Selected Stories: Volume 1

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Before the Pacification Wars, we all saw the price of lawlessness. Fanatics everywhere. The chaos got so bad that all the colonies, even with their fundamentally opposed religious and governmental philosophies, found common ground and came together under the banner of the Corps. My father instilled that pride in me, the reverence for law and order.

  Smugglers and asteroid pirates are the scum of space, the dregs of any society. They twirl and dodge and sidestep with technicalities, as if the law were some sort of old-fashioned dance. And they leave way too many bodies and drifting ghost ships in their wake.

  I don’t intend to let them get away with it. Not me.

  When I finally got my cert as a scout pilot, I landed an assignment to patrol the outer asteroid fields. And my own ship, my beautiful scout ship. I could go on and on citing her engine specs, fuel capacity, cargo and passenger load, max accel, firepower, docking requirements, air reserves, even the full food menu programmed into the dietary synthesizer. But that would be just repeating rote statistics (and it would make my personal log unspeakably boring). Having learned them all for my final exam, the stats are forever burned into my memory.

  Right now my ship has nothing more than a call sign, XFE0017, a designation that nobody’s brain can wrap around. By tradition, cadets don’t christen their ships with a real name until after they’ve flown their first mission. I’ve already got my name picked out, and I’ll take great pride in stenciling it on as soon as I land after my first patrol.

  “Mongoose”—my father’s call sign, the one he never got to use.

  From the information in the scout ship’s database, the ffrall gleaned knowledge of the vessel, absorbed how the engines functioned and how the weaponry worked. The energy creatures spread throughout the crashed ship, suffusing the systems and manipulating the atoms of the metal alloy hull and the polymer molecules in the circuitry.

  With the care of artists working on an extravagant new project, the ffrall began to reassemble the ship back to its optimal state. The creatures had every instruction manual and every repair blueprint they could possibly need.

  When they investigated closely, the figure inside the spacesuit displayed no life energy whatsoever. Its bodily functions had ceased, and cellular chemistry had begun to break down. The only residue was a bit of thermal energy, body heat, trapped within the suit but leaking out into the cold vacuum through the shattered faceplate and the massive chest wound.

  Now that they understood and shared the ship’s log entries, the ffrall knew the identity of the cadet, his life, and intricate details of his biology from the library database. After evolving, communing, and hibernating alone for so many cycles, they were intrigued to learn the passions and the scope of these humans.

  One of the individual ffrall remained by the motionless body of the cadet. Because the spacesuit was insulated, the creature could not penetrate it electrically. Forming itself into a liquefied, shapeless mass, the blob of crackling energy poured through the crack in the faceplate, oozing into the gap and into the tissues of Cadet Connor Pardee.

  This was another vital part of the learning process.

  Cadet Connor Pardee’s final log entry:

  I’m not complaining, but this is really boring. Like watching sealant dry.

  I couldn’t wait until I got my assignment and flew away from the base in my scout ship. I had checked and triple-checked all the systems, by the book and then some. Even though one of the other cadets razzed me for being a mother hen, I wanted everything to go right for my first mission.

  But now that I’ve been on patrol for four days, in and out of the asteroid belt two systems away from the main Corps base, I never thought it would be so … well, dull. After the first few hours, the asteroids all start to look the same. Space junk, planetary leftovers.

  I’m amusing myself by imagining that one looks like a potato, another like a fish, one like a beehive. They’re all pockmarked with craters, ridged from melting and reforming. They tumble along in random orbits, nudging each other, jockeying for position around the sun. I haven’t found any excitement yet, but I’ll keep patrolling.

  The asteroid I’m currently scanning is a sun-grazer in an elliptical orbit, cooling off now that it’s heading back out from the star. The most interesting thing so far is a set of anomalous energy readings. At first I was excited, thinking it might be a secret outpost of asteroid pirates, who are known to have major activity in this system. But the readings are off-scope, out of parameters. Wouldn’t be the first time the Corps textbooks were missing a key appendix or two. The readings look almost like life signs, but this scout isn’t equipped with scientific sensors to get the data we’d need.

  I’ll log it, and maybe somebody will come out to investigate. (Although these days the constant threat of pirates has put a crimp in most scientific work. A research base would just be too vulnerable to raiders, and the Corps doesn’t have enough extra personnel to send troops for security.) Nevertheless, this is intriguing enough that I’m going to do a full mapping of this asteroid, cruise over the craters just in case somebody might be hiding down there.

  Wait—something’s wrong with the comm systems. I’m being jammed. What the hell?

  I see domes, reactors, life-support shacks—and ships. Asteroid pirates, a full-blown base! Damn, I’m still being jammed! Uh-oh, they’ve spotted me. Marauder ships are launching—four of them. Even this sweet little scout can’t outrun four souped-up raider ships. I’ll try evasive action. I’ve got weapons, and I’m not going to go down without a fight.

  They’re shooting at me. That was close! I’ve got to get out of here and concentrate on my flying and fighting.

  Log entry, signing off. When this is all over I'll have one of those great stories, just like my Dad always wanted to tell.

