Asimov's SF, February 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “So are you dead too?” Deirdre asked hopefully.

  “Heavens, I hope not.” Hess looked aghast at the notion. “Last I heard, the Hiryu was headed outsystem at high-g, with yours truly in command, showing the Navy a clean pair of heels. I am merely here as a helpful sub-program."

  Probably true. Deirdre saw no slavers with the Hiryu's flying dragon tattoo. She asked, “So where are you taking us?"

  “To your new home.” Hess nodded at the holo-orgy. “None of this is real, and you would not like it much anyway."

  His easy manner made her more suspicious. “Where is my new home?"

  “Right where I am taking you,” Hess replied cheerfully, setting out again on the garden path. Clearly a program loop would not let the holo tell her where they were going. Probably just as well.

  Music faded behind them, along with the cries of pleasure. Finally, fruit trees parted to reveal a sunny beach ending in a long sandpit, with a white marble mortuary temple at the tip, surrounded on three sides by a china blue hologram sea, flat and placid in a perpetual noontide. Heat poured down from a hologram sun, and Deirdre's suit cooler kicked in again. Jason started to complain, but Heather told him to stuff it. “What heat? It is all in your head, remember? There is no sun, and we're not here."

  But the big bronze temple doors were real, blended perfectly into virtual walls and columns. Deirdre had spent enough time in 3V to tell that the temple interior was carved from the living rock of Styx. Gold-skinned girls greeted them at the gilded door, small and slim, with wide grins and long blond hair; each wore nothing but a bit of kohl to show off wide amber eyes. They too were real, or as real as bioconstructs can be. Golden lips parted and the foremost girl told her, “How happy to have you here at last. Come, Deirdre, we have been waiting for you."

  “For me?” Deirdre eyed the beautiful nude girls who barely came up to her shoulder—more Heather's size than hers. They all laughed, as if her question were absurd. Small gold hands seized her v-suit, pulling Deirdre into the seaside tomb. She looked questioningly back at Hess.

  “There, you see, right at home, just as I said.” Hess happily turned his charges over to the gilded bioconstructs, giving Deirdre a little nodding bow, then vanishing. End of program.

  Letting herself be hauled inside, Deirdre asked, “Have you really been waiting for me?"

  “Yes indeed,” the golden girls insisted. “You are Deirdre, are you not? We have been waiting years for you. Everything is ready."

  “Years?” This made no sense. How could they have waited years, when she decided to come this way only hours ago? Her suit watch confirmed it—this time last week she was on Hades, hoping the Navy would soon rescue her. “What is ready?"

  “Everything,” they assured her. “We will show you."

  Suddenly one of the golden girls shouted, “Look, this is a boy!"

  Which produced shrill cries of amazement. “What? Are you sure? Which one?"

  “With the purple hair,” declared the girl, pointing at Jason.

  Her companions crowded around, saying, “Are you really sure?"

  “Of course,” the first girl insisted, “just look at her."

  “Him, you mean,” her companion corrected her. “Just look at him."

  Someone finally asked the fuming Jason, “Is it true, are you really a boy?"

  “Yes, you gilded morons.” Jason could barely believe such idiocy. “Are you blind as well as brainless?"

  “He has a boy's temper.” They giggled knowingly.

  Proud of their discovery, the golden girls led them triumphantly down the great columned hall of the mortuary temple calling out, “Look, it is Deirdre, and a boy!"

  Women and girls of various description emerged from side apartments. Human females. Greenies. Plus even weirder bioconstructs, like women with pointy goat horns or prehensile tails. The closest thing to men were a couple of hermaphrodites, fully erect, excited to get a look at her and the boy, saying, “Yes, and Deirdre is with him. Konar will be so pleased."

  Konar was fried to photons, but Deirdre did not say it. Undoubtedly these girls did not get out much. This had to be some secret slaver brothel-cum-biolab—one even Deirdre had never heard about. From the way they talked, the golden girls were raised here, as were the wilder constructs, while the humans and Greenies were either taken as children, or bred in captivity.

