Star Spring

by David Bischoff

  The Doctor groaned in pain, spasmed, and fell limp, losing her hold on the ledge and Todd’s arm. Her eyes turned up in her head. Unable to do anything else, Todd held on to whatever he’d grabbed, which seemed to run all the way down her back. A horrible sucking sound of something ripping from flesh ensued. Blood began to blot the smock at the back of the neck and the base of the spine. As the woman’s unconscious form contorted and shook, Todd had to brace himself harder to prevent from being pulled out the window.

  Then, with an odd heave, the sides of the smock tore away raggedly. The Doctor’s unconscious body plummeted, bare bloody back exposed like a paratrooper whose parachute had been blasted away. Todd averted his eyes as the Doctor and the pavement below made intimate acquaintance.

  Still holding the flap of smock and whatever hung beneath it, Todd managed to pull his aching body back through the window, but he kept his right arm, holding the torn smock and the thing, extended.

  The thing wiggled. It arched like a snake, throwing off part of the smock fragment.

  Tiny teeth snapped. Blood-spotted metal gleamed in sunlight. Wires and pincerlike appendages. Optical chips on two stalks wiggled, then aligned on Todd.

  With a thrill of astonishment, Todd recognized the thing. Some sort of warped, robot-version of a Disbelief Suspender—those attachments to the spine and brain perfected for the Star Fall, used to submerge the participants in real-fics fully into the action by means of a personality overlay. Thus the participant literally became a different character in a programmed adventure.

  The animated Disbelief Suspender slipped through Todd’s fingers and the smock, leaping for Todd’s throat. Todd wrenched away. Metal teeth buried themselves in the padded shoulder of his jacket. He could feel a throb of electricity as the teeth pierced his skin. He grabbed the thing with both hands. With a strength born of pure fear, he pulled it away. The robot chittered. Todd brought his arms up, then down again, whipping the robot from its hold on his hands.

  Flung into the air, still partially tangled in the bloody length of cloth, the robot dropped toward the street. Halfway in its descent tiny wings sprouted from its thin frame. Discarding the smock piece, the thing flapped away, disappearing behind a building.

  Shocked and dazed, Todd Spigot stumbled back inside the safety of the Doctor’s ruined office.

  Shaking, he went to the Doctor’s liquor cabinet and poured himself a healthy splash of whiskey, neat.

  A swallow later, he regarded the mess and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Clearly, the poor Doctor had not been at fault. Somehow the robot had attached itself to her spine, becoming a puppetmaster unit. At Cog’s suggestion, they had used the Suspenders on the Star Fall for similar purpose, but those had not embedded themselves, leechlike, in the wearer. Nor had they forced the wearer against his or her will to become cold-blooded assassins.

  Todd reflected on that. Who would want to kill him? And for God’s sake, why?

  He had concluded that the next thing logically to do was to call the police, when the door banged open. Blue-uniformed officers brandished stun-guns. “Okay, you. Drop it.”

  “It’s only whiskey,” Todd objected.

  “Oh.” The slim mustachioed man in front carefully lifted himself from his squat and cautiously waded through the foam. “There’s a dead woman on the pavement, brain beyond salvaging. Sensors show she was pushed from this room. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”

  “Wait a minute! She was trying to kill me. I was only practicing self-defense. And I didn’t throw her out the window, anyway. She tripped and fell and I tried to save her, but I grabbed ahold of a robot implanted on her back and—”

  The officer had been eyeing the label on the door. “You’re clearly not Dr. Phyllis Daniels. So you must be a psychotic patient or something. Admit it. Things will go easier on you if you confess.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  With the help of his partner, the officer put force-field handcuffs on Todd Spigot’s wrists.

  “Tell it to the chief at the station, pal.”

  Astonished and confused, Todd was led away, convinced, at least in part, that if there was an Ultimate Intelligence behind the scenes of the universe, it was now laughing behind his back.

  * * *

  . . . laughing behind his back.