  When the ffrall completed their repairs to the scout ship and sacrificed some of their power to reenergize the mechanical systems, the crashed vessel lifted gently.

  The single ffrall that had infused the cadet’s dead biological body repaired the crack in the faceplate and sealed the grievous injury where shrapnel had punctured the chest. Even after rectifying the physical damage, the ffrall could not bring back Cadet Pardee; however, it could animate the form inside the suit so that it was able to operate the scout ship’s controls—and complete the mission.

  The energy creatures had learned everything about the young man, his sense of honor, and his allegiance to the Corps. They had scoured all the details of galactic law. Now, the ffrall knew what they must do. The creatures would take it upon themselves to finish the cadet’s obligations before they went into their hibernation state. Perhaps by the next cycle, when the asteroid heated up again, the ffrall might emerge as emissaries and contact the humans in the Corps.

  Discharging themselves through the hull, the other ffrall left the ship, returning to their energy sockets where they would soak up the ebbing heat of the asteroid’s core. Only the one ffrall remained inside the suited form.

  The repaired scout ship set off to where Cadet Pardee had discovered the pirate base. From here, the smugglers would launch their raids on helpless civilian ships passing through the isolated system. The ffrall had long been aware of the strange settlement on the far side of their asteroid, but had avoided any contact.

  Now Pardee’s ship skimmed low over the surface, beneath the enemy’s sensor net. The ffrall worked the cadet’s body, lifting gloved fingers to activate precise targeting controls and prepare the weapons systems. As soon as the scout ship soared over the upraised lip of a large crater, the ffrall reacted. It was just like one of the simulated exercises stored in the computer database.

  The four pirate ships were there, now refueled and ready to fly. The scout fired precise blasts, each one destroying an engine pod and leaving the enemy ships grounded. As the scout circled again, the ffrall carefully targeted the base’s life-support sheds and eliminated them. Every step went like clockwork, by the Corps Manual.

  Now the pir
ates had no way to get off the asteroid, and their air and power would fail within a few days. They would have to send out a distress call and surrender to the Corps.

  Within the cadet’s body, the ffrall did not respond to the pirates’ shouted curses over the comm lines. Instead, it calculated how much longer its energy would last and decided it had just enough strength left to animate this body and take the scout ship to the nearest Corps base. Back home.

  Coursing through the young man’s nervous and circulatory systems, the ffrall was too much for the fragile human body, close to igniting cells on fire. Its own life energy was dwindling swiftly, but even as it faded, its memories and thoughts were linked to the other ffrall. It could still operate the ship’s controls. It could complete the mission.

  Because the gathered ffrall had repaired the ship’s engines perfectly, and because the animated body in the suit was no longer alive (and therefore no longer vulnerable to extreme acceleration), the ffrall was able to fly much faster than any human could have endured.

  By the time the scout ship reached the Corps base, the lone ffrall had dwindled to little more than a spark. As Cadet Pardee’s ship delivered its appropriate ID signal and landed inside the main dock, the ffrall transmitted a synthesized recording. During the journey, it had patched together voice records from the log entries so that the words sounded as if they were spoken by the young man.

  “This is Cadet Connor Pardee, delivering my report. I located a secret base of asteroid pirates and surprised them before they could launch their ships after me. I destroyed their ships and took out their life-support capabilities. They’ll need somebody to pick them up. By the time a mop-up squadron gets there, I don’t expect they’re likely to put up much resistance. Transmitting the coordinates now.”

  With the last flicker of its energy, the ffrall ended the report, “This is scout ship XFE0017, christened Mongoose—signing off.”

  This report has many questions and few conclusions. Because no logical answers fit the recorded facts, I will simply state the data.

  Cadet Pardee’s information was valid. We dispatched a Corps squadron to the location of the suspected enemy base, where we easily rounded up thirty-seven prisoners, all of whom will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of galactic law. We have reason to believe this was an extremely important base, housing several of the most wanted asteroid pirates. The information we gleaned from this operation could well shut down their whole network in the sector. This one victory probably saved thousands of lives.

  However, we cannot figure out what Pardee did, or how he did it.

  Our engineers and technicians have combed his scout ship and found many anomalies. The craft appears to have been severely damaged and then repaired. Perfectly repaired. Onboard diagnostics show that it was flown back to base at extreme acceleration, which would certainly have been lethal to any pilot.

  Cadet Pardee was found dead in the cockpit, though his suit was intact. The autopsy found severe cellular damage, as if from extreme energy exposure. However, the actual cause of death appears to have been explosive decompression and deep trauma from a foreign object, presumably shrapnel, which was found still deeply embedded in his chest, though his skin was perfectly healed over it. His last transmission was made immediately prior to his arrival at the base, but our doctors insist that Cadet Pardee had been dead for several days before he landed in our docking bay.

  I had the sad duty of informing Cadet Pardee’s mother and sister of his death. Unfortunately, I was forced to be vague, because the details make no sense. I informed them that Cadet Pardee died in the line of duty and that he was a genuine hero. I recommend awarding him a posthumous medal of honor.