  But her biggest surprise was to be herded into “her” room—an exact duplicate of her old apartments on Hades, complete with her favorite works of art, her personal refresher, and her extended wardrobe, right down to the school T-shirt she was wearing when she was snatched from that bunker on New Harmony. A lot of it was stuff she had thrown away years ago. Spooky and then some.

  Feeling silly standing in her own entryway wearing a v-suit, Deirdre asked for a chance to change and use the refresher. For a moment she was alone, aside from whatever spying eyes were in the walls, so while using the refresher, she managed to stick the plastic recoilless pistol in the back of her harem pants—fairly sure no one could have seen her, unless there was a camera trained up her ass. She covered it with her favorite embroidered jacket, glad to feel the familiar silk against her skin.

  Stepping out of the refresher, she found Heather and Jason staring at her, obviously waiting for her to reappear. Deirdre asked warily, “What's the matter?"

  Heather rolled her eyes toward the suite door. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful little girl of five or so, who looked exactly like Deirdre in miniature. This little Deirdre announced blandly, “You are in my room, but you may use it. It is your room too."

  Deirdre did not know what to say. It was an awful shock to see her own features on a small child, but there was no mistaking the lustrous eyes, the tilt of her nose and the shape of her chin, all done in miniature. Amazing. The girl seemed equally intrigued by her, asking, “You are truly Deirdre?"

  “That's me. Who are you?” Things were now officially too weird.

  Her child-double smiled broadly. “I am Deirdre II. When I grow up we will be twins."

  Actually they already were. Deirdre guessed this girl had been cloned from her DNA when she first arrived. (Along with who knows how many others?) Slavers must have liked their catch and decided to make extra copies—just in case. Konar had been raising her replacement in an exact duplicate of her apartment on Hades. “When your grown-up clothes arrived, I knew you would be here soon.” Clearly Deirdre II had eagerly anticipated her advent. “Now you can teach me to be exactly like you."

  “Great,” Jason groaned, “then there will be two of them."

  Fat chance. She was not going to settle down and give Deirdre-lessons to a preschooler. With Konar dead, this place no longer had a purpose, and was running on automatic, unaware that the slavers had been annihilated or driven from the system. Yet as isolated as this was, there still had to be some kind of control station, where she could contact the Navy, or at least shut off the entry maze. Unless this was truly just a mausoleum, a monument to Konar's dead crews, and a repository for his most prized playthings. She asked the women waiting outside the suite, “Is there a command deck or control area?"

  “Naturally,” was the reply. “That is where we are taking you, now that you are refreshed and ready."

  “And I can contact the outside from there?” Deirdre asked.

  “Of course.” They treated it like an incomprehensible request. Who could she possibly want to talk to? But whatever Deirdre wanted, Deirdre got.

  At the C-deck door, Deirdre told everyone else to wait while she went in alone. They all obeyed, acting as if the place was now “hers"—in fact she found the door already keyed to her thumbprint, dilating at her touch. Deirdre stepped confidently onto the control deck, guessing that her arrival was the biggest thing that had ever happened hereabouts.

  Make that the second biggest. Lounging relaxed and naked on the command couch, backed by the screens and control console, was her late unlamented master—Grand Dragon Konar. Unbelievable.
Her first thought was this had to be 3V, like the holo Hess who guided her here, but then she saw her remote in his hand, the one that was blown up aboard Fafnir. Konar pressed a button, and Deirdre froze.

  Shocked and appalled, unable to speak or move, she stood watching as Konar rose and walked over. His all-too-solid hand reached out, making her want to wince, but Deirdre could not even do that. All she could move were her eyes. Breath went in and out automatically. Konar stroked her cheek, saying, “Sorry, cute stuff, anything you could say would only spoil the moment. I told you I would never let you go."

  Crushed at seeing Konar again, she damned herself for thinking she could just stroll in and take over. How was this even possible? Her mind groped for sane explanations. No one had gotten off the Fafnir alive, except for her, Heather, and Jason—Deirdre was sure of that.

