FSF, April 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  "Nothing,” said Joe. “Never mind."

  Another mild pop was followed by something a little louder, a little nearer.

  Just in case, the security man reached for his weapon. But he discovered that his holster was empty now.

  Somehow his gun had found its way into Joe's hand.

  "Stay close to me,” Joe said.

  "You know I will,” the man muttered weakly.

  Then came the flash of a thumb-nuke, followed by the sharp wail of people screaming, begging with Fortune to please show mercy, to please save their glorious, important lives.

  * * * *

  V. World's End

  Three terms as President finally ended with an assortment of scandals—little crimes and large ones, plus a series of convenient nondisclosures—and those troubles were followed by the sudden announcement that Joseph Carroway would slide gracefully into retirement. After all that, there was persistent talk about major investigations and unsealing ancient records. Tired allegations refused to die. Could the one-time leader of humanity be guilty of even one tenth of the crimes that he was rumored to have committed? In judicial circles, wise minds discussed the prospects of charging and convicting the Old Man on the most egregious insults to common morality. Politicians screamed for justice without quite defining what justice required. Certain species were loudest in their complaints, but that was to be expected.

  What was more surprising, perhaps, were the numbers of pure sapiens who blamed the President for every kind of ill. But most of the pain and passion fell on one-time colleagues and allies. Unable to sleep easily, they would sit at home, secretly considering their own complicities in old struggles and more recent deeds, as well as non-deeds and omissions that seemed brilliant at the moment, but now, in different light, looked rather ominous.

  In the end, nothing substantial happened.

  In the end, the Carroway Magic continued to hold sway.

  His successor was a talented and noble soul. No one doubted her passion for peace or the decency of her instincts. And she was the one citizen of the Inhabited Worlds who could sit at a desk and sign one piece of parchment, forgiving crimes and transgressions and mistakes and misjudgments. And then she showed her feline face to the cameras, winning over public opinion by pointing out that trials would take decades, verdicts would be contested for centuries, and every last one of the defendants had been elected and then served every citizen with true skill.

  The new president served one six-year term before leaving public life.

  Joseph Carroway entered the next race at the last moment, and he won with a staggering seventy percent mandate. But by then the Old Man was exactly that: A slowed, sorry image of his original self, dependent on a talented staff and the natural momentum of a government that achieved the ordinary without fuss or too much controversy.

  Fifteen months into Joe's final term, an alien starship entered the solar system. In physical terms, it was a modest machine: Twenty cubic kilometers of metal and diamond wrapped around empty spaces. There seemed to be no crew or pilot. Nor was there a voice offering to explain itself. But its course was clear from the beginning. Moving at nearly one percent of light speed, the Stranger, as it had been dubbed, missed the moon by a few thousand kilometers. Scientists and every telescope studied its configuration, and two nukes were set off in its vicinity—neither close enough to cause damage, it was hoped, but both producing EM pulses that helped create a detailed portrait of what lay inside. Working separately, teams of AI savants found the same awful hypothesis, and a single Antfolk nest dedicated to the most exotic physics proved that hypothesis to everyone's grim satisfaction. By then, the Stranger was passing through the sun's corona, its hull red-hot and its interior awakening. What might have been a hundred thousand year sleep was coming to an end. In less than a minute, this very unwelcome guest had vanished, leaving behind a cloud of ions and a tiny flare that normally would trouble no one, much less spell doom for humankind.

  * * * *

  They told Joe what would happen.

  His science advisor spoke first, and when there was no obvious reaction on that perpetually calm face, two assistants threw their interpretations of these events at the Old Man. Again, nothing happened. Was he losing his grip finally? This creature who had endured and survived every kind of disaster—was he suddenly lost, at wit's end and such?

  But no, he was just letting his elderly mind assemble the puzzle that they had given him.

  "How much time?” he asked.

  "Ten, maybe twelve minutes,” the science advisor claimed. “And then another eight minutes before the radiation and scorching heat reach us."

  Others were hoping for a longer delay. As if twenty or thirty minutes would offer some kind of help.

