct 86

* * * *

Sanford, Jason—

Where Away You Fall (ss) Dec 32

Sawyer, Robert J.—

Wake, part I of IV (se) Nov 8

Wake, part II of IV (se) Dec 62

Schembrie, Joe—

Moby Digital (nt) Dec 44

Scherrer, Robert—

How I Saved the National Science Foundation (pz) Apr 77

Schmidt, Stanley—

“Attention” (ed) Jan/Feb 4

“Choosing Tools” (ed) Jul/Aug 4

“'It's All About Me,'

Writ Large” (ed) Sep 4

“Mirrors and Might-have-beens” (ed) Apr 4

“Our Most Important Product” (ed) Jun 4

“Relativity” (ed) Dec 4

“RSVP” (ed) Oct 4

“The Great Rush Forward” (ed) Nov 4

“Ups and Downs” (ed) May 4

“Which Stitch in Time?” (ed) Mar 4

Schweitzer, Darrell—

The Dinosaurs of Eden (pz) May 80

Sparhawk, Bud—

The Late Sam Boone (nt) Jun 110

Stone, Eric James—

The Ashes of His Fathers (ss) May 60

Stratmann, H.G.—

The Last Temptation of Katerina Savitskaya (nt) Sep 8

* * * *

Turtledove, Harry—

Worlds Enough, and Time (pz) Jan/Feb 156

* * * *

Wade, Juliette—

Let the Word Take Me (ss) Jul/Aug 110

* * * *

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IT'S ANLAB TIME AGAIN

YOUR BALLOT WILL BE AUTOMATICALLY ENTERED IN OUR DRAWING FOR A FREE ONE-YEAR SUBSCRIPTION!

Welcome to the year 2009! As usual, we're asking you to choose your favorites via the Analytical Laboratory. Not only will your votes provide tangible awards for authors and artists, but your feedback will help guide the selections we offer you in the future. Your vote is important!

Look over all your copies of Analog dated 2008, or refer to the index on the following pages. Pick your three favorites in each of the following categories: novella, novelette, short story, science fact article, and cover. If you're not sure about a piece's category, you'll find it listed both in the Table of Contents for the issue in which it appeared, and in the Index. In the event of a disagreement between the Table of Contents and the Index, the Index should be considered correct. List your choices in order of preference (your favorite in each category is #1) on the ballot below, and either mail it in or send it by e-mail. You can also vote at our website, www.analogsf.com. The ballot is intended to make it easier for you to vote, but if you don't want to cut it out, feel free to copy it.

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Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS
by Anthony Lewis

27 February-1 March 2009

SheVaCon 17 (SF conference) at Roanoke, VA. Writer Guest of Honor: Larry Niven; Art Guest of Honor: Ernie Chan; Fan Guest of Honor: Carla Brindle. Multigenre con w/ art room, dealers’ room, gaming, anime room, video room, computer room, masquerade/cosplay, workshops, and panels. Membership: $35 until 31 December 2008, $40 thereafter and at the door. Info: www.shevacon.org; PO Box 7622, Roanoke, VA 24019-0622.

* * * *

13-15 March 2009

MADICON 18 (Virginia area SF conference) at James Madison University Festival Center, Harrisonburg, VA. Guest of Honor: L.E. Modesitt, Jr.. Info: www.madicon.org.

* * * *

3-5 April 2009

WILLYCON XI (Nebraska SF conference) at Wayne State College, Wayne, NE. Author Guest of Honor: M. R. Sellars; Artist Guest of Honor: Maria J. William; Fan Guest of Honor: Rod Vasek; Alumni Fan Guests of Honor: Matt and Jen Ptacek. Membership: $15 until 1 March 2009, $20 thereafter and at the door, $10 students with school ID, FREE WSC students. Info: wildcat.wsc.edu/clubs/willycon/; RoVick1@wsc.edu or ToYoung1@ wsc.edu; (800) 228-9972.

* * * *

6-10 August 2009

ANTICIPATION (67th World Science Fiction Convention) at Palais des congrés de Montréal, Montréal, Québec, Canada. Guests of Honor: Neil Gaiman, Elisabeth Vonarburg; Fan Guest of Honor: Taral Wayne; Editor Guest of Honor: David G. Hartwell; Publisher Guest of Honor: Tom Doherty; MC: Julie Czerneda. Membership: until 31 December 2008 (see website for latest details): USD/CAD 215, GBP 95; EUR 130; JPY 20000; supporting membership USD/CAD 55; GBP 30; EUR 35; JPY 6000. This is the SF universe's annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: www.anticipationsf.ca/English/Home. C.P. 105, Succursale NDG, Montréal, Québec, Canada H4A 3P4

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4-7 September 2009

North America Discworld Convention (conference dedicated to Terry Prachett's Discworld books) at The Tempe Mission Palms Hotel, Tempe, AZ. Guest of Honor: Terry Prachett; other guests: Esther Friesner, Diane Duane, Peter Morwood. Info: www.nadwcon.org, info@nadwcon.org, (480) 945-6890, North American Discworld Convention 2009, c/o Leprecon, Inc., P.O. Box 26665, Tempe, AZ 85285.

* * * *

Running a convention? If your convention has a telephone or fax number, e-mail address, or web page, please let us know so that we can publish this information. We must have your information in hand SIX months before the date of your convention.

* * * *

Attending a convention? When calling conventions for information, do not call collect and do not call too late in the evening. It is best to include a S.A.S.E. when requesting information; include an International Reply Coupon if the convention is in a different country. n

Visit www.analogsf.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.