  Peals of mirth rang out in the portion of the Self monitoring Todd Spigot. Energy levels shifted; cells fed, died, were born in the Eternal Song of the creature as it streamered its Bio-Energy dance through Underspace.

  Through countless strands, the Self tapped the psychic energy—like a growing child sucking at billions of maternal teats. For a long time the Seed had drifted, until it had found fertile soil, taken root. Now it grew, like a blooming flower of life.

  It shimmered and shook like oil on sunlit water, oozing between the fabric of intelligent life, seeking, ever seeking its fruition.

  Unaware, unconscious, the Self fed and eliminated . . . as the chuckles vibrating certain chambers died away into echoes of echoes.

  BOOKED, mind-printed, and mug-shot, Todd Spigot moped behind the energy screen of his jail cell. His lawyer had just left, shaking his head despairingly, talking about Todd getting off easy with a mind-scour.

  “Angharad! Angharad Shepherd! She’ll know,” Todd had said to the cop in charge of his welfare. “Central Galactic Intelligence. Get them! She’ll back up my story. I know she will! And what about the marks the Suspender left? Aren’t you going to take those into account?”

  The comm-officer had obliged by ringing up the CGI.

  Angharad Shepherd? Todd Spigot? Well, Angharad Shepherd was missing in action. But as soon as she reported back, they’d put her in contact.

  That had been Todd Spigot’s one allowed phone call.

  He sank wearily back on his pallet. The carbolic scent of the cell made him sick to his stomach. The constant electric hum preyed on his nerves. He’d have to stay here at least the night. And he’d thought he’d had problems this morning, hunched over his keyboard, friendless, in the deepest of dumps.

  Blearily, he stared down the hallway of the bleak prison section of the Peace Maintenance Building. He heard the snores of his fellow lodgers. Crime on Earth had ceased to be caused by economic want. Now it seemed principally caused by undetected psychological disorders, or, more often, sheer boredom. Todd had heard rumors that for some social groups, crime had become a hobby. And why not? There were no punishments to speak of ... only mind-adjustments. Personality alterations. “Reordering of mental schematics,” the authorities called it.

  The modern vernacular dubbed them “brain jobs.”

  Maybe that was what he needed, Todd Spigot thought as he idly watched a large robot cleaning unit wheel around the corner and growl its way down the corridor. A brain job. A kind of pseudodeath. Implant some happiness into this dissatisfied being. Stock up the empty motivation bins with enthusiasm for life. Kick the old and tired lug out from behind the controls and substitute a well-adjusted spit-and-polish sort.

  Whatever worked.

  Still, it galled Todd to be framed like this for something he hadn’t done. Frightened him. Something or someone had tried to kill him.

  Who? Why?

  Vacuum chugging, brushes spinning, the cleaner neared. Just outside Todd’s cell, it halted. Troublesome stain? Todd wondered. Mechanical problem?

  “Spigot!” the machine whispered in a familiar voice. “Todd Spigot, are you in there?” A pixieish whine. Oh God, no. Not—

  Todd covered himself with his blanket, trying to get out of view. This was all he needed now.

  “Spigot! I see you. You’re in there.”

  “Spigot? No Spigots in here.”

  “Just some murderer, huh?”

  “I’m not a murderer! She tripped out the window, dammit. I tried to save her!”

>   “Ah ha! You can’t fool me. It is Todd Spigot. You can’t trick an old pal that shared a body with you once.”

  Resigned, Todd sighed heavily. He heaved himself from the cot and kneeled by the force-bars. “Okay, Cog. It’s me, I admit. What do you want?”

  “Goodness, you sound like I’m your executioner or something!” Cleaning brushes bristled with indignation.

  “Why didn’t you come this morning when I needed you! Or this afternoon! It’s all done now. I’ll accept my fate. Just leave me alone, okay?” Todd scratched his head. “What happened to your leg, anyway?”

  “Connected inside.”

  “I thought you’d joined your fellow Crem. Haven’t seen you since you hobbled off after landing on Earth.”

  “Yes, well, that’s another matter. I am, uhm, in a bit of a mess with my spiritual companions. They sent me a message to that effect, along with a few other interesting facts about this reality level.”

