Moon Shot

by J. Alan Hartman

  I locate what I want and produce my own NI plug, a wireless model. Cables are a fraction more dependable, but I like to move around. A snikt and I’m in, using O’Connor’s credentials.

  “Hello, Xuan Ling. I missed you.” The AI’s girlish voice plays a tremolo on my spine. Surely O’Connor engineered it for the effect, I suspect with frequency stacks tailored for maximum impact on his nervous system.

  “I’m afraid Xuan Ling isn’t available. My name is Chris Ba. Can I ask you some questions about Mr. O’Connor?”

  Her viz is like and unlike Eliso. More willowy, darker eyes, highlights in the raven hair. I smell apricots. She dimples. “Of course. What do you want to know?”

  “Were you intimate?”

  “Gloriously so.” A blush. Damn, O’Connor missed his calling. He could have directed sims.

  “How long?”

  “We first engaged in physical intimacy on 8 January 2117, at 1100 Zulu.”

  Okay, still some rough edges. Whatever gets you through the night. “Did the frequency or duration of your assignations increase over the years?”

  The AI giggles, a high-pitched staccato noise I cannot imagine Eliso Espinoza making. Ever. “You could say that. Hours and hours. He can’t get enough of me.”

  “Thanks for your help.” I log out. She derezzes. I log in as Espinoza.

  After a long loading sequence, as if the AI doesn’t want to talk to me, the viz reappears. Her voice is sultry this time, an echo of Espinoza’s own, but the goose bumps recur anyway. “Hello, Eliso my love.” Not-Espinoza’s lips pout in a calculated fashion. “What have you been up to, dearest?”

  * * *

  On the return trip to Ceres, I’m briefly awoken by the sound of a commlink being slammed off, then a muttered “not again.” Crying follows. Must be a company thing. I think about asking what happened, but before I do, the sobs dwindle to quiet, regular breaths. I go back to sleep. Astarte will clue me in later if it’s important.

  * * *

  Espinoza’s half-finished with breakfast when I walk through the door again. She’s unsurprised. I touch a small device on my belt. A burst of white noise precedes a high-pitched whine.

  “Sound masking?” A sip of coffee underlines her indifference. “Are you going to beat a new confession out of me, Ba?”

  “You and O’Connor should have gone into show biz.”

  “I have no idea…”

  “Spare me. He’d been getting cyberbooty on the side from the AI for a couple of years. You found out and decided to join the fun on your own terms. I admit, I prefer your viz to his, although she borders on the narcissistic.”

  Her sigh is the most honest thing I’ve heard from her. She sets her bowl on the cardboard tray. “What can I say? Xuan Ling never satisfied me like I satisfied myself. His little diversion provided an opportunity to raise my game. So I borrowed the name and face of his digital concubine to fashion my own Lise.”

  “Whom you programmed to sabotage, then torch his pod, before you tried to feed yourself to an extractor.”

  “The idea was to put me out of commission for a few days.” She rubs the fading scar on her arm. “Those drills are harder to control manually than I expected.”

  “Yet you wake up in the mender, overcome with remorse.”

  “Remorse is a strong word, Detective Ba. Once the deed was done, I simply came to the conclusion that killing Xuan Ling was the act of a petty woman. I’m not petty.”

  “Sure the mender didn’t fix your conscience too?”

  That rates a chuckle from her. She raises her rubber cup of cranberry juice in a mock toast, as smug as a woman eating hot cereal without utensils can be.

  I reach for the masker and pause, my finger on the switch. “Too bad about the work you did on the AI. Pardon me—Lise.”

  The juice stops halfway to her lips, but she recovers in an instant. “What about her? The next crew will bring in their own AINI profiles and overwrite ours. Standard procedure.”

  “Not this time. Company wants to make sure you didn’t leave any surprises behind. They did a full core replacement after I finished. New hardware, new firmware, new OS. The old system’s going straight to bulk salvage.”

  “They extracted our data first, though. They had to.”

  I shake my head. “They’d rather do a survey of the rock from scratch than risk bits of killer AI code getting loose.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She manages a weak nod and weaker smile.