  I do not wish for the mystery to diminish or taint in any way the service our brave cadet performed for the Corps. In some exceptional people, dedication to duty is so strong it survives even their physical death. We do not need to understand our dead to honor them.

  I recommend that these records be sealed. Permanently.

  This is the first story I wrote featuring “Alternitech,” the company where explorers hunt parallel timelines for subtle differences that might be profitable in this world. (“Rough Draft” appears earlier in this collection.)

  The tiniest of circumstances, the most trivial of decisions, can have ripple-effect consequences for our lives—but then, we’d never know it, would we?

  If you had just stomped on the brakes half a second sooner, you would have avoided the fender-bender that gave you whiplash which cost thousands of dollars in insurance. If you hadn’t chosen that particular moment to run to the grocery store, you would have gotten the phone call that you’d won the radio station’s grand prize contest. If you had chosen to stay home and read instead of going off to the coffee shop, you might not have bumped into the person who would turn out to be the love of your life.…

  Who can say?

  Back in high school, I read Ray Bradbury’s classic short story, “A Sound of Thunder,” in which he portrays time and destiny as an easily unraveled web, where the untimely death of a mere butterfly back in the age of dinosaurs is enough to alter all of human history.

  Think of all the possible variations on our world there could be, the multiple parallel universes with only the smallest of differences. It would be worth exploring.

  The original title for this story was “Time in a Bottle,” but the Jim Croce estate would not let me use it. Apparently, Croce’s widow doesn’t like science fiction. Oh well, I like my title better.

  Music Played on the Strings of Time

  He arrived, hoping to find a new Lennon, or a Jimi Hendrix. Or an alternate universe where the Beatles had never broken up.

  As the air ceased shimmering around him, Jeremy staggered; with his head pounding, he sucked in a deep breath. His employers at Alternitech always made him empty his lungs before stepping through the portal. The company had strict rules limiting the amount of nonreturnable mass shuttled across timelines, even down to the air molecules. Take nothing tangible; leave behind as little as possible.

  The air here smelled good, though; it tasted the same as in his own universe.

  He snatched a glance around himself, making sure that no one had seen him appear. It had rained recently, and the ground was still wet. Everything about this new reality appeared the same, but each timeline had its subtle differences.

  Jeremy Cardiff simply needed to find the useful ones.

  The Pacific Bell logo on the phone booth had the familiar design, but with a forest-green background color instead of bright blue. He had always found a phone booth in the same spot, no matter which alternate reality he visited. Some things must be immutable in the Grand Scheme.

  Jeremy reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew the ring of keys. One of them usually worked on the phone’s coin compartment, but he also had a screwdriver and a small pry bar. His girlfriend Holly had never approved of stealing, but Jeremy had no choice—in order to spend money in this universe, he had to get it from somewhere here, since he could leave none of his own behind.

  The third key worked, and the coin compartment popped open, spilling handfuls of quarters, nickels, and dimes—Mercury dimes, he noticed; apparently they had never gotten around to using the Roosevelt version. He scooped the coins out of the phone booth and sealed them in a pouch he took from his pack. Never get anything mixed up, the cardinal rule.

  Time to go searching. Jeremy picked up the phone book dangling from a cable in the booth and flipped through the yellow pages, hunting for the nearest record store.

  Before he had left his own timeline that morning, everything had happened with maddening familiarity.

  “Your briefing, Mr. Cardiff,” the woman in her white lab coat had said. The opalescent Alternitech: Entertainment Division logo shone garishly on her lapel, but she seemed proud of it. Her eyebrows were shaved; her hair close-cropped and perfectly in place; her face never showed any expression. This time Jeremy saw she was attractive; he had no
t noticed before. Every other time he had been too preoccupied with Holly to notice.

  “You tell me the same thing every trip,” Jeremy said to the Alternitech woman, shuffling his feet. He felt the butterflies gnawing at his stomach. He just wanted to get on with it.

  “A reminder never hurts,” she said, handing him the high-speed tape dubber. It had eight different settings to accommodate the types of music cassettes most often found in near-adjacent timelines.

  At least the woman had stopped giving him the “time is like a rope with many possible strands” part of the speech. Jeremy was allowed only into universes where he himself did not exist at that moment; it had something to do with exclusions and quantum principles. He chose never to stray far from his own portion of the timestream, stepping over to adjacent threads, places where reality had changed in subtle ways that might lead to big payoffs in his own reality.

  Other divisions of Alternitech sent people hunting for elusive cures to cancer or AIDS, but they had been by and large unsuccessful. A cure for cancer would change history too much, spin a timeline farther and further away from their own, and thus make it harder to reach.

  “Ghost music,” on the other hand, was easy to find. Jeremy wanted to find new work by Hendrix or Morrison or Joplin, a timeline where these stars had somehow escaped freak accidents or avoided suicide.

  “Do you have everything now?” the woman asked him.

  “All set.” Jeremy stuffed the tape dubber into his shoulder pack. “I’ve got my money bag, a snack, some blank tapes, and even a bottle to piss in if I can’t hold it.” Sometimes the precautions seemed ridiculous, but he wasn’t here to question the rules. Alternitech would deduct from his own commission the transport cost for every gram of mass differential.