  Joe looked out the window, and with a wry smile pointed out, “It is a beautiful day."

  In other words, the sun was up, and they were dead.

  "How far will the damage extend?” he asked.

  Nobody replied.

  The Antfolk ambassador was watching from her orbital embassy, tied directly into the President's office. For a multitude of reasons, she despised this sapien. But he was the ruler of the Great Nest, and in awful times, she was willing to do or say anything to help him, even if that meant telling him the full, undiluted truth.

  "Our small worlds will be vaporized. The big asteroids will melt and seal in the deepest parts of our nests.” With a sad gesture of every hand, she added, “Mars is worse off than Earth, what with the terraforming only begun. And soon there won't be any solid surfaces on the Jovian moons."

  Joe turned back to his science advisor. “Will the Americas survive?"

  "In places, maybe.” The man was nearly sobbing. “The flares will finish before the sun rises, and even with the climate shifts and the ash falls, there's a fair chance that the atmosphere will remain breathable."

  Joe nodded.

  Quietly, firmly, he told everyone, “I want an open line to every world. In thirty seconds."

  Before anyone could react, the youngest assistant screamed out, “Why? Why would aliens do this awful thing to us?"

  Joe laughed, just for a moment.

  Then with a grandfatherly voice, he said, “Because they can. That's why."

  * * * *

  "It has been an honor to serve as your President,” Joe told an audience of two and then three and then four billion. But most citizens were too busy to watch this unplanned speech—an important element in his gruesome calculations. “But my days are done. The sun has been infiltrated, its hydrogen stolen to use in the manufacture of an amazing bomb, and virtually everybody in the range of my voice will be dead by tomorrow.

  "If you are listening to me, listen carefully.

  "The only way you will survive in the coming hell is to find those very few people whom you trust most. Do it now. Get to your families, hold hands with your lovers. Whoever you believe will watch your back always. And then you need to search out those who aren't aware of what I am telling you to do.

  "Kill those other people.

  "Whatever they have of value, take it.

  "And store their corpses, if you can. In another week or two, you might relish the extra protein and fat."

  He paused, just for a moment.

  Then Joe said, “For the next ten generations, you will need to think only about yourselves. Be selfish. Be vicious. Be strong, and do not forget:

  "Kindness is a luxury.

  "Empathy will be a crippling weakness.

  "But in another fifty generations, we can rebuild everything that we have lost here today. I believe that, my friends. Goodness can come again. Decency can flower in any rubble. And in fifty more generations after that, we will reach out to the stars together.

  "Keep that thought close tonight, and always.

  "One day, we will punish the bastards who did this awful thing to us. But to make that happen, a few of you must find the means to survive!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]


  Render unto Caesar by Kevin N. Haw

  Kevin Haw contributed “Requirements for the Mythology Merit Badge” to our Sept. 2007 issue. He lives in Southern California and recently moved his electronic digs to KevinHaw.com. He is a computer programmer by trade and currently works in the aerospace industry. He says he has turned down job offers from video game makers, including one from the good folks at Blizzard Entertainment, and it's probably a good thing for us all that he did, if this tale is any indication...

  * * * *

  Booming virtual economies in online worlds such as Second Life and World of Warcraft have drawn the attention of a U.S. congressional committee, which is investigating how virtual assets and incomes should be taxed.

  —Adam Pasick, reporting from the Reuter's Second Life bureau, October 15, 2006.

  * * * *

  Willhelmia Bloodfang Elfbane, Grand Warrior Duchess of the Troll Army, Defender of the Defiled Realms, Scourge of All Fair Creatures, shifted her seven-foot frame nervously in the too-small chair as the Tiny Man decided her fate.

  "You were saying, Ms. Elfbane?” the Tiny Man prompted. He didn't look up from the thick sheaf of papers spread across the surface of his battered, government-issue metal desk.

  "Er, ah, yes,” Willhelmia said, her voice raspy against the quiet office noises that were the only sound in the harshly lit gray cubicle. “So I normally wait for the Meaties—"

  "'Meaties'? The human subscribers of the Game?"