  Gotcha. “Good thing I made my own copy.” I produce a crystalline HIMM. The stark light of the cell makes rainbows swirl on my fingers. “Seven terabytes of portable fantasy in a sliver of diamond.”

  Only her eyes move, following the memory module as I gesture. “I thought you said the company wouldn’t appreciate having a killer AI on the loose.”

  “She’s not on the loose. Right now she’s not even on the evidence log. Maybe she stays that way. Since the forty million data files you parked bits of Lise in are gone, I’d think you’d be happy to see her.”

  “You can stop with the theatrics, Detective.” The words squeeze out between perfect, clenched teeth. “Taunts are beneath you.”

  “Not a taunt. An offer.”

  Her eyes narrow like the iris of a photon cannon. “What can you give me the company hasn’t?”

  “A choice, Ms. Espinoza. I found that truth I wanted, courtesy of your handiwork, so you deserve something in exchange.”

  “My handiwork?”

  “My instincts were right when I said you were covering for someone.” I rotate the crystal in front of my eye, making her kaleidoscopic selves pirouette. “You didn’t program your AI to kill Xuan Ling; not directly. What you did was craft an AI personality so overflowing with your pain and your jealousy, yet so in love with you, she decided to do the dirty work on your behalf. All on her own, like a big girl. Lise cut you up with an extractor to give you an alibi, and proceeded to fry your husband while you healed.”

  “You can’t know that.” Her whisper is a scalpel across a wrist.

  “Oh, I can. One thing about AIs—compared to us fleshy types, they’re remarkably ingenuous creatures.” I drop the crystal in my jacket pocket and give it a protective pat. “Chatty, too, if you know how to get them talking.”

  She folds her napkin and places it on her tray. “The choice?”

  “You could stick with your plea deal. Eighteen months on Vesta won’t kill you. You might even learn some new social skills.” I crouch across the extruded plastic table from her. “Or you change your story, I enter the crystal in evidence, and you get an obstruction charge the company will drop in a heartbeat, because you managed to do what they’ve never been able to—introduce independent agency into an AI. They’d kill for Lise.”

  “What will the company do to her? If I change my story?”

  “AIs are property, Ms. Espinoza, for now at least. Property can’t commit a crime.” I consider, my lips pursed. “I imagine they’ll want you to interact with her, under their loving scrutiny. To help them tease out your secrets, and hers. Great job security, not much privacy.”

  “And if I go to Vesta?”

  “I keep Lise with me until you’re out.” As I stand to leave, this time for real, the urge to smirk overpowers my better judgment. “I’ll make sure she waits for you.”

  * * *

  Astarte comes up behind me as I’m finishing the report and starts massaging my shoulders. For a fraction of a second I think about objecting, but she’s good, I need it, and I’m pretty sure I can’t escape her grip anyway. I pour myself another vodka instead.

  “So, you’re out of here on the next grain barge.”

  “That’s the plan.” I work sips in between muscle groups. “With any luck I won’t get a new case before my rotation ends. Tie up a few loose cables, take the Downhill slide back to Earth and claim my genuine Chief Inspector’s badge as a prize.”

  “Desk duty. Pah.”

  “Maybe not.” I close my eyes. “
Oooh, yeah, top of the shoulder blade. Less time away from Steve and the girls, though.”

  “I’ll miss your visits. They cut back on the human staff here every year as the bots get better. Gets harder and harder to find a drinking buddy.”

  The loneliness in her voice makes me reach up and pat her hand. “You, at least, are irreplaceable. I would never trust a bot with my back.”

  When her lips touch my neck, I take a sharp breath, not in surprise at her forwardness, but from the intensity of the warmth that rushes to my extremities. What follows is more than a courtesy fuck and less than an invitation to stay. We entwine, we move, we rest; we entwine again. I tell myself she needs this more than I do.

  Spent, sweat cooling on our bodies, Astarte curls around me in her bed like a protective caramel comma. I dream of Espinoza, or her AI doppelgänger, in a high crystal tower.

  Waiting.