  Todd went back to his cot. “Yeah, well, this denizen of this reality level is just going to be fatalistic this time, and let what happens, happen. He’s not going to get involved with you again, that’s for sure!”

  “Wait a moment, would you? I haven’t finished. I’m about to announce to you that you’re about to embark upon the most exciting, dazzling adventure ever encountered by a lowly human being, and you’re content to let them stick your head in a mind-scour.” Multipurpose arms waved excitedly. “You’re not going to believe what’s happening, Todd! Even eon-old I was more astonished than you can imagine.”

  “I’m through with adventures, Cog. I’ll just wait and get help from Phil Amber. Or better, from Angharad Shepherd. I can rely on them. I don’t really trust you.”

  “Yes. Uhm. I tried to save them, but I was too late.”

  Todd jumped, bumping his head on the bunk above. “They’re dead?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, they’re in the same state you’d be if dumb luck hadn’t saved you from that rigged shrink.”

  “Oh my God.” Grief flooded Todd for a moment. Then practicality dawned. “You know about that psychotherapist? She had a strange kind of Disbelief Suspender on, Cog! It just ... flew away! You believe me. Finally, someone believes me!”

  “Of course I believe you, pal. It’s you and me against the universe, this time. That’s why I need you, Todd Spigot. You’re the only one who’ll believe me! Destiny calls.”

  “Don’t hand me that glop,” Todd said, retreating.

  “Listen for a minute, Todd. What I’m on top of now makes the Ort Eath affair look trifling by comparison. If something is not done, bad things are going to happen. And you’re the only person who can help me. Why do you think that attempt on your life was made? How do you know someone might not try again? As you say, that Disbelief Suspender is still on the loose.”

  “You’re right,” Todd mused. “What will we have to do?”

  “That’s the spirit! First, I’ll have to break you out of here. No time for red tape. Then we’ll have to get on board the Star Fall and—”

  “The Star Fall!” Todd cried. “No way! Forget it.”

  “You want to end up like Amber and Shepherd?”

  “How do I really know they’re”—he was reluctant to use the word—“dead.”

  “I don’t know that for sure, Todd, but the only way we’ll both know, the place where the answers are, is the Star Fall. Now I can’t sit here dripping floor wax all night. Are you going to let me get you out or not?”

  Answers. Todd Spigot had plenty of questions. Most likely he wouldn’t find them from an unsympathetic Law Maintenance Personality Adjustment machine. Doubtless he wouldn’t discover the meaning of life as an expendable computer operator, stuck on a world to which he could not relate.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, realizing he was surrendering to the inevitable. “I’ll go. I’m certifiably crazy anyway. But how are you going to get me out of here?”

  “I have had an entire year to collect the tools necessary to this next sequence of events.”

  “Precognition, huh?”

  “Very funny. Now let me see. Where did I put that energy-bar cutter?”

  “I’ll be here all night.”

  “Not if I can help it.” A small door in the side of the cleaning machine sprang open. A mechanical arm extruded, holding something like tongs. Power sparked across the gap and the souped-up cleaning machine jumped a full six centimeters off the ground. “Wow. I don’t know my own power. Let me see now. Positive to positive, negative to negative. Or is it the other way around?”

  The ends of the tongs touched two humming, translucent bars to lightning effect. With the smell of ozone, the rush of air to fill a vacuum, the bars were suddenly gone. “Think you can squeeze through that?” Cog asked.

  “Do another one,” Todd requested.

  “Right, but make this fast. We’ve tripped an alarm.” The tongs touched. The bar was gone. Todd sidled through the opening. No sooner had he made the move than energy coursed again, re-forming the humming bars.

  “Geez, that was close,” Todd said, shaken. “What next?” A blare became audible as doors in the distance opened. Lights shifted with colored shadows. Feet hammered. “What’s goin’ on?” one of Todd’s fellow inmates asked, nose discreetly distant from energy bars. Similar questioning murmurs joined the voice.

