Escape Velocity: The Anthology

by Unknown

  I examine the sachet, a polymer blister that retains a topnote of Cygnid pungency, but which feels clean to the touch. Inside is a grey-black gadget of a type I have not seen before, about the size and shape of a coffee bulb. An accompaniment to the meal, perhaps? Closer inspection reveals subtle markings and a cluster of what appear to be touchbuttons. On breaking the seal (another whiff of fragranced air), I find that the object fits naturally, comfortably within the grip of my right hand, the buttons arrayed within reach of my folded fingers.

  Unwilling to press any of the buttons, I cannot discern its purpose. Despite its weapon-like grip, I cannot believe that the Cygnids would have crafted for me a firearm. Most likely it is a tool for tomorrow’s visit to their Library.

  I decide to eat.

  The food, as I expected, is superb and there are no scraps remaining when I finish. I place the tray at the lip of the sealed door for collection. Wishing they had left me something in the nature of reading or viewing material, I let my gaze navigate the room’s spartan features before returning to the picture window, which presents a panorama of Belberyan, the Cygnid capital city, at dusk.

  The window is about three meters wide and follows the curve of the room’s outer wall. The view beyond, from a vantage of about ten Earth-standard stories high, is of the clustered domes and turrets that form the staple of this continent’s current architecture. It is punctuated above by thick brown clouds that reflect the city’s jeweled lights, and below by the parks and avenues of the fashionably elite district within the city’s broader expanse.

  Of the Cygnid sun there is no sign, save the prominence it confers for now to the nearest facing towers. (I should, at least, get a good view of tomorrow’s sunrise.) I wonder which of the buildings is the Library. There are no clues, but presumably I will learn tomorrow.

  I am in such eager anticipation of the impending Library visit that I suspect I will have trouble sleeping tonight.

  Since humanity first encountered the Cygnids, the relationship has blossomed slowly and with subtlety, throttled and restrained by the Cygnids’ reluctance to share the secrets of their technological superiority. In truth, I am not sure how much can be gleaned from a twenty-four hour visit to their Library, but they have promised me unfettered access for this period, and as a long serving liaison officer with the Terran cultural mission here I know this to be a great honor, unprecedented in our shared history. I know from my readings of Cygnid history that an opportunity of this kind will not be repeated soon, if ever, since the Cygnids are slow to build trust.

  Even after fifty amicable years of shared history, they still regard us with the suspicion accorded predators around a wilderness waterhole. In the eyes of the Cygnids, the Library visit will be a test of humanity’s intentions, although my own need is to learn as much as I can of their marvels and secrets.

  I am staring through the window when the door opens again, and another Gamma – this time a nursing female, young and probably on her first litter – enters to pick up the tray. At first I wonder if this collection is the sole purpose of her visit, but she steps farther into the room, towards the window. I take the opportunity to gather the mysterious gadget from the chaise and hold it towards her, careful not to grip it in case it truly is a weapon. “Please,” I ask in Anglo, “what is the purpose of this device?”

  “A reader,” she replies. Her lips do not part. Her ‘voice’ is higher-pitched than the earlier male’s, which I recognize as an attempt to mimic human characteristics. Gamma vocal tones do not naturally differ between genders. “For Library.” She points towards the window, in the direction of one of the large towers.

  “How does it work?” I ask.

  “Hold to surface,” she responds, and reaches towards me to indicate the central button among the device’s controls. “Sixes and sevens, you understand?”

  This last remark is obscure, but I do not follow it up. There will be time to establish the methodology tomorrow, when I am taken to the Library for my twenty-four-hour visit. I wait for her to leave, though I trust my body language does not betray any impatience.

  But she does not leave, not yet. Instead she gestures again towards the Library building and says, “I share your pain.”

  The same cryptic disclosure. This time, the inflexion of it sounds like a question.

  Perhaps, I theorize, they have detected my impatience and are empathizing on that level. I say nothing in reply, not knowing what could cause offence among this undemonstrative people. Then she leaves, presumably to tend to her whelps.

  The view through the diamond picture window is now more somber: it is after sunset, and few lights adorn the turrets and domes. I take a seat on the end of the chaise, and drag closer my portmanteau, to check that the three decamole storage satchels are still green-lighting. Remembering the heft of the portmanteau as I carried it across the room earlier today, I am envious of the Cygnids’ rumored mastery of atomic-level storage, suggestive of a capacity for miniaturization which still eludes us.

  The amount of memory in my storage satchels is, almost certainly, excessive, but I do not wish this unprecedented access to their Library to be compromised by device failure. I do not think I could live that down.

  I place the Cygnid reader device atop the portmanteau; then, on a whim, pick it up again and point it towards the floor. I press the button indicated by the Gamma female: the machine thrums, in a rhythmic, unsettling fashion, but displays no other activity. I press the button again, and the vibration ceases. At least it has power, though I do not understand its operation. I close my eyes, running through a meditation routine to still myself, to attempt to brush away the anticipation of tomorrow’s activity. Then I rise, feeling the need to use the body-waste alcove.

