The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  Harry’s mind thought of several things at once.

  First, he marveled at the absolutely stunning physiology of the Korbans on display here; the scales and plates covering their bodies were not simply integumentary but had to be structural as well, holding the shape of the Korban body in both states; Harry doubted there was an internal skeleton, at least as it was understood in a human body, and the earlier puffing and expanding suggested that the Korbans’ structural system used both air and water to do certain and specific things; this species was clearly the anatomical find of the decade.

  Second, he shuddered at the thought of whatever evolutionary pressure had caused the Korban—or its distant amphiboid ancestors—to develop such a dramatic defense mechanism. Whatever was out there in the early seas of this planet, it had to have been pretty damn terrifying.

  Third, as the Korban forced water into its body, growing to a size now a square of the size and some terrifying cube of the mass of Harry’s own dimensions, he realized he was about to get his ass well and truly kicked.

  Harry wheeled on Schmidt. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know about this,” he said.

  “I swear to you, Harry,” Schmidt said. “This is new to me.”

  “How can you miss something like this?” Harry said. “What the hell do you people do all day?”

  “We’re diplomats, Harry, not xenobiologists,” Schmidt said. “Don’t you think I would have told you?”

  The judge’s horn sounded. The towering Korban stepped out of his pool with a hammering thud.

  “Oh, shit,” Harry said. He splashed as he tried to get out of his own pool.

  “I have no advice for you,” Schmidt said.

  “No kidding,” Harry said.

  “Oh, God, here he comes,” Schmidt said, and then stumbled off the floor. Harry looked up just in time to see an immense fist of flesh, water and fluid dynamics pummel into his midsection and send him flying across the room. Some part of Harry’s brain remarked on the mass and acceleration required to lift him like that, even as another part of Harry’s brain remarked that at least a couple of ribs had just gone with that punch.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Harry groggily took stock of his surroundings just as the Korban stomped up, lifted up its immense foot, and brought it down square on Harry’s chest, giving him the sensation of involuntary defibrillation. Harry watched as the foot lifted up again and noted two large hexagonal depressions in them. The part of his brain that had earlier marveled at the physiology of the Korba recognized these as the places where the body would take in water; they would have to be at least that large to grow the body as quickly as it did.

  The rest of Harry’s brain told that part to shut the hell up and move, because that foot was coming down again. Harry groaned and rolled, and bounced a little as the impact of the foot on the floor where Harry had just been caused everything to vibrate. Harry crawled away and then scrambled to his feet, narrowly missing a kick that would have sent him into a wall.

  The Korban lumbered after Harry, swinging at him as the crowd cheered. The alien was quick because its size allowed it to cover distance quickly, but as it swung at Harry, he realized that its attacks were slower than they were before. There was too much inertia going on here for the Korban to turn on a dime or make quick strikes. Harry suspected that when two Korba fought in this round, they basically stood in the middle of the gym and beat the hell out of each other until one of them collapsed. That strategy wouldn’t work here. Harry thought back on the first round, where the smaller Korba’s size was an advantage—size and the fact it knew its way around a bongka. Now the situations were reversed; Harry’s smaller size could work to his advantage, and the Korban, in this size, wouldn’t know how to fight something smaller.

  Let’s test that, Harry thought, and suddenly ran at the Korba. The Korba took a mighty swing at Harry; Harry ducked it, got in close, and jammed an elbow into the Korban’s midsection. Whereupon he discovered to his dismay that thanks to their engorgement, hitting the Korban’s plates was just like punching concrete.

  Oops, Harry thought, and then screamed as the Korban grabbed him by his hair and lifted him. Harry caught hold of the arm lifting him so his scalp wouldn’t tear off. The Korban commenced punching him in the ribs, cracking a few more. Through the pain, Harry levered himself on the Korban’s arm and kicked upward, jamming his big toe into the Korban’s snout; clearly it was the one body part of the Korban’s that Harry was having luck with today. The Korban howled and dropped Harry; he flopped down and thudded to the floor on his back. Before he could roll away the Korban stamped on his chest like a piston, once, twice, three times.

  Harry felt a sickening stab. He was reasonably sure he had a punctured lung. The Korban stamped again, forcing fluid out of Harry’s mouth. Definitely a punctured lung, he thought.

  The Korban raised his foot again and this time aimed for Harry’s head, taking a moment to perfect his aim.

  Harry reached up and grabbed the top of the Korban’s foot with his left hand; with his right he formed his fingers into a point and jammed them into one of the hexagonal depressions as hard as he could. As he did, Harry could feel something tear: the fleshy valve that closed to keep the water inside the Korban. It tore, and a spray of warm water pushed out of the Korban’s foot and splashed over Harry.

