by Eric Flint
Little Max continued to squirm, and Rex set him down. "It's already over."
Ann glared at him. "Don't you even care? Don't you realize what they'll do to us?"
Reaching an impossible decision, Mother disappeared into the sleeping quarters, then returned holding a heavy pulse rifle. Both Ann and Jen saw the weapon and cringed. Even Rex could barely cope with his surprise.
Ardet Hollings had wanted a peaceful society. He had reconfigured the human structure to guarantee there would be no conflict, only order and productivity. By using his followers as human building materials, by creating the unshakeable and diligent newts to be the backbone of a strong and satisfying life, he had intended to make such weapons unnecessary. The pulse rifle had no purpose other than to shed blood.
"Mother, we can't do that! It is forbidden," Ann said, though her voice held a rough hunger. Rex could see the raw conflict in her mind.
"The men are our defenders," Jen said.
"All our men are dead," Mother said. "We have no choice. We have to defend ourselves." She lifted the weapon, and it was obvious she already knew how to use it. Rex wondered where she had gotten the practice, why she had ever considered it necessary. "Unless Rex will do it."
She held the pulse rifle forward, and Rex found that he was unable to move. "I can't. I'm a newt. Our father made it so—"
"Do you believe in Ardet's teachings? Do you truly trust his words?"
He shied away from the weapon, shaking his head. "The implant, the operation—our father forced me not to be a man. How can you demand it of me now?"
"Because times demand it." Mother's eyes were sharp and hard. "You know what you have to do." She placed the rifle in his hands. It felt heavy and cold. He stared at the firing controls.
The DC ships clustered around the colony domes and locked themselves down. Rex's family members all jumped upon hearing a loud thump as the invaders forced open the access airlocks. "They're coming!" Ann said.
Rex stood with the rifle like a dead weight in his arms. Yes, he did believe what Ardet had told them. He had listened to all the speeches, enough to memorize most of them. He knew what the Worthies stood for. He accepted everything Ardet had claimed, though the actions of the DC invaders were not what he had expected.
The implant helped him to consider his thoughts, to see them objectively, without the disturbing backwaters and eddies of unruly emotions. He had no testosterone-induced distractions, no aggression, no wild mating drive. In this impossible situation, only the newts among the Worthies could remain solid and true to Ardet's principles.
Yes, he believed. He knew what his father would have wanted of him. Ardet had made it plain in his teachings, in his speeches, and in his actions. How else could Rex accept what had been done to him?
Mother looked at her only remaining son, her face full of emptiness. Jen and Ann stared at him, perhaps seeing echoes of his brothers.
The female DC spokesman broadcast another message. "You will not be harmed. You will be taken care of. If some of you wish to come back to Earth, we will arrange safe passage."
"Don't believe them," Jen cried. "They're barbarians."
Heavy footsteps came down the halls. Rex stood like a rock in a fast-moving stream, feeling the weight of great events all around him. He was a Worthy, a vital component of Ardet's vision. He had his role, he was a newt. He believed in what they stood for.
The pulse rifle in his hands was armed. The DPs were coming closer.
He set the weapon aside. Behind him, someone moaned in fear or disappointment. Mother, perhaps?
If he truly believed in his father's plan, then he had to accept what he was—and what he was supposed to do.
Newts were made to be teachers, listeners, faithful workers, a stable class without violent tendencies. If Ardet had wanted his son and all those like him to be heroes, he would never have cut them off at the . . . knees. Rex didn't need the implant to tell him that this was for the best.
As the DC consolidation parties moved toward the family habitat, Rex faced them. He experienced no despair or panic, neither elation nor fear. Just an unending sense of calm . . .
* * *
Kevin Anderson is the author of many novels and short stories.
Chance of Storms
Written by Edward M. Lerner
Illustrated by David Maier
My cabin, its lapped wood siding faded to a pale gray, was the only human structure in sight. I was communing with nature, aka staring blankly into space from the front porch, my chair tipped back, my feet propped on the rickety railing, when motion caught my eye.
A plume of dust made its way slowly along a path that was more hinted-at than beaten. In time, a vehicle became visible. Watching the unexpected car bounce and sway, I wished upon it blown shocks, flat tires, and a snapped axle. Such a minor mishap would have been a blessing—for whoever was in the car.
No such luck.
The road became ever more rutted as it approached the cabin. My uninvited guest could not have been going more than twenty when he passed the Do Not Trespass sign. He ignored it.
I sighed.
The late-model Toyota, arguably metallic blue, but I couldn't be certain due to the coating of dust, shuddered to a stop a good hundred feet from the cabin. There was an inaudible consultation among the three people inside, then the driver climbed out. He wore an expression that was simultaneously aggressive and anxious, a look with which I had become all too familiar: a reporter. "Mind if I come on up?" Mistaking silence for assent, he advanced to the foot of the porch.