  "Yes. They, the knights and good wizards and that ilk, they climb Doom Mountain and face off with me. They come at me and smash and fight and, er, stuff."

  "And then?"

  "Well, if they kill me, they complete the Troll Queen Quest—Hey! Doesn't that—"

  "No, Ms. Elfbane,” the Tiny Man replied as he continued to scour Willhelmia's file. “Virtual Death does not absolve taxpayers of their obligations."

  "Oh."

  "These subscribers, though, they pay for the privilege of logging in and fighting you in the Game?"

  "Um, sure. Me and lots of other monsters."

  "Well,” the Tiny Man nodded, closing the folder with a note of finality. “You generate revenue. That makes you an employee."

  "But that means—"

  "Yes, you're subject to withholding."

  "But, that's crazy! I don't even get paid!"

  "Really? What happens to all the equipment of the heroes you defeat?"

  "Well, er, I put it into my treasure horde."

  "So you work on commission."

  "But it's virtual property. It only exists inside the Game!"

  "But it can be sold or auctioned on any number of Internet sites to other human players. That makes it income—taxable income.” The Tiny Man paused for a moment, a frown creeping over his sallow face as he scratched his bald pate. “You know, if there're fluctuations in value, you might be subject to Capital Gains as well. Hmmm...."

  "But, but ... I'm Virtual!"

  "Ms. Elfbane, if you feel you're being singled out because of your minority status, I can assure you—"

  "No, it's just I just can't understand how you people think I owe $1673—"

  "It's $1724 with interest and the fine."

  "But I don't have that kind of money!"

  "With all due respect, I've heard that before.” The Tiny Man snorted. “And before you start telling me about how you didn't know you were subject to income tax or you didn't think the IRS had jurisdiction in virtual worlds or any of those other excuses, I'll remind you that I've heard all of those as well. You're not the first Digital American I've audited, Ms. Elfbane."

  The trolless, whose interactions with humans were normally limited to screamed obscenities and mutual attempts at decapitation, found herself gnashing her fangs and reflexively reaching to the hip of her armored skirt. Alas, instead of finding the comforting weight of her favorite axe, the empty space brought back the humiliating memory of how the pudgy, glassy-eyed security guard in the lobby had confiscated the weapon. Not that killing one little Tiny Man would have helped, of course. From what she'd heard, this whole “Death and Taxes” thing had been going on for a lot longer and was invented by people much more devious than she could even fathom.

  She was out of her depth, she realized as she wiped the corner of her eye with a claw. But even as she tried to control her breathing, to count to ten as she had been advised to do before disemboweling anyone out in the Nondigital World, she felt frustrated tears streaming down the green scales of her face. Realizing it was no use, Willhelmia buried her face in her hands.

  It just wasn't fair!

  There was an awkward moment, the only noise disturbing the suddenly silent office being her gravelly sobs and the rhythmic “clang!” of her mailed fist smashing the steel plates of her skirt in frustration. Then, she saw movement in the corner of her eye and realized that the Tiny Man had left his perch behind his desk to offer a box of tissues. She accepted one and blew her nose with an echoing moose call that set the overhead fluorescent fixture swaying.

  "Thanks,” she whispered as faint half shadows rocked across the office.

  "It's okay.” The Tiny Man nodded quietly, standing on his toes to place a companionable hand on the spiked bronze plate covering the seated Willhelmia's shoulder. “I understand. After all, we here at the IRS are not without sympathy...."

  She nodded, dabbing at her tears with the tissue as she stared down at the Tiny Man's loafers.

  "...and I don't see any reason why we can't allow you to work off this debt—"

  The words caused Willhelmia to snap her head up in surprise. He couldn't possibly mean....

  A look at the Tiny Man's face, though, dashed that idea as she saw not the leer she'd been expecting (hoping for?) but instead the practiced, serious expression of a salesman making a pitch. Nevertheless, Willhelmia realized as she crumpled the tissue, if the Tiny Man had a way to square her debt with the IRS, it was worth considering.

  "What,” the trolless asked with a wistful sigh that went completely unnoticed by the bureaucrat, “did you have in mind?"