  The Korban offered an unspeakably horrible scream as the unexpected pain obliterated any other focus and tried to shake Harry off. Harry hung on, jamming his fingers further into the valve. He wrapped his left arm around the Korban’s lower leg and squeezed, juicing the Korban. Water sprayed on the floor. The Korban hopped, frantically attempting to dislodge Harry, and slipped on the disgorged liquid. It fell backward, causing the entire floor to quake. Harry switched positions and now started pushing on the leg from the bottom, forcing even more water out of it; he could actually see the leg deflating. The Korban howled and writhed; he clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Harry figured that if the judges had any brains at all, they would have to call the round any second now.

  Harry looked over to Schmidt. Schmidt looked at him with something akin to raw terror on his face. It took Harry a minute to figure out why.

  Oh, right, Harry thought to himself. I’m supposed to lose.

  Harry sighed and stopped juicing the Korban, letting the leg go. The Korban, still in pain, eventually sat up and looked at Harry, with a look that Harry could only imagine was complete confusion. Harry walked over and knelt down into the Korban’s face.

  “You have no idea how much it kills me to do this,” Harry said, reached out to the Korban’s face and made a grabbing motion. Then he stuck his thumb out from between his index and middle fingers and showed it to the Korban. The Korban stared at him, non-comprehending.

  “Look,” Harry said. “I got your nose.”

  The Korban swung a haymaker straight into Harry’s temple, and the lights went out.

  * * *

  “That’s really not the way we expected you to do that,” Schmidt said.

  From his bunk, Harry tried very hard not to grimace. Facial expressions hurt. “You asked me to keep it close, and you asked me to lose,” he said, moving his jaw as little as humanly possible.

  “Yes,” Schmidt said. “But we didn’t think you’d make it so obvious.”

  “Surprise,” Harry said.

  “The good news is, it actually worked for us,” Schmidt said. “The Korban leader—who, incidentally, you caused to get drenched in fruit juice when you kicked your competitor into the stands—wanted to know why you let your competition win. We had to admit we told you to lose. He was delighted to hear it.”

  “He had money on the other guy,” Harry said.

  “No,” Schmidt said. “Well, probably, but that’s not the point. The point was he said that your willingness to follow orders even when winning was in your grasp showed that you could make short-term sacrifices for long-term goals. He saw you almost winning as making a point about CDF st
rength, and then losing as making a point about the value of discipline. And since he seemed quite impressed with both, we said those were indeed exactly the points we had wanted to make.”

  “So you have brains after all,” Harry said.

  “We rolled with the changes,” Schmidt said. “And it looks like we’ll come out of this with an agreement after all. You saved the negotiations, Harry. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Harry said. “And I’ll bill you.”

  “I have a message for you from Ambassador Abumwe,” Schmidt said.

  “I can’t wait,” Harry said.

  “She thanks you for your service and wants you to know she’s recommended you for commendation. She also says that she never wants to see you again. Your stunt worked this time but it could just as easily have backfired. All things considered, you’re not worth the trouble.”

  “She’s welcome,” Harry said.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Schmidt said.

  “Of course not,” Harry said. “But I like the idea that I had choreographed having the crap kicked out of me down to that level of detail. Makes me feel like a genius, it does.”

  “How do you feel?” Schmidt said. “Are you okay?”

  “You keep asking that same very dumb question,” Harry said. “Please, stop asking it.”

  “Sorry,” Schmidt said. He turned to go, and then stopped. “It does occur to me that we know the answer to another question, though.”

  “What’s that?” Harry said.

  “How well you can take a punch,” Schmidt said.

  Harry smiled, and then grimaced. “God, Hart, don’t make me smile,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Schmidt said again.

  “How well do you take a punch, Hart?” Harry asked.

  “If this is what it takes to find out, Harry,” Schmidt said, “I don’t want to know.”

  “See,” Harry said. “I told you you were soft.”

  Schmidt grinned and left.

  Copyright © 2008 by John Scalzi

  Cover art © 2008 by John Harris

  Books by John Scalzi

  Agent to the Stars (Subterranean, 2005)

  The Android’s Dream (Tor, 2006)

  Metatropolis (editor) (Subterranean, 2009)

  The God Engines (Subterranean, 2009)

  THE OLD MAN’S WAR SERIES

  Old Man’s War (Tor, 2005)

  The Ghost Brigades (Tor, 2006)

  The Last Colony (Tor, 2007)

  Zoe’s Tale (Tor, 2008)

  NONFICTION

  The Rough Guide to Money Online (Rough Guides, 2000)

  The Rough Guide to the Universe (Rough Guides, 2003)

  The Rough Guide to Sci-Fi Movies (Rough Guides, 2005)

  You’re Not Fooling Anyone When You Take Your Laptop Into A Coffee Shop: Scalzi On Writing (Subterranean, 2007)

  Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded: A Decade of Whatever (Subterranean, 2008)

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Deputy White House Chief of Staff Alexander Lipsyte walked through the doorway and into the Oval Office and was surprised that the President was not at his desk. “Where’s the boss?” he asked.

  “He’s out,” said David Boehm, the Chief of Staff, holding a folder. “Close the door and sit down, Alex.”