  Konar slid his fingers inside her silk jacket, running them down the front of her light blouse, enjoying the feel of her breasts through the thin fabric. Kissing her limp lips, he told her, “I am terribly proud of how you gave the Navy the slip. Hess and I had a bet on it. I feared they might catch you, but Hess was sure you would get through—so I have to pay up, when he comes for me."

  With nothing to do but contemplate this latest disaster, Deirdre swiftly put the pieces together. Clearly Konar had not been aboard his flagship when Fafnir went on its death ride. He had been hiding out here on Styx, and his defiant “last battle” was an elaborate 3V ruse to make everyone think he was KIA. Bringing her aboard Fafnir for a “final” boink convinced both her and the crew that Konar was on the flagship—but once his captains had their orders, he secretly slipped away, leaving Hess and a holo-program in command. Project Medea and her own escape was an added diversion to decoy the corvettes, designed by Hess to get Hiryu safely away.

  And it all worked as good as gravity. Even when outgunned and outnumbered, veteran slavers had centuries of experience at hoodwinking the Navy. Far from being finished with her, Konar was thrilled to have his property returned, running his hands over her hips, while fingering the remote. Soon it would be just like old times.

  Sick with fear, Deirdre could feel the recoilless pistol digging into the small of her back, its cold muzzle pressed in her butt crack, centimeters from her limp hand. If Konar released her without a strip search, she would get one chance to shoot. Would she take it? Lisa-Marie middle school had not trained her for armed self-defense, much less premeditated homicide. She had shot Hess, knowing he was a holo. Could she shoot Konar for real? She prayed to Priscilla that she could—since that was what the King would do.

  “And you brought the kids,” Konar announced happily, “courageously saving River Lines from incinerating its innocent heirs. What a living doll you are, always doing just what you should. How could I ever give you up?"

  And if he did, there was a little genetic understudy waiting just outside. Konar gave her fanny a pat, missing the gun muzzle by a millimeter or two, then he told the door to open, saying, “Send in the two children."

  Heather walked into Deirdre's line of sight, looking terrified, followed by a defiant Jason. Konar greeted them with a cheery, “Happy to see you, too."

  Ignoring the naked tattooed slaver, Heather looked hopefully at Deirdre. Seeing only one chance for them, Deirdre rolled her eyes significantly.

  Heather rolled her eyes in response, then flipped over and fell to the deck, tossing and jerking violently, making ghastly gagging sounds.

  “Oh, fuck! Another fit.” Jason groaned. “Give it up."

  Konar knelt next to the flopping and flailing Heather, asking, “Where is her remote?"

  Jason shrugged, saying, “She'll get over it. Only does it to get attention."

  Turning to Deirdre, Konar pushed UNMUTE and demanded, “Where is her remote?

  “Inside jacket pocket.” Deirdre dared not lie.

  “I'll get it.” Jason jumped up and reached inside her jacket, ignoring the remote, feeling about frantically. Looking up at her, he complained, “I cannot find it."

  He was looking for the gun. Deirdre stared down at Jason, realizing that the nine-year-old had already made the choice she was struggling with. For better or worse, Jason was determined to save himself—and he deserved the chance, even if it killed him. “Behind my back,” she whispered, “but make it good."

  “Got it!” Jason declared proudly, his hand going around behind her. It came out holding the recoilless pistol, and Jason spun swiftly about, pretending to give it to Konar. In the split second it took to see it was not the remote in his hand, Jason pointed and fired.

  Distracted by the convulsing Heather, Konar caught Jason's movement out of the corner of his eye. Leaping up, he spun like a cat, throwing himself out of the line of fire.

  And catching a cluster of rocket darts full in the chest—since Jason had excitedly fired high and wide. Beginner's luck, but the results were impressive, spraying blood and bone all over the controls. And on Heather, who went into real hysterics.

  Konar's body flipped backward, landing face up on the command couch. Deirdre stood impassively through it all, unable to move anything below her neck. When Jason looked questioningly over at her, she told him curtly, “Shoot him again."

