Twelve O'Clock Tales

by Felice Picano

  Her name, for it is a g. female, is Scroba(CIR-2300), and if she possesses more than 6 percent of human biologicals, I’ll be a Perli Berry Bug in heat, in late Autumn, upon Usk (in the immortal words of the Bard—Eis Kell).

  Scroba, of course, asserted her gender-ship upon strapping into the Super-Fast that we were assigned (I wouldn’t have gone without the latest model, this one has a time-flux scattering mechanism). She complained that the length of shape of her daybed/chair/dais etc. was designed for g. males not g. females and would prove uncomfortable for such a long—seventy-five hours—flight.

  I let the Fast Mind respond, of course, and it had 116 possible alterations for the problem out of which she could pick one, many, or all.

  When Scroba then complained that the Fast Mind was evidently a male mind, it countered by telling her it was originally (twenty thousand years ago, I believe) a female, albeit a highly evolved Andromeda-Galaxy Super-Slime-Mold variety of female.

  Scroba got off the chair and the ship reconfigured the bed too quickly for even our augmented eyesight to see more than a blur. Scroba then re-tried it, and sulked that it was “a bit less harsh.”

  Annoyed that she would have one less Intelligent Being to harass, she promptly had herself injected and fell to sleep. I in turn suggested that the Fast Mind might wish to consider injecting her repeatedly until a half day, Sol. Rad, before our arrival.

  This was overruled. “I find her ‘cute,’” the ship declared.

  “Cute as a Vole-Ratteen popping its head from a Cherm-millet bin,” I replied, and the Fast Mind immediately cited the Eis Kell lyric I had referenced, by completing it: “Always deadlier than the Male.”

  “And she smells funny too,” I said. “Neutralize that.”

  “It’s a purposeful scent.”

  “Its purpose being?” I asked.

  “Unclear,” the Fast Mind had to admit. “It’s called perfume.”

  “If it’s unclear, then neutralize it.”

  Which the ship did. I mean, who needs extraneous odors for three and three-quarter days, Sol. Rad, anyway?

  Scroba was awake, alas, earlier than I’d hoped. I was surrounded by a privacy screen, naturally, but this seemed to make no difference at all, as she stood quite close and made annoying motions that interfered not only with my spatial recognition of the air-screens but also the very coherence of the screen I was working on.

  “Fast,” said I, “please inform the other passenger of the purpose of a privacy screen,” I demanded.

  As it began the first of fifteen definitions, Scroba said, “I know what a privacy screen does.”

  “Then explain why are you gesticulating like a nerve-damaged Diomedean water vole in heat?”

  “I’m trying to get your attention.”

  “You can’t have it: I’m occupied. Fast, initiate full material physical privacy screen—instantly!”

  She backed away fast when the plasti-metal shot out of the floor and surrounded me.

  An hour and thirty-two minutes later, I had a portion of that screen removed.

  Scroba was placed at an insta-desk she’d had the ship erect for her and was working at her own air-screens.

  “Sixty-two point eleven percent of those insta-polled believe that you have mistreated me,” she said.

  “I really don’t care if ninety-nine percent believe it.”

  “You can’t go against the majority,” she insisted.

  “Majority of what? Of whom, rather? People you happen to know?”

  “I won’t stand for your rude behavior,” Scroba insisted.

  “You were not invited onto this mission by me, and you are free to leave at any time,” I added, and had the Fast Mind prepare me a collation.

  “You know I couldn’t possibly leave.”

  “You could, possibly. And quite easily,” I corrected.

  “That would be homicide!”

  “Semi-demi-homicide, since you possess such a smidgen of true human biologicals. It would be more like semi-demi-pseudo-homicide,” I added, pleased with my quip.

  At that, she put up her own physical privacy screen.

  Not long after that the Fast Mind reported a necessary stop. It had encountered rather far ahead, but still rather evident, an anomaly.

  Or rather an actual object, not far off our path.

