by Steve M
“Please stop,” Koven finally said to her.
Tanit inhaled deeply and got her anger and disappointment under control. She was not going to screw this up. She had invested a lot of effort in Koven.
“It’s OK,” she said sweetly. “I won’t hurt you.”
“That’s not what I am scared of,” he replied.
“Then what?”
“Hurting you,” he said. “Not being enough for you. Not being what you deserve.”
“Oh, honey,” she said with the soft smile of a lover, “you are more than enough for me.”
Tanit leaned forward and kissed Koven, who responded positively, opening his mouth to accommodate her curious tongue.
Some things seem to transcend cultures and planets. So yes, there is marriage. But it is not a matter of “Honey, I love you so much I think the only way to prove it is to go down to the university and perform ceremonies and rituals as prescribed by them and according to social norms and customs.” Nope, nothing like that. Marriage is a statement, a very public statement. It involves telling everyone that you have made a decision to spend your life with someone. And it involved everyone else saying, “OK, that sounds lovely.” There is only one certificate, and this is one of the most important documents you will ever have because it provides significant escape from taxation.
Tanit led Koven over to the bed. They took off their clothes. Then Tanit handed Koven his plasmatronics with a long sigh. As soon as he pushed it to his skin it spread out like a PPS, covering his entire body, this time including his face but leaving holes for his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.
“Is that better?” she asked him as she stood in front of him naked. Her large breasts and everything else disappeared quickly under her own plasmatronics. They looked like two people in strange-colored wetsuits, wetsuits that were alive and capable of movement, and most importantly capable of giving pleasure.
Tanit lay down on the bed. She pulled Koven down beside her. They put on their VR lenses, and the wow moment everyone experiences happened.
“Look at you,” she said with a smile as she saw the VR replica of his body.
In VR, he moved over her, she spread her legs, and they began intercourse. And to them it felt so good.
In R, he was just humping the bed beside her. But they each climaxed.
Then he had a nice nap while she cooked dinner angrily.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Is that all there is?” asked Koven.
“No,” replied Professor Bon Cartus. “They have been using it for the last rev constantly. And they have it on an emergency channel. If our program hadn’t moved everyone off the channel, they would have received the answer to a question they didn’t ask.”
“They look almost like normal humans,” said Koven.
“Primitive 3, don’t let them fool you. No criteria has been reached. Not a single one.”
“Wow,” replied Koven.
Bon Cartus looked at him strangely. Historians aren’t prone to “wow.” He looked at the hologram presentation between them.
“Any idea how they got the tech?” Koven asked.
“No. There have been no reports of missing ships in that area. But their comms took a huge update when it was instantiated, so we’re looking back further for report of wrecks. Let’s hope it was not a smuggler vessel. They are worse than sociologists.”
“So it’s an observe-and-report mission?” Koven asked. He fingered the PPS control on his chest.
“Yes. That is the present scope of it. Find it, identify it, inventory it, report back. Scope as hard as concrete.”
“Concrete,” Koven repeated. Solid scope definition is important in a mission. If it’s not clear, then mistakes creep in or there are suboptimal decision-making based on unclear objectives.
“Another Wingut production?”
“Yep,” replied Bon Cartus.
Professor Igna Wingut had sponsored all of Koven’s nine missions. It wasn’t like this with other agents. Wingut knew his mother. She attended University with the man who singlehandedly saved the known universe from destruction.
But his mother and Wingut barely interacted at university despite having many classes together and being in almost all the same study groups. Wingut apparently had a slight socialization condition that went untreated until later in life, after his ascendancy into greatness. No one had bothered to run the remedium on his head before. But that was back in the days when the technology was newer and it wasn’t part of the daily health boost routine. Since that time it has been confirmed that the remedium will fix any mental health problems on all humans, except historians. And gambling. It won’t fix gambling.
Still, Koven looked forward to seeing the nice man giving the mission message, the morale booster. Yes, he looked forward to seeing the pleasant smile and the very mischievous look in his eyes. And always that look on his face, the look of a man that knew something that the rest of us don’t.
“Who else is on the team?” Koven asked.
“Just a droid,” replied Bon Cartus.
“But protocol clearly indicates that team size should be a minimum of three excluding droids and other research tools,” Koven protested.
The odds of dying rose significantly when the team size was below three.
“The Klept Effect,” replied Bon Cartus. “I wish you weren’t going out alone, really, I do. But you’re the third solo mission today. I tell you it’s unprecedented.”
(Note to reader: if a historian tells you something is unprecedented, you can bet the farm on it)
“Are they any closer to finding him?” Koven asked.
“No. But they are confident that he ran away and wasn’t kidnapped,” replied Bon Cartus.
“And my odds go up because of him,” Koven spit out his words like a curse.
“Just remember to stay cloaked all the time. And don’t get scared and do a Swartzy,” replied Bon Cartus.