  * * *

  The aroma of pancakes wakes me. Astarte’s in uniform already. “Your commlink beeped. Sounds like the company has your next assignment lined up.”

  “No rest for the wicked.” I rise from the couch, sore in odd places, and review the message. “I mean, I solve a triple homicide they let go cold, and what do I get for thanks? Another one.” A sigh forces its way out. “The job is always going to be like this, isn’t it? I can’t believe I signed up for three years.”

  “You want that Chief’s badge.”

  “Too much, maybe. The boys are growing up without me. I almost wish Sonia were less understanding.”

  Sympathy softens her glance. “Technically it’s two years, eleven months, eight days.”

  “Did you sleep at all last night? You look tired.”

  For a second Astarte looks as if she might tear up. “Sometimes when I have special guests I…can’t keep my eyes closed.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  A strange, forced smile. “Yes.”

  I gather my uniform to get dressed, feeling inexplicably unburdened. A HIMM tumbles out of the folded jacket. “Hey, this shard yours?”

  “Company’s, actually. Thanks.” She steps over to reclaim the memory and tosses it into a satchel the size of a hygiene kit. The satchel disappears into her constable’s safe.

  “Sure. Thank you.” I try to think of something to cheer her up from whatever has her so edgy. “You’ve been a great hostess, considering we just met.”

  A beep announces the coffee’s done. “My pleasure, Detective.” Astarte pours me a cup. Smells real.

  “Call me Chris.”

  This time, she does cry.

  Death Day

  By Percy Spurlark Parker

  Death Day was coming late this year.

  It was a lottery thing. The second Tuesday in August had been drawn as this year’s date. It gave me less than a week to decide who I wanted to kill.

  This was the ninth year the day had been in effect, and truth be told I’d just about ran out of the people I’d wanted to dispatch. This was pretty considerable seeing as how I’m a private detective, and you’d think I’d run into people all the time who needed killing. But most of my cases involved cheating spouses, and every now and then a missing person.

  I’ve heard the number is well over two hundred million dead. It had been a pretty radical idea when it was proposed by the Joint Asian Council. The Unified Federation of German Territories was the most vocal opponent, but it occupied such a small status with the Combined World of Nations little or no attention had been paid to the members.

  Rigid rules were set in place to keep the day from becoming utterly chaotic. First and foremost an individual’s kills were limited to six. If there was a seventh person on your list, you would just have to wait until next year. Going over your allotted number was met with the harsh punishment of a televised, very slow, painful death. The last one had taken over three hours. The Supreme No Mercy Rule was created for murders committed on any other day of the year. Whether it was a death resulting from a drunken driver, spousal abuse, or a robbery, the police had the authority to execute the guilty party on the spot.

  On the other hand if you obeyed the rules, you had one twenty-four hour period a year where you could kill whomever you wanted without any repercussions. Relatives, strangers, rivals, it didn’t matter, the choice was up to you. Of course, if you didn’t want to kill anyone, that was your choice also.

  The day had its beneficial side effects. There was the obvious boon to the undertaking business, a partial solution to the world’s population growth, and murders throughout the rest of the year were practically nonexistent.

  I was sitting at my desk trying to come up with a name or two, when a shadow appeared on the frosted glass portion of my office door, blotting out the reverse spelling of MAX POMEROY, INVESTIGATIONS. The enigma knocked and I pushed the button that releases the door lock.

  As usual the person who entered was smaller than the shadow he’d projected. In this case, much smaller. “Mr. Pomeroy?” The voice fit the short, thin frame—strained, weak. A mane of thinning white hair started midpoint of his scalp. His eyes peered over a double layer of bags that blended in with the rest of the wrinkles the face displayed.

  “That’s me,” I said, not bothering to stand.

  His suit was a dark triple-breasted pinstripe, gold-threaded pinstripes, diamond-studded stick pins in both lapels. I never thought it was possible, but he actually smelled of money, the crisp clean bills you sometime get at the bank. He placed a business card on my desk and sat down. “I’m Roget Byoyack.”