  An hour later, I have almost succeeded in chasing down sleep when the door scissors open and a Beta scurries into the room, its orange fur bedraggled. “Apologies,” it ventriloquizes.

  I nod in response, pulling myself to a sitting position, yawning.

  “I share your pain?” it asks.

  I shake my head, unsure as ever of the intent of this phrase – presumably it refers to some hospitality ritual of which I had not been made aware, but it can certainly wait until tomorrow. I would have been informed, surely, if this was a necessary prerequisite for my Library visit.

  The Beta looks discomfited, but bows and retreats back through the doorway.

  The morning sun shines through a break in the sepia cloud cover to illuminate me into wakefulness. I check my chrono. It reads 0630 local, so I can expect my Cygnid escort to ferry me to the Library at any time after the next hour or so.

  Again, awaiting instructions, I inspect the reader device and the storage satchels, which all display normal activity (whatever that indicates, in the case of the Cygnid reader). I wish, anew, that I had brought some reading matter with me. I attempt to meditate once more, but lack the patience. Time drags.

  After a brooding half-hour or so, breakfast is brought. The Gamma – another female, but older I think than yesterday’s – stands and, inevitably, offers to share my pain. “That won’t be necessary,” I inform her, keen to avoid the awkward pause that has followed the Cygnids’ previous requests of this type. She looks unhappy nevertheless – though I may be mistaken, I am no master of Gamma body language, even after twenty years as liaison officer here – and bows out, leaving me to my breakfast.

  There are, during the morning, five more visits by five different Cygnids: three Gammas, one neutered Beta and, surprisingly, one Alpha of the ruling caste. All have offered to share my pain, and I have declined.

  Lunch arrives early, and I tell myself that the transport to the Library must surely occur soon.

  This time, the tray is collected without even an attendant’s visit to the room. Outside, through the luxurious cultured-diamond picture window, the pattern of shade and highlight flows across Belberyan’s minareted cityscape. My gaze returns every so often to the tall turret I have identified as the Libra
ry.

  Hours pass.

  I have decided that the delay could be a difficulty in converting a viewing room within the Library into a habitat capable of supporting Earthlife for the duration of my visit. However, if such activity is occurring within the tower, it is not discernible from my hotel-room window.

  Around 1400 local, I lie back on the chaise and, for want of anything better to do, run through the categories of information most urgently sought from the Cygnids. Time in the Library will almost inevitably be too short, and I must prioritize in order to make best use of my stay. To better visualize the data groupings I seek, I close my eyes.

  The ceiling is discernibly darker when I awaken some two or three hours later. A cluster of Cygnids have arrived in the room, and from their attitudes I can see they are unsettled to have found me asleep. This must be, I imagine, the appointed time. I stand up, raising my hand in a gesture of appreciation. They stare at me with what appears to be disappointment. One is examining the reader device, and shows it to the others. Then they point towards the door, and one of the larger Gammas shoulders my heavy portmanteau. I walk with them towards the elevator spindle.

  This is it. I am on my way, at last!

  The Cygnids have still not made any comment.

  They direct me, courteously but without the customary ceremony, into a large groundcar. My portmanteau is loaded in beside me, while three Gammas climb into the front compartment. I am sharing the rear compartment with a solitary Beta, who is equipped with a compact package that I presume to be his breathing equipment. As the vehicle starts off, it soon becomes apparent that we are not heading towards the expected tower, but in the direction of the Terran shuttleport. Confused, I turn to my travelling companion, and ask, “I thought I was to go to the Library?”

  “Correct,” he replies in a metal-tinged voice.

  “Then where is this Library?” A horrible suspicion has begun to manifest itself, as the Beta points back towards the tower containing my erstwhile hotel room. Even at this distance, I can see that some Cygnid cranes have moved into position, and have started to lower the massive picture window from its tenth-story vantage point towards the ground.

  A dreadful, shameful realization floods through me, as I reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

  The picture window! Synthetic diamond. Atomic-level storage. Sixes and sevens: neutron numbers. Carbon-12 and carbon-13, and a large slab of diamond in which the position of no isotopic nucleus is unintentional. A request, an offer, repeated with increasing urgency by so many concerned Library staff. I shear your pane?

  The reader device, scraping and analyzing one coded carbon monolayer at a time.

  The picture window, which I stared through, unseeing.

  The Library.

  I have frittered away my precious time; and I am alone with my pain.

  Birthright

  Ian Smith

  Hiding in the bushes was not how Nessa expected to spend her afternoon. She tried crouching, but she wore her best school clothes and the ground was muddy. Plus there were bugs and spider webs and other such nastiness on the plant leaves. Though she could tell Mosey was uneasy with her standing there in plain sight, she wasn’t going to get herself all dirty just for him.

  “So, what should I do?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he scanned the sky with his head cocked, like he was listening. Eventually, he said “What should you do about what?”

  “About my conference with the principal. What do you think I’ve been talking about?”

  “Why’re you asking me? Tell your Dad, it’s his problem.”

  Mosey quietly chambered a round in his sniper rifle and looked through the scope at a herd of sheep grazing on the library lawn a couple of blocks away.