  Todd ignored them, pointing down the exit corridor. “So much for that. Why don’t you just let me back into the cell and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  “You still have too much respect for authority,” Cog said. “Hop on.”

  “What?”

  “I said, hop on top of me.” A saddle-like indentation bowed in the cylinder’s center. Holds for hands and feet appeared. Todd jumped on. “Now hang on tight.” A nozzle flipped out from the front. Crackling energy played on the wall for several seconds, then a hole framed a view of the nighttime city skyline.

  On antigravity nodes, the multipurpose robot cleaner rose a meter in the air. Small wings grew from the fuselage just before Todd’s knees.

  “You there!” a policeman called. “Stop!” A mauve stun-beam flashed past Todd’s head, frizzling his hair.

  Todd clung to the purchases provided. Energy jetted from the rear of the Cog-possessed cleaner. In a blink of an eye, Todd Spigot found himself clinging to a crazed cleaning machine with wings as it dodged skyscrapers.

  The robot erected a windshield, lowered itself into normal traffic patterns. “Next stop,” Cog said. “The starport.”

  Eyes shut tight, hugging his perch for all he was worth, Todd said through gritted teeth, “I can hardly wait.”

  SWIRL.

  Of.

  Vermilion magenta cerulean.

  Shudders of shadows. Clouds part for light the texture of moonbeams. Electric snaps from jagged energy courses buried deep in the ground.

  So, Philip Amber thought. This is Heaven.

  Mirrors facing mirrors, the sensory impressions stretched out eternally. A web-working of realities, the fabric of being, suffused with timelessness.

  After a few millennia pondering this new state of existence, Amber wondered if it was the drugs he’d dropped that had brought this vision upon him. If so, he’d have to do this more.

  More than peaceful here. It was ... well, fascinating. Hypnotic. Exulting. Had he reached the fabled Nirvana his Brothers had spoken so awe-filled about?

  Then Amber remembered the biobot, crawling through the window. He remembered projectiles slamming into his body. He remembered the darkness.

  Abruptly, he was aware that he wasn’t really seeing anything.

  The illusion of sight was physical, but the actual visions before him had a dreamlike, soft-focus aspect that shifted with his thoughts, his interactions with them. The musical sounds had the same fluctuating quality. The taste of the place was neg
ligible, the odors pure memory. Philip Amber reached to touch his eyes and nothing happened. Although he felt as though he had an arm, felt as though he could snap his fingers if he liked, he could see no arm, and his phantom limb could touch no ears, nose, mouth, face ... nothing.

  Amber would have panicked, but there was nothing to do.

  Energy-shot clouds moiled around his troubled consciousness, reflecting its disturbance. The ripple in the pattern seemed to trip something. A pulse shot through the fabric of this ... existence. Amber intuitively sensed that it was some kind of signal.

  Signal, though, to what?

  Balls of energy coalesced before him. (Behind him? Above him? It didn’t matter. Close to him. It jangled every segment of his being.)

  Streamers of coruscating electricity covered the thing like static hair, twisting and curling.

  From the fused energy clouds, a single force seemed to emerge, to separate itself from the others. The force slowly grew the vaguest of facial outlines ... then submerged back into the raw energy.

  The face suddenly registered on Amber, and he knew this place had nothing to do with Heaven.

  “You!” he would have said, if he had a mouth.

  * * *

  Cog said, “Detour time!”

  Behind them, police lights flashed, sirens screamed.

  Only kilometers to go to reach the Outer Nyark Spaceport, and the law had sniffed their trail. By this time, Todd Spigot felt distinctly ill. He almost longed for the comfort of his jail cell.

  “First, however,” Cog continued, “a decoy.” A hole opened in his snout. A toy-sized helicopter zoomed ahead of them in the traffic lane. “For all practical radar and sensor purposes, that’s us. Now, a simple blanking of our material and electronic emissions and—”

  The cleaning unit bounded higher into the air, then executed a corkscrewed banking maneuver. On the horizon were the lights of the spaceport, strung as though from a toppled Christmas tree.