He turned slowly, taking in the broad expanse of prairie that surrounded my humble home. "Nice view. I can see why you would like it out here."
Who said I liked it? I continued my silence. Sometimes rudeness worked.
"I'm Harry Weidner." He named the national newspaper he claimed to represent. I waved him off when he set foot on the lowest step to show me a press ID. He put away his wallet, then ostentatiously patted his shirt pocket. "I should tell you that I'm wearing a wire. The signal is broadcast to my peers in the car. Recorded there, too." He gave an equally ostentatious shrug, and added, "I'm sure you'll understand."
It was my turn to shrug. "I don't suppose you would consider getting back in your car and just leaving?"
"I don't think so." He flashed the reporter's standard this-won't-hurt-a-bit smile. "This is a story that should be told. I've done a lot of research about you, you know."
It would do no good, but I felt obligated to make a disclaimer. I gestured at my, shall we say modest, surroundings. "Are your readers crying out for news of obscure failed writers?"
Weidner licked his lips. "Only the ones with paranormal mental powers."
A storm had come up suddenly. Clouds were forming to the west; distant thunder rumbled. "Since you have researched me, what do you think my story is?"
He looked around for a seat, since I was already occupying the only chair on the porch. He settled for a tree stump back in the yard. "It seems clear that you have paranormal abilities—we'll come back to which ones. As those talents matured, you've moved farther and farther into the country. Your former neighbors all attest to strange and unexplained events, especially just prior to each of your moves. Destructive events."
Only the surviving neighbors attested, I assumed . . . unless Weidner had his own unusual skills. That thought brought on an unwelcome rush of memories. When I returned to the present, my uninvited guest was still droning on.
". . . Recurrent incidents of mind reading. That would be consistent with your repeated moves, each time to a smaller and more rural community. To get away from the mental clamor of others," he ended helpfully, as if I were too stupid to get the point.
Did telling obviously frightened people not to be scared constitute mind reading? Evidently. That was back in the days I deluded myself I had any control.
My guilt-in-advance kicked in. "May I offer you some water?" I retrieved a pitcher and glasses from inside the ca
bin. "Mr. Weidner, no human sense works that way. Our brain lets us tune out unwanted background noises, ignore unimportant visual detail, stop noticing unpleasant smells after a while. Why would a telepathic sense be any less practical?"
"So not a denial of telepathy—just a disclaimer that it would be a reason to move." The reporter stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. "What about your telekinesis?"
My cabin lacks electricity; the water was tepid. I took a long drink anyway. "If I could move things mentally, don't you think I would have brought us some ice cubes?"
He rattled off several incidents from my past, odd occurrences of various kinds. Would I admit to having clairvoyance? Prescience? One might say these speculations were closer to the mark, but I didn't bother. Any foreknowledge of doom I experienced was simply pattern recognition. My vague disclaimers continued to be, in turn, disbelieved.
I don't know why Weidner finally left. Maybe he finally accepted that I wasn't going to tell him anything. Maybe the approaching storm made him decide it was time to head back to town. Whatever the reason, his nattering finally wound down. He strolled back to the car. He pivoted to make one last attempt. "Fine, then—I'm all wrong. My research is all wrong. So what is your story?"
My only answer was a glower; he eventually got into the car. The vehicle turned in a tight circle to head back the way it had come. It had gone perhaps two hundred feet when a rut caught a front tire. The Toyota swerved into a roadside boulder and halted with a loud crunch. Airbags briefly filled the windows. Steam curled upward from the cracked radiator.
Although three people climbed out under their own power, the familiar pangs of guilt returned. With fear, or at least a too-late sense of doubt, now plain on his face, Weidner watched me step down from the porch. He slumped with relief as I turned away from the wreck.
Fat raindrops, harbingers of what would surely be a major downpour, flung themselves from a suddenly slate-gray sky. Coyotes howled in the distance. Thunder boomed, much closer now, as my uninvited callers began the slog to the main road.
Walking briskly in the opposite direction, I explained to no one in particular. "My story is . . . I have contagious bad luck."
* * *
Edward M. Lerner is a physicist, computer scientist, and curmudgeon by training. Now writing full-time, he applies all three skill sets to his science fiction. His web site is www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/
Science Fiction Weekly says, "In his novel MOONSTRUCK, physicist Edward M. Lerner operates proudly in the classic hard-SF tradition of John W. Campbell and Robert A. Heinlein." SFRevu writes of MOONSTRUCK, "This is a terrific book by an emerging talent."
Baen Books recently re-released MOONSTRUCK, a unique first-contact tale, in mass-market paperback.
Dinosaur Egg $6
Written by Chet Gottfried
Illustrated by Alex Uphoff
Seeing the handwritten sign "Dinosaur Egg $6," Ted Albright made a hard left and cut across the southbound traffic of Route 89. He parked his Mustang on the broad shoulder of the overlook. Navajos sat behind tables and sold jewelry and pots. Behind them the Colorado River meandered in the distance, a thin, dark streak on an endless plain.