A Swartzy was named after Aron Swartzman, an unfortunate agent that got very excited during a battle 108 revs ago and fired his weapon while still inside the cocoon of his PPS. His self-cremation was instant.
“Let’s go get the weapons,” said Bon Cartus as he led Koven to the caged area at the other end of the building.
As Koven got his weapons and made a check of their condition and charges, Bon Cartus went to get the research tool.
“Newest version,” Bon Cartus said as he walked back towards Koven with an attractive woman with brown hair and green eyes. “This one isn’t even available yet. You’re the final test of her.”
“Great. Something goes wrong and my mother will get an apology from Ransom Industries.”
“Let me introduce you to Rusa, model 828 Superior class android with all assimilated human knowledge and increased empathy. It is rumored that her AI architecture is revolutionary, learning times greatly reduced with new pattern predictor technology. That’s what it said in the brochure.”
“Good to meet you, Rusa.”
“Good to meet you, Dr. Modi.”
“Whoa, just Koven. That’s fine.”
“Sure thing, Koven.”
Up until recently, androids were very noticeably androids. The skin texture was thick and rubbery. It was like the first androids—early versions of most things are terrible in retrospect. But even once they could make human-like skin, they didn’t. General populations being what they are, a small but determined group of people campaigned in the media about the dangers of human replicas, so lifelike it would require advanced equipment to tell the difference. These people wore tinfoil hats and kept talking about something called SkyNet.
But as strange as that behavior may seem, it was considered a much heralded compromise to continue to make androids with the klunky rubber skin so they would be immediately noticeable and the bastards with tinfoil hats would finally shut up.
But that recently changed with the death of Lyrical Moncrief, the former fashion model and until her death, self-appointed leader and the
primary thinker behind the group, although the term thinker is being loosely defined in this instance. Human-looking, near perfect androids were about to become the latest fashion, and Koven was the last man to test one before they went to mass prod and became generally available.
Koven turned and looked at Rusa. She was attractive. Didn’t have the extra kilograms of Tanit. If she were human, he would be very pleased. But she wasn’t, and he was stuck in the analysis loop and couldn’t form an opinion on her. Mostly it was clouded by the painful memory of Shinadol, his first girlfriend that left him for a better-looking boy. Tears on his pillow, be certain of that. It’s what happens at that age. Still, he couldn’t make an opinion.
Opinions held by historians are powerful, so they are very cautious about making them. There are those who believe that behind every major CATFU caused by a historian, behind the logic, behind the probability, behind the remedial actions, there is always an opinion. And it is flawed. Professor Mir has published a paper with this as its major question. His argument was compelling, and he succeeded in getting a research grant to study the ways in which this can be tested. And he picked up 10 research positions for the next ten years as part of the grant. Good man. Increased the budget.
“Rusa,” said Koven as he backed away from her and activated his shield. “Rusa, I want you to kill me.” He stepped back a few more maatars.
Rusa bent over a little and giggled. Koven was taken aback by the depth of response.
“Koven, you are funny. You know I can’t. Wait, here’s an idea.” She instantiated a hologram between them; in it was a replica of her, and it wrote on the walls of the hologram, “bang, bang, you’re dead.” Then she did the most peculiar thing, she laughed like a real human, deep and with that unmistakable lack of control. Koven stood slack-jawed.
“She is something, isn’t she?” asked Bon Cartus.
“Quite,” replied Koven.
“It’s impolite to discuss me in the third person like I’m not even here. The fact that I have to remind you of this may indicate deep-seated feelings of species superiority. I hope I won’t have to file a complaint,” she said.
Koven and Bon Cartus stood there looking at her wondering if they had just witnessed their immediate future, departmental review boards and character witnesses intending to outweigh testimony and video review. Then, just as they were beginning to resent the ascent from sleep that started what might turn out to be a most miserable day, Rusa bent over laughing and pointed at them.
“You two look so adorable. It’s hilarious.” Then the mechanical woman of million upon millions of lines of code snorted when she laughed.
“Koven,” said Rusa, looking at him, “I know how to play Leave. I have heard that you are quite a good player.”
“Number one hundred forty-seven,” replied Koven, his rank among the millions of players of an ancient Earth Primus game where the objective is to surround your opponent. It is also a criteria for measuring cultural progress.
“I look forward to playing with you,” Rusa replied with a smile and something that from a normal girl would have been considered a flirt. She was prettier than most of the girls in Chindow, his hometown and the capital of Ambion. And just like that the switch flipped in Koven’s mind and he returned to what he was best at, analysis. His need to understand what he knew.
“Rusa, what was your level of briefing on me?”
“Level four,” she replied.
“Why four? Why so deep?”
“Because knowledge of an event in your past is necessary to understand you,” she said.
“Thank you,” Koven replied.
Some memories are best buried, buried under as much shit as a human can shovel on top of it. Buried so deep that nothing can get down to it. Not until someone explicitly mentions it. And with the mention the mind is ripped back to the warm day beside the lake and the boy standing on the bank frozen in fear. Fear of the water and fear of the leeches that had attacked him earlier. His fear comes with a soundtrack. It is the screaming of his younger brother struggling to keep his head above water.