  “Well?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “It appears to be part of that solar system we are heading toward.”

  “So far out?”

  “It’s been traveling a while. Clearly you understand that particular G-Class has become a red giant. The material intercepted appears to be of rather exact similitude to what had been that solar system’s second orbiting world. Lilith, it was called.”

  “Venus!” Scroba corrected.

  “She’s correct,” I had to admit.

  “Apologies. I assumed that mythical names were inter-changeable.”

  “Names are never interchangeable,” Scroba warned.

  “She’s correct again, Fast.” Then before Scroba could crow, I said, “So we’re headed in the right direction at least.”

  The ship didn’t dignify that with an answer.

  “Estimated time of arrival?” I tried.

  The readout was a bit earlier than that given to us.

  “Would the passengers like to watch a moving diagram explaining the destruction about to come?” the Fast Mind asked. It was clearly annoyed at me too and showed it by lumping us together.

  “Do it.”

  The graphic was dynamic and of course tri-dimensional, as though we were actually within that solar system, albeit at a great distance, from a perspective slightly above the ecliptic and near the moon of the ninth planet. First we were shown what it looked like for most of the system’s long life: twelve planets, their satellites and various other planetoids in their appropriately varied orbits. Then the sun turned orange and began expanding, taking the tiny first planet with it. Secondly, it expanded twice as far, became redder, and overtook this second so-called Venus, which—because it had greater mass—actually underwent less of the easy absorption than the first had, indeed more of an explosion; ergo the junk matter we’d come across. We were arriving in time for the sun to overwhelm the third planet, after which, due to its great density, it would absorb so much more material to feed its furnaces that it would march outward rapidly, eating up the smaller fourth and a mid-ring of asteroids, settling to nibble on the gorgeous, gaseous fifth one, which would increase its expansion twentyfold until it shattered the sixth, then flattened out into a flaming disc, quickly eating up the next two, and so raced outward to its cometary cloud level. There it would become so thinned out, it would at last simply fall into itself, molecule after molecule burning each other and themselves until at last there would be a blinding flash and then nothing. Or nearly nothing, as some larger and smaller embers would remain, flickering in and out of the light spectrum for centuries to come.

  “Very dramatic,” I replied.

  “Of course, it could also become what is called nova,” the Fast Mind said, and replayed the last few seconds, which collapsed and then wildly expanded.

  Scroba pouted and put up her privacy screen again.

  Several hours later, the ship awakened me. “We have received a signal.”

  “There are survivors!” Scroba insisted.

  “Where are they hailing from?” I asked.

  “A large M-Class world. Gamma of fifteen planets orbiting a good-sized J-Class star, with only a very old name listed in our files: Episilon Eridani.”

  “Definitely survivors,” Scroba insisted.

  “How far off our course are they?”

  “Not far. This ship can easily detour.”

  “Bring up the message,” I said.

  Our air-screens showed human creatures not too different from ourselves in their physicality, albeit smaller, and of course clad almost head to toe.

  “They look primitive,” I commented. “Are they intelligent?”<
br />
  Before the ship could answer, we were visibly and audibly being hailed.

  “Welcome, visitors. Our world mind is attempting to link up with your ship. Can your ship’s mind open a channel?”

  “This ship can manage a small and very discrete link,” the Fast Mind said only to me, “but only with many precautions and safeguards, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed. Then said aloud, “Welcome, humans. Yes! Our ship will patch you through more fully.”

  “I think they’re adorable,” Scroba said. “Look, some are still neo-nates.” She all but purred. I believe it is already on record that she is a female.

  “Are you in need of medical or other such survival materials?” I asked.

  “No.” It was a handsome, small, fit-looking g. female who responded. “Gratitude. Are you the captain?”

  “Captain: a false and once necessary alpha role,” the Fast Mind explained the word to me.

  They were primitive.

  “I did sign all requisitions for the mission, if that’s what you mean. Yes, so I suppose I am,” I added.