  The card said he was first vice president of finance for the Mars Mineral Mines Corporation. MMMC was the largest mining operation on Mars. I owned fifty shares myself. So far the shares had generated close to ten grand each of the past two years. It wasn’t much, but it covered my solar power bills.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Byoyack?”

  “I need someone to prevent me from being killed on Death Day.”

  “I’ve done a little bodyguard work. But that’s been mostly acting as a buffer between my clients and the populace. Nothing on the level of preventing a murder.”

  “You’re being modest, Mr. Pomeroy. I’ve had you checked out. You’re dependable and honest to a fault.”

  “I wouldn’t get hung up on my press clippings.” Actually I’d only been written up once. It was a case involving a missing housewife. The cops figured she’d simply walked away from her marriage. I found her in a brothel down in Old Mexico where her kidnapper had sold her.

  “I know it’s asking a lot of you to give up the day. You probably had some more people you’d planned to kill. Your record thus far has been quite impressive. You’ve made your quota each year. Managed to kill some very mean characters.”

  Kills have to be reported to the Death Day Governing Board, but I’d thought the files were supposed to be confidential. Yet, with Byoyack’s apparent wealth, getting the information would’ve been as easy as opening his wallet.

  “Giving up Death Day isn’t an easy thing, Mr. Byoyack…”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars. I’ll transfer the money to your account right now. Fifty thousand as a retainer, the remainder the minute Death Day is over.”

  “That certainly beats any offer I’ve had today.”

  “My life is very important to me, Mr. Pomeroy.”

  “As it should be. Just who do you think wants to kill you?”

  “My wife,” he said, his answer coming quick, his voice sounding stronger than it had during the whole of our conversation.

  “You seem pretty certain.”

  “I am. You see we’re going through a divorce. It won’t be finalized until after Death Day. If I die she gets everything. If I can survive Death Day, I can keep the lying, cheating bitch from receiving a penny.”

  He went on to explain that he and his wife, Tami, had been married for six years. She was twenty years his junior. Friends had warned him about marrying someone so young, but he hadn’t listened.

  He took ou
t his wallet and showed me a wedding photo. It was easy to see how she’d hooked him. She was a head taller, the slit in her wedding gown peek-a-booed the curvature of her right leg from mid-thigh to supple ankles. Blonde, with just a bump of a nose and a wide inviting smile. Byoyack hadn’t had a chance.

  “No fool like an old fool they say. Well, I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Pomeroy. I’m depending on you to see to it I get through this.”

  “I’ll start making plans right now. I think it might be best if I come up with several alternatives, then we can get together and decide which direction we’ll take.”

  “Fine,” he said, extending his hand across my desk. “I knew choosing you was the right decision.”

  * * *

  It was less than a half-hour after Byoyack left that two more shadows descended upon the frosted glass of my office door, bigger shadows. One of them knocked and the whole damn door rattled.

  I slid the drawer holding my .65 mag automatic partially open, and pressed the door’s release button.

  Two formidable-looking figures walked in, one considerably more formidable than the other.

  The lesser of the two took the chair Byoyack had occupied, unbuttoned his rather tattered tweed jacket and smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, his face didn’t allow for pleasantries. His nose had been broken at least a half-dozen times. Crooked wasn’t quite the word to describe the way it sat on his face. It was probably why his lips never touched, not even in his smile. Breathing through his mouth had become his norm.

  “Mr. Pomeroy, I’m Oscar Letterwinn. My associate, Bruce, and I are here to offer you a proposition.”

  Bruce didn’t bother to take the other chair in front of my desk but stood behind Letterwinn. He had thick shoulders and arms stuffed in a green long-sleeved sweater. His shaven head looked much too small for his body.

  “I believe you just had a visit from a Mr. Byoyack?”

  “Maybe.”

  The smile again, a tad larger this time. “Let’s not play games, okay?” He pushed back a lock of dark hair that had slipped across his flat forehead. “Byoyack is hiring you to keep him alive on Death Day. We want to make you a counter offer. Don’t interfere with us killing him and I’ll double whatever he was going to pay you.”