To say that this catastrophic event might have shaped Koven’s life would be an understatement that any historian can see. It affected him profoundly and made him cautious. Some might even argue that it has made him a coward. I personally don’t agree with this opinion, but did hold that very opinion at one time, until I learned the rest of the story I am telling you now. Looks can be deceiving.
And you know what? Koven Modi chose to be a historian like his parents. He could have said, “No thanks, I’d rather be an engineer, or a designer, or an artist.” But no, he sucked it up and said, “Sign me up” and made a go of it. My kind of guy.
One thing I know about him: he will choose when to be brave very carefully. And so he isn’t the best man for any job. He was the man on the job.
Regrettably, that also makes him responsible for the entire CATFU that ensued.
CHAPTER NINE
Allor walked down the dusty road into the town. Burned-out wooden buildings lined the road. There were bodies lying on the road too. Most bodies were missing their heads.
Allor didn’t like taking heads, despite having done it several times. But when it came to the cult of Ceros, you fought them with the same brutality they used. Or you lost.
“I will kill every one of their priests,” said Tal, Allor’s tall, slender mother. Her once black hair had now succumbed to the streaks of gray added to it, giving it the look of white swirling through black marble. The handsome woman with striking features walked beside Allor, a light sword in her hand. She spoke in a loud voice for all to hear.
“Survivors, heed my words. The only living God is here to heal you, to help you, to save you from death. Come to him quickly to be healed before the death of Ceros descends upon you,” she yelled. There was no response at first, but then a head popped out from behind a tree. Then another. And another.
“Come here. Be saved by the only living god. Allor loves you and will heal you,” she yelled like a man in front of a strip club in a seedy port city known for being the birthplace of jazz. People began to come towards them, but only thirty-eight of them came. They drudged their way down the dirt road, past the headless bodies with the red-stained ground surrounding them, the zombie-like disorder of horror evident in their gait.
“How far are we from the border?” asked Allor.
“At least fifteen kilomaatars,” replied Pens, the high priest. “This is the deepest ever.”
“I was young when they attacked our village. I was only ten kilos,” replied Allor.
Allor was angry, and he kicked at the supports of a building that was burned but hadn’t tumbled to the ground yet. He kicked at the black, charred vertical support over and over until it finally snapped. As it began to crumble, he turned the control of his PPS to high and the falling debris bounced off the shell around him and fell to the ground. This scared some of the people coming to him for help.
“Don’t be afraid. Allor is angry because of your pain. He hates the things that hurt you. It is righteous, it is justified.” Tal’s words boomed out over the big emptiness that had once been a village of several hundreds.
“It’s all right,” Allor said as he walked to the woman closest to him. He held up his arms to the sky. She looked at him strangely at first. Then slowly and painfully she did the same.
Allor smiled. Then, beginning at the tips of her outstretched fingers to the tough callouses of her feet, he examined her. Her thrice-broken finger was restored. The small tumor on her bladder was eliminated. A deep spear wound in her side was closed and restored, and millions of Candida Albicans were destroyed. After a few seconds of the most perfect health of her life, she turned to the crowd.
“I am healed. You all saw it. I was near death but now I am in full health again. This is the Living God, Allor. Allor the healer. Bring him your pain,” the woman called out. As she moved away, Tal placed a pendant on a leather cord around her neck. The st
one was blue and round.
“This is how we know we are among His Own,” Tal repeated to the woman. Then Tal opened her cloak to reveal her own blue medallion. And so it was with everyone healed that day, they wore the blue that would become the symbol of the biggest bubble since one a long time ago involving tulips.
And the crowd grew to eighty-one. Allor healed them all. “Repay your debt to me by helping another in need,” he repeated to each of them. As he healed the last one, he looked at the group of the survivors gathered to bury their dead.
In-ground burial was the agreement in the merger of the Cult of Allor and the Underones, a well-established cult of just under two million. The Underones believed in underground burial and that their God, whose name must not be spoken, existed at the center of Earth 7.
He lived in the core. Yeah, that core. The inner core, the spherical ball of solid metal that measures about 2,400 kilomaatars across. The one most often made from a solid ball of iron and nickel. Yep, that’s the one. The one place you can be sure that there are no lavatories.
So when the two cults merged, Allor agreed and decreed that all of his family and followers must be buried underground. In exchange, The Underones would magically accept Allor as “he who resides at the center of Earth 7.” And you know that “god whose name must not be mentioned” stuff? Well, that’s to be forgotten too. He’s here now and he wants us all to call him Allor. And the former Underones, now His Own, accepted this without any further thought.
But then cults don’t handle further thought very well, do they? They have a problem as soon as someone says, “Hey, wait a minute, do you realize how stupid this is?”
“No,” most of them scream back in anger as they wave angry fists. “We hate you and want to kill you now. Heathen. Infidel”.