  “Greetings, human female. My name is Scroba.”

  “See, they do too have women,” we heard the first one say to some others. “Greetings, Scroba, I’m Francine del Abbott. We’re all fine here. This is one of the colonies of survivors, as you called us, from the solar system that our world mind says you are headed to. We have everything we require here. But a few of us have a request.”

  “Go ahead, Francine,” Scroba said, relieving me of the strain of talking to them.

  “Is it true that your ship is headed to our former solar system?” Francine asked.

  “Briefly, yes.”

  “For documentation purposes only,” I added.

  “See?” Francine said to the others. “I knew it wasn’t being ignored in the Center Worlds.” Then to us, “Could we possibly ask you to bring along one or two of us for our own documentation purposes? We’re certain you have far faster and safer craft than we have. We couldn’t really chance it. In fact, our world mind wasn’t a hundred percent certain we’d be safe from it even this far away, if it went nova.”

  “Ship?” I asked. “What do you say to that question?”

  “They’ll feel the effects in about six years’ time, by which time it will be only…” and here it produced a long string of numerals.

  “Unless it goes supernova, which is unlikely, you’re totally safe if you remain where you are!” Scroba assured them. She was apparently expert at instant statistical analysis.

  “One surviving human,” the Fast Mind said, “may join us. We have room for only one, and we will provide all needed equipment for documentation to match theirs.”

  I passed on the information, which they were also getting directly from their own world mind.

  “Our requirements are for a non-attached, more or less disposable member of your group,” I read out the Fast’s specifications. “Someone young enough to be strong, but old enough to be able to make crucial decisions if needed.”

  “That’s Tony van Jeffery. He’s volunteered,” Francine said, pointing to the young human, who waved at us.

  “He’s very attractive,” I said. “Which usually means good genetics. Has he left some of his DNA behind, in case we incur a fatal accident?”

  “It’s all taken care of,” Francine assured us with a little smile.

  “He’s not pregnant, is he?” Scroba was clever enough to ask. The Fast might have been Super, but it’s not Super shielded against fine radiation. We of course were safe, having been modified at birth for Fast travel.

  “No. Not many of our males are born with Relfian Vivi-parturition Units.”

  “They are quite primitive,” was the ship’s comment. But I don’t believe that was heard by them.

  “If her name is Scroba, what’s yours?” Francine looked right at me.

  “You may call me Syzygy.”

  “Ziggy?” she asked.

  “Close enough! And, Francine? We’ll be moving into orbit in a few hours. Please have your volunteer also in high orbit, ready for transfer.” I read off their world mind’s message to our ship. “His name is Toe-Knee?”

  “That’s right. Tony,” Francine responded.

  “Odd name,” Scroba commented. “Was he a runner, do you think?”

  “In two hours and fifty minutes your time.” I signed off. “Fast Mind, will the Toe-knee require anything different? A bed is being prepared and an insta-desk for Toe-knee.”

  “I’ll let Tony know.”

  “I’m so excited. We’re going to be meeting an Earthling. Think of it, Syz, one of the ‘originals.’” Scroba was indeed excited.

  “If you accept the particular origin theory.”

  “Of course I accept the origin theory. What? You don’t?”

  I ignored her. “Fast Mind, were you able to get a full medical scan from their world mind in case this Toe-Knee requires special attention?”

  “Indeed. He appears to be ninety-nine point nine-eight percent similar to yourself.”

  “A brother,” Scroba teased.

  “A cousin is more like it,” the Fast Mind said. “By the way, this ship is modifying our normal bow wind to a wider focus in order to keep other debris from destroyed planets at a minimum. Unless, of course, more samples are needed.”

  “None. Excellent. Now, Scroba, you interrupted me before, what was it about?”

  She looked about as blank as a person could, then said, “I remember. I wanted to know if you had a mate or a pod?”

  For that she’d interrupted me!