  "Well, Ms. Elfbane, it's a special project from the Commissioner himself. You said you commanded an entire troll army, is that correct?"

  * * * *

  The Internal Revenue Service recently began outsourcing debt-collection activities to more aggressively pursue people who owe taxes. The IRS has already turned over to private agencies the names of more than 13,725 taxpayers who owe the government about $73.5 million....

  —Tom Herman, The Wall Street Journal, November 15, 2006 (paraphrased).

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Nocturnal Adventure of Dr. O and Mr. D by Tim Sullivan

  Tim Sullivan has published seven novels and more than thirty science fiction stories, edited two anthologies, and recently finished a historical novel. He's written, acted in, and directed a number of direct-to-video feature films. Sullivan lives in Miami with his companion, Fiona Kelleghan, where he's patiently awaiting the submersion of the entire metropolitan area while amusing himself by strumming an acoustic guitar. He'd rather not mention his cats.

  "You're an eclecticist, Doctor,” said Mr. D, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard as he leaned over the old typewriter on his battered desk.

  "And an electricist, as well,” said Dr. O, looking down his nose and speaking in a mocking tone.

  Mr. D didn't mind. “True, you can't play rock and roll without electricity, can you?"

  "No, I'd have to play skiffle."

  Mr. D laughed. Ever since he'd come to Dr. O's house, he'd been laughing a lot. Doctor O was good company. But Mr. D wasn't getting much work done and he was getting a little bored hanging around the house.

  "I'd like to have a sailboat,” he said.

  "Get away from it all?” said the Doctor, chewing gum. “But a sailboat's a lot of work, isn't it? Polishing the teak, trimming the sails, tossing out the bilge, and all the rest?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

 
"Better to sit here and dream about sailing,” said Dr. O. “No work to be done, and you can go even farther away if you want."

  "To a distant star?"

  "Across the universe, Admiral.” Dr. O winked in exaggerated fashion.

  "The best of both worlds.” Mr. D swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. “It's very foggy."

  "Inside and out."

  Mr. D stared at the white tendrils climbing up the window pane. They left drops of moisture that trembled briefly and burst, only to run back down the glass surface like so many tears.

  "Mind if I smoke?” Dr. O asked.

  "No."

  Mr. D heard, rather than saw, the match head erupt in flame. He smelled the acrid sulfur, mingling a moment later with the tobacco smoke odor. He coughed. “On second thought, I'm trying to quit. Put it out, will you?"

  "All right.” Dr. O's thin, graceful hand stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the desk. “I'd step out to smoke, but the fog's too thick. My hair would be soaked."

  "Put on a hat."

  "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?” Dr. O demanded in exaggerated Merseyside accents. “You, safe and warm in here, playing the ocarina or whatever ‘tis you're planning to do, while I step out in me hat, all gangly and stupid with me ciggy, to catch me death."

  Mr. D said, laughing, “That's what I'd like, yes."

  "I know when I'm not wanted,” Dr. O said with melodramatic flair. “I'll take me business elsewhere and leave you to your fog."

  He turned as if to leave the room.

  "No, don't go,” said Mr. D. “I'm stuck, and I want you to talk to me until I can get moving again."

  "So it's your colonic business we're about, is it, Phil? A fat lot of good that'll do the two of us, me stopping by and you stopped up."

  Mr. D laughed. “No, I mean I'm stuck on the page I've been typing."

  "Oh, you're a sly old fox, Phil,” said Dr. O, “with your beard and your puppy eyes, like a military man with your filthy commands. Don't smoke. Don't go. Don't shout. Don't even fart. What kind of a life is that for a rock and roll man?"

  Dr. O sat down in the only other chair in the room and picked up a small practice guitar he always brought with him when he came to Mr. D's office. He began to strum, playing major, minor, and dreamlike major seventh chords as he sang in a sweet, high voice, “You tell me what I can't do, and I say what else is new, so I've got something to say to you-oo-oo, I don't care if it makes you blue, and I hope it will be enough, even if it's just a bit rough—Go get stuffed."