  “Don’t you listen? He hates doing stuff like that. He’s always like —here she assumed a fake deep voice— “A man’s job is differ’nt than a woman’s, y’see. Ah’m s’posed t’ take ya huntin’ and runnin’ guns and stealin’ fuel from the military outposts. Y’know, Dad stuff.”

  “I don’t know what else to say, Nessa.” Mosey lowered the gun. “Ol’ Braman’s the only parent you’ve got. Say, would you mind getting more out of view?”

  “I am not showing up at my conference with dirty clothes. I’m already going to have to clean my shoes after standing in this muck. What are we doing here anyway?”

  Mosey raised his weapon and shot off a round to check his sighting. The sheep scattered.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “you don’t seem to be doing anything useful. So, I thought maybe you could come along and kind of represent the family.”

  He lowered the gun then looked at her, amazed. “We’re not family.”

  “Sure we are. You’re like a big brother to me.”

  He shook his head. “No. We just met three months ago, when you and your old man showed up at the havens. I don’t know hardly anything about you, ‘cept that your name is Nessa, and that for some reason you’re always hanging around with me.” He ejected the spent shell and chambered a new round. “And I’ll have you know that what I’m doing here is…is defending our God-given liberties against a corrupt political system.” He returned to scanning the blue sky. “And while you’re nice enough, I can’t be getting involved with anyone right now, or probably ever. It’s time for me to be a man, and I got other responsibilities.”

  Nessa looked at him for a moment. “Whatever. Look, it’s time for my meeting.” She plucked her school bag out of a nearby shrub. “Sure you won’t come, big brother?” Mosey mumbled something but kept his eyes skyward. “Have fun defending the country,” she shouted back at him as she walked up the path.

  As she left, Mosey leaped up, sighted, and fired high into the blue.

  Some 500 yards up and away, the guidance system of an unarmed aerial spy drone shattered. The vehicle spun into a precipitous descent that climaxed in the middle of a paved soccer field. The impact rippled the grass for blocks around.

  The principal’s office was drab, tidy, and decorated in a way that suggested it was done against his will. Sitting in a chair facing his desk, Nessa listened in on the muffled conversation outside the door.

  “Her father won’t come. I’ve told you that.” It was Miss Duren, the language teacher.

  The principal answered. “There’s no point in meeting without him. And besides, I need to get Henderson off the roof.”

  “The biology teacher? Is he up there again?”

  The principal groaned. “Look, I need to get my books. Do you still want to speak with her, even without a parent?”

  “Yes, definitely. There are some…issues that I feel—”

  He cut her off. “Fine. Use my office.” Seconds later the door opened and Miss Duren followed the principal into the room.

  “Good afternoon, Nessa,” the principal said. He pulled open a desk drawer, retrieved a Bible and a copy of Origin of the Species, and then headed back out again. “My apologies, but I have something pressing to attend to. Miss Duren will take care of you.”

  “Okay,” Nessa said. “Good luck.”

  Duren shut the door and then sat in the principal’s chair. She looked the girl in the eyes for a moment, as if sizing her up. Then she pulled a packet of papers from a grungy tote bag and set them on the desk.

  “Well, Nessa, I wanted to discuss the superb job you’re doing in school. Your language skills are impressive.” She unclipped the packet and began flipping through the pages. “And it appears—after consulting with your other instructors—that your performance in every area—mathematics, computers, political subversion—everything is just…superior.”

  “Wow, that’s great to hear.”

  “We hoped your father would join us. I see your mother has passed away—I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. Yes, she died when I was very young.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  An unexpected tack, but Nessa was up for it. “She was very beautiful and kind
. I loved her deeply. Still do, I suppose.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Well, I told you she died when I much younger. I guess I was about—”

  “No. Let me rephrase: when did she last visit you?”

  Uh oh. “Um, you mean… in my dreams?”

  “No, I think you know what I mean. When did your angel mother last visit you, in person?”

  Nessa sorted her options. No one had asked so directly before. Silence was admission, perhaps, but at least it didn’t provide any details. And details were something to be guarded.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Sorry.”

  A trace of bemused smile was her teacher’s only reaction. Nessa tried to maintain the expression of confused innocence she was so practiced at, but felt some defensiveness creeping into her eyes. More time passed in silence.

  “You remember the paper that’s due Friday?” Miss Duren asked suddenly. “The one on cultural myths? Monsters, demons, celestial visitors—all meddling in human affairs, tempting, influencing, guiding. Nowadays, these myths are considered just ancient fantasies. Collective delusions we don’t believe in because we are mature people, and common sense forbids it.” She leaned across the desk. “But you are not a fantasy. You’re real.”

  Nessa looked down to hide her eyes, which cast frantically about the room as her mind cast about for a response.

  “I know you live in those ruins just out of town,” her teacher continued. “The ones they call ‘the havens’, for so they are—a refuge for transients, criminals, revolutionaries, and the odd lost soul with nowhere else to go. But you don’t fit that profile. Instead of an anonymous nobody, you are the best student in this institution. Perhaps the best that has ever passed through its doors.” She leaned back in the chair to play her next card. “I met your father today. He doesn’t know what you really are, does he?”