  Alex closed the door behind him and took at seat on the east-facing sofa, next to Secretary of State Mona Fitzgerald. Across from him on the west-facing sofa were National Security Advisor Brad Stein and Vice-President Tony Hsu. Hsu’s presence was unusual; the President had reverted to the formerly-common practice of giving the Vice President absolutely nothing of any importance to do. Hsu spent most of his time visiting elementary schools and working on his putting.

  Hsu caught Alex’s glance. “If you think you’re surprised, think how I feel,” Vice-President Hsu said. Alex grinned in spite of himself.

  “Now that we’re all here, we can get started,” Boehm said. “We have a situation. The President’s brain is missing.”

  No one in the room had anything to say to that. Finally Alex spoke up. “I thought we all agreed to let Jon Stewart write his own jokes,” he said.

  “God damn it, Alex, it’s not a joke,” Boehm said, and slapped down the folder he was carrying onto the table. Papers spilled out of them, including images of an X-Ray and MRI which featured a head with a blank brain cavity. Alex stared at them.

  Fitzgerald reached over and picked up the X-Ray. “When were these taken?” she asked, holding up the photograph.

  “Three hours ago,” Boehm said. “The X-Ray and MRI both.”

  “The President went to Walter Reed for these?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “No, Anil did them here, down in the bunker,” Boehm said, referring to Anil Singh, the President’s personal physician. “Once he figured out what was going on, he knew enough to keep it quiet.”

  “So the President is dead,” Vice President Hsu said.

  “The President is fine,” Boehm said. “He’s in the residence, resting, per Anil’s orders.”

  “But you said he’s missing his brain,” Hsu said.

  “He is,” Boehm said.

  Hsu looked around at the others, to see if he was the only one who was confused. He wasn’t. “Dave, I don’t claim to be an expert on medical issues, but I’m pretty sure that not having a brain is a fatal condition,” he said.

  “It is,” Boehm said.

  “So you understand my confusion, here,” Hsu said.

  “I do,” Boehm said. “Mr. Vice-President, I have no answers for you at this time. All I know—all any of us know at the moment—are two things. One, the President is by all outward and most inward appearances entirely healthy for a 63-year-old man. Two, his brain is absolutely gone.”

  “Dave,” Alex said. “You might want to run us through the chronology of this.”

  “The President woke up at 5:30 am as he typically does and went for his usual morning swim, at which point he noticed the first sign that something unusual was going on,” Boehm said

  “Which was?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “He couldn’t submerge his head,” Boehm said. “Any time he tried to put his head under it would pop back up like a cork.”

  In spite of himself, Alex grinned at the mental image of the Most Powerful Man in the World trying to push his head under the water of the White House swimming pool and failing.

  “Later in the shower he felt light-headed,” Boehm continued, “so he called Anil for a consult. Anil arrived at 7:30, met with the President in the residence and then took him into the bunker for the X-Ray and the MRI, whereupon he discovered that the President’s cranial cavity was entirely vacant.”

  “How is the President taking the news?” Alex asked.

  “He’s not,” Boehm said. “Anil didn’t tell him.”

  “Why not?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “You have to ask that, Mona?” Boehm asked. “The President gets freaked out when he has a cold. He has nightmares he’s going to drown in his own phlegm. The last time he got a paper cut it was like ninjas had slashed his carotid artery. The President is a good man, but he’s a hypochondriac. If he knew he was missing his brain, he’d probably have a stroke. Anil decided, rightly, that it was not his job to burden the President with this information at this time. Instead he told the President that he has a sinus infection and that he should rest for the remainder of the day. Then he came and found me.”

  “You can’t keep thi
s from him forever,” Hsu said. “He’s the President, for God’s sake. And he has that town hall tax speech tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” Boehm said. “But when I do tell him, I’d like not to have to say ‘You’re missing your brain and we don’t have a single clue why.’”

  National Security Advisor Stein, who had been silent all this time, shifted on the sofa and leaned forward. “Why are you telling us, Dave?”

  “Because you are the people who need to know,” Boehm said. “Tony, we have to assume that even if the President is healthy now, that could change at any second. Mona, you’ll have to deal with the rest of the world if and when we have to announce this. Brad, it should be clear just what sort of security implications this has for us.”

  “What about me, Dave?” Alex asked.

  “Alex, you’re here because you’re the one person out of all of us who can do anything about this,” Boehm said. “The rest of us are too closely watched by the media and by the President’s political enemies. If we deviate from our schedules they’ll want to know why. So Mona has to meet with the Burundi ambassador, like she’s supposed to. Brad has to go to the Pentagon for a briefing. Tony has to read a book to third-graders in Fairfax. And I have to take or reschedule the President’s meetings today.

  “But your schedule is whatever I tell you it is,” Boehm reached down to the folder on the table, picked it up and held it out to Alex. “No one’s watching your schedule like they’re watching ours. So your job is to find out just what the hell is going on here, Alex. And do it fast.”