  Anything worth doing is worth doing right. Holding the gun steady with both hands, Jason shot Konar again in the chest, but the dead slaver did not even twitch. This time Konar was not coming back.

  Then Deirdre told Jason to pick up the blood spattered remote and release her. Which he did, both elated and awed by having killed his first man.

  She went to comfort Heather, calming the girl, then cleaning her up in the control deck refresher, which smelled heavily of Konar. Having soothed Heather's hysterics, Deirdre walked gingerly over to the bloody command console and opened an emergency channel, broadcasting their identity and position to the Navy. Armed merchant cruiser Niger returned the call, surprised to have a signal coming from a supposedly dead moon.

  Informed that help was on the way, Deirdre opened the control room door. Women and girls stared in horror at the bloody mess. Greenies turned and fled. Only the golden girls knew what to do, bowing down to Jason, who was the new man in charge, and to Deirdre, the lovely angel who brought death into their secluded little world. With tears in her eyes, Deirdre II looked worshipfully up at her miraculous twin sister.

  Atalanta was off hunting Hiryu, and Calais and Zetes were chasing down an empty lifeboat, but River Lines was elated to have unexpected custody of Konar's body, and the two lost River Lines heirs, who were now child heroes as well—turning the Battle of Tartarus into a triumphant victory, at least for River Lines. Only Hess and Hiryu got away. In a burst of corporate gratitude, River Lines gave Deirdre free first class tickets to New Harmony for her and Deirdre II, plus 1000 bonus light years to use or sell.

  Heather begged Deirdre to stay with them, promising to make her rich forever. Deirdre said she would think about it, “But I must see my folks again.” New Harmony might be hicksville, but it was home. Then Jason got his first real kiss from a grateful young woman, to go along with his first slaver kill and his immense inheritance. At this rate the boy would be running River Lines by the time he turned twelve.

  Even going first class on a high-g ticket, it took Deirdre nearly a year to get home, and by then she was nineteen. To her, seven years had passed—but, thanks to relativity effects, it was thirty-something years later on New Harmony. Her parents were two divorced old people, who were nevertheless overjoyed to get back the daughter they'd given up for lost. Friends and siblings were in their forties and fifties, many with kids of their own, and they all made a great fuss over their teen “angel"—brought miraculously back from the dead. Which made Deirdre feel even more out of place.

  Despite this awkward transition, going from slaver's head mistress to teen mom to her own twin, Deirdre was thrilled to be home, glad to see her parents and friends again, no matter how strange and aged they had become. Everyone doted on Deirdre II, telling the girl she
would grow up to be a real heartbreaker, “just like her big sister."

  When the time was right, Deirdre took her little sister to put flowers in the public shelter she was kidnapped from. Long ago made into a shrine, the shelter was a grim, underground place, dedicated to people brought together by death, but there was bold new lettering above her memorial—RECOVERED ALIVE.

  These two simple words radiated civic pride, celebrating Goodwill City's tiny triumph over a remorseless enemy. Deirdre helped her six year-old twin lay daisies on the spots where Hess had shot her schoolmates, saying prayers to Saint Michael in Neverland, who watches over little children. Long dead members of the Lisa-Marie middle school's Humanities Club looked up from their memorials, smiling in 3V. She told Deidre II each child's name, and what each one was like, what hopes they had, and what made them happy. They were the only people on New Harmony who were just as Deirdre remembered.

  Copyright(c) 2006 R. Garcia y Robertson

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  Dear Schrodinger

  by David Lunde

  Regarding your comment,

  “I don't like it, and I'm sorry

  I ever had anything to do with it,"

  —quantum mechanics, that is, well, gosh, we're all sorry about it, but there it is: virtual particles keep effervescing out of and back into the quantum foam (read

  nothingness) unless some rando energy pulse empowers them with reality; particles that once were intimate with each other still act out their marriage after separation, however distant;

  their positions are statistical abstractions, never being more than 50 percent probable and even at

  36 nanokelvins they refuse to be less than a skidmark; electrons go on leaping from one orbit to another without crossing the space between;

  so you might just as well stop bitching and buy cat food.

  —David Lunde

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