Albright sighed. He had over 200 miles to drive before reaching Mesquite and his day at the slots. But fossil dino eggs intrigued him. The Chinese ones could be purchased via eBay. South American shell fragments were also available.
The sign hung on a large, faded-blue tent, which had a canvas flap over its entrance. In front, an old Navajo sat on a rickety folding chair.
Boots crunching on gravel, Albright strolled to the Indian. "Howdy."
The Indian nodded.
Albright didn't know whether the Indian was male or female. A very old man, he decided, despite having black hair. The Navajo wore a faded denim shirt and jeans, and his eyes were almost lost in the broad face.
"Six bucks to buy your dinosaur egg?"
The Indian shook his head. "To look."
Albright laughed. "To look!? Why pay six dollars? We're in the dinosaur triangle. There are museums and sites all over the southwest. Who'd pay six bucks to see a fossil egg?"
The Indian shrugged.
An old woman, Albright decided.
"Give me one reason," he said. He wondered why he was talking to the woman when he wanted to gamble at the Oasis.
"Real egg."
Not a Navajo, Albright guessed, but she's crazy. Burned by the sun.
"Yeah, sure." But Albright didn't leave. He was held by the impossible dream of a live dinosaur egg.
"Six dollars," the Indian said.
Albright got his wallet and selected a five and a one. "Here."
The Indian took the bills and absentmindedly put them in a pocket. She had very fine if somewhat dusty hands. Standing up, the Indian was very short, her head not even reaching Albright's shoulder. She opened the flap, and Albright followed her inside. Walking behind the Indian and seeing the broad shoulders and thin hips, Albright decided that the Indian must be a man.
The tent was dark. The only light came from the entrance and whatever filtered through the canvas. Albright took off his sunglasses. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a ring of chairs. In the center was a large ceramic planter filled with soil. Half buried in it was a dusky egg-shaped object, less than 6 inches across and partially covered by dry leaves.
It wasn't a fossil.
"Can I touch it?"
The Indian shrugged, and Albright gingerly put his fingertips on the egg. It felt like shell.
"It's a real egg?"
The Indian nodded.
"Maybe it came from an ostrich?"
"No."
"Where did you get it?"
The Indian didn't answer. He looked at Albright, who was desperately trying to think of anything to say. I better leave now, he thought. The Indian is crazy, no matter what the thing is. How could it be a dinosaur egg? This guy is old. But how old? Maybe a thousand years? That would make him an Anasazi. Or maybe as old as a Paleo-Indian? Whatever, dinosaurs were extinct long before then.
Albright put on his friendliest smile. "That's one great egg. You must be proud. Well, I gotta go. Thanks for sharing."
The Indian handed him a flyer. The paper described a contest: "Bet within five minutes the correct time of hatching. $100."
"The egg is going to hatch?"
The Indian nodded.
"And I'm supposed to guess the right time?" He laughed. "The egg could hatch today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or never. Who's going to be foolish enough to spend $100 for that?"
"It hatches tomorrow."
"A dinosaur is going to hatch from your egg tomorrow? Okay, suppose I guess correctly. What do I win?"
"The dinosaur."
Albright felt tempted despite knowing it was impossible. The same nemesis that had him driving to Mesquite had caught him again. He couldn't resist a bet, any kind of bet. "And if the egg doesn't hatch? Or if it hatches but a dinosaur doesn't come out?"
"It hatches tomorrow. Between noon and six."
"So you know?" A minute passed, and Albright said, "What if I win and it turns out to be an Allosaurus or some other flesh-eating monster? What would I do?"
The Indian shook his head vigorously. "Horned dinosaur. A very gentle one."
"Very gentle, huh. It would have to be. Probably grow as large as a house."
"Not very big. Okay if you have land."
"I've a ranch and 20 acres," Albright said, "north of Flagstaff. Forest mostly." Albright thought, Why am I telling him this? I wonder if he's a Hopi? They know some strange stuff.
Nodding with satisfaction, the Indian said, "That's good. Got livestock to keep the dinosaur company?"
"I've a Shire. A bay mare seventeen hands high," Albright said proudly. "She's registered at the Shire Horse Association."
"Good. You will place bet."
Albright's smile vanished. "Now wait a minute. Trying to guess when an unknown animal is going to hatch from an u
nknown egg is tough."
"Spread your bet." The Indian tapped at the paper. In smaller print at the bottom of the flyer, Albright read that reserving an hour was discounted to a thousand dollars.
"I don't have a thousand dollars on me—unless you take credit cards." Many roadside merchants took cards, but Albright doubted whether this Indian would accept plastic.
"Get the money. You're lucky."
"Yeah, I'll get the money. Thanks. Good-bye!" Albright left the tent. Behind him, he heard the ancient voice say, "Tomorrow. Between noon and six."