  “I’m part of two different pods. Both of whom appear to be trying to initiate some sort of congratulatory message at this time. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” she said and flounced off.

  “She’s ‘cute,’ huh?” I asked the Fast Mind.

  “This ship is also excited about meeting a primitive human,” it commented. “It wasn’t known that any existed.”

  So of course you, reading this report, may now understand: Given this low level of curiosity and communication among my shipmates, is it any wonder at all what transpired later on?

  *

  “‘Syzygy’ as in a straight line of three or more celestial bodies as seen from a single location?” Tony asked me.

  And when I’d assented, he’d smiled prettily, and asked, “And your sister is named Narcissa, right?”

  I’d answered, “No, one of my genetic mothers is,” and he’d given me a two-fingered gesture, which from his demeanor I understood to be complete approval.

  His own surname’s middle section, van, like those of Francine and the other survivors—de, del, de la, nach, auf, and of—referred—or so he told us—to particular purebred lineages.

  Apparently there had been a not-too-distant period of their history during which Cloned Cyber zoons, like one of my own ancestors, had threatened to overpopulate the entire Terran planetary/satellite/Oort Cloud system, leading to a massive internecine conflict (that I chose not to look too closely into—though the Fast Mind did). But with the eventual result that anyone who was never cloned or never derived from anyone else ever cloned would be able to claim direct lineage and could display that fact right inside their nomenclature: in effect becoming a sort of aristocracy, I assumed, although why that status existed or was deemed so positively neither I nor the Fast Mind could really comprehend.

  Tony had arrived in a functional if obsolescent T-pod and had been instantly absorbed through the Fast’s side wall, which had rather surprised him, this being a technology not known to them.

  In a nod to our usual clothing-less state and the flat, marsupial-like pouches that contain our genitals, Tony had donned nothing but a small, pouch-like garment in a fleshly color worn in the appropriate area, which—rather transparently—contained his genitals. He was almost as tall as Scroba and, as I’d mentioned early, sufficiently attractive so that had he been forced to, he wouldn’t look at all out o
f place in most Center World societies where human physical perfection is so much the norm that anything else is, at the least, glared at.

  He turned out to also be personable, knowledgeable, and a quick learner.

  He provided the Fast Mind (via converse with ourselves) with a rather sketchy if much highlighted history of how his people had discovered the “unexpected problem” with their little star, the various tests they’d performed, the sudden confirmation of their unhappy finding of its fate so much earlier than had been expected, and the resultant reactions and plans to escape its fury. Those plans, Tony insisted, were long-term, complex, and almost dependent upon who and where one actually was. Some had even opted to remain within the solar system, although at its very fringes, profitably solar-farming chemicals and other living-machines that they said only grew and flourished under the newly intensified solar ray bombardment: They been shipping these off to the Gammans and other survivor colonies for a decade now, and Tony hoped that they would soon ship themselves off to safety too.

  His people had begun evacuating over a generation earlier, first to the outer moons, and moonlets, and eventually to nearby systems like Wolf 238, Proxima Centauri, Epsilon Eridani, and other, older Orion Spur backwaters of our Third Ib’r/Matriarchal Republic, utilizing fleets of old Slp.G haulers and ferries. Many of those nearby, non-threatened star systems had been previously thinned if not outright emptied of their younger populations (and in some cases, most of their populations) during the great intermarriage of the Viristic Republic and the Matriarchal Empire’s Remnant, which you may recall had opened up so many dynamic new solar systems closer to the Sag A-1, and the Central Worlds.

  In most cases, those older Orion Spur worlds’ infrastructures were still intact or in need of only a bit of upgrading, Tony told us, and so they were quickly filled with the remaining twenty billion (mostly Human and Delphinid) souls of the Terran solar system. In fact, Tony told us, he might actually be appointed in his absence to return with us to Hesperia in order to claim an ambassadorship for the renewed Eridani planets to once more take an active role in the Republic. The Fast Mind approved of this and put through such a request to the Greater Quinx Council.