Artificial Evolution

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Here’s the cabin rental page, there’s my account, and,” he pressed his finger to the screen, “there’s my authorization.”

  “Thank you, sir. And I hope you take your commitment to your fiancé more seriously once she becomes your wife.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, Officer, I will. Just gotta get it out of the system. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get to it.”

  Garotte walked toward Silo, who was now standing in the doorway waiting patiently for the interruption to be dealt with. When he was near enough to be heard by her, but not by the officer, he held out his arms and whispered, fast and steady, “I’m engaged, you’re the other woman, and we are having one last dalliance before the marriage. Make it look good.”

  A trained eye might have noticed a remarkable narrative in the sequence of micro-expressions that flashed across Silo’s face. First was confusion, then was weary anger, and finally the best approximation she could manage of sizzling lust. She ran to his embrace, threw her arms around him, and began kissing Garotte deeply and vigorously enough to catch even the unflappable spy off guard for a moment. The pair stumbled, entwined in a make-out session that would have made an entire schoolyard of teenagers jealous, until they tumbled through the door and onto the bed. A deliberate flail of Garotte’s leg nudged the door nearly shut, and the frenzy continued with the door slightly ajar until they heard the officer take his leave in an embarrassed rush.

  Garotte propped himself up and listened until the hoverbike was no longer within range, Silo turning her head to do the same. It wasn’t until they were both certain that the officer had gone that they each turned back to the other and realized the position they were in. Garotte lay atop Silo against the edge of the bed. She had one leg wrapped around his waist and one hand grabbing his hair. Turning back had left them face-to-face, eye to eye. Two awkwardly silent seconds passed.

  “I suppose we should untangle ourselves,” he said calmly.

  “Probably a good idea.”

  As though there was nothing particularly unusual about what had happened, each stood and straightened their clothes and hair.

  “So what happened there? With the officer, I mean.”

  “I had to give him one of my dummy accounts.”

  “Will it hold up if he does a background check?”

  “It will bat him around for a week or so. He shouldn’t start to see anything suspicious for about ten days. We should plan to be well away from here by then, which means I may need to change the site for my upcoming meeting.” While his clothes were no longer in disarray, there were a few lingering sensations from their thoroughly enacted cover story that needed to be addressed. “I must say, I am rather impressed by your commitment to your performance.”

  “If the officer had gotten suspicious, we’d have had a problem on our hands. Fake kisses look fake. You said make it look good,” she said with a shrug, then she poked him in the chest. “And don’t pretend you didn’t pick that story on purpose, Mister. Now, I’ve got to burn off some energy. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I can think of something that might do the trick,” he said.

  “Let’s not complicate things any more than they are, sweetie. Gravity drills for me. I’m sure you can take care of yourself.”

  He watched her pluck a case from the ground and march into the main room of the cabin. When she shut the door, he did the same to the still-ajar door from the bedroom to the outside.

  “That woman is an artist when it comes to mixed signals,” he muttered, digging out the equipment to resume his research.

  Chapter 5

  Lex kicked open the door to his tiny but rent-free apartment and trudged into the darkness within. He was wearing a heavy coat and boots, as Golana’s short but intense winter season was in full effect.

  “Lights,” he said wearily, kicking off his shoes.

  The voice control triggered a sluggish pair of high-efficiency bulbs to activate, shedding light on the futon and television that made up the key parts of his apartment. In the past it would have been layered with fast-food wrappers and other bachelor debris, but that had changed in the last six months. It would have been nice to suggest that he’d begun to keep his home neat once Michella had reentered his life, but in reality it was Squee who had motivated the change. Perhaps it was some holdover from the fox or skunk contributions to her brain, but Squee liked to hide things. Half-eaten sandwiches, various gadgets, socks, shoes, and anything else light enough for her to carry would mysteriously appear crammed into nooks and crannies throughout his home. Keeping the apartment neat was the only reasonable defense against it.

  He dropped his bags and flopped onto the futon. The instant he did so, the video panel by the door produced a pleasant chime and displayed the word “Concierge.” Lex furrowed his brow.

  “Answer, audio only,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Alexander. I’m Mr. Stevenson, the concierge. I see from our access logs that you’ve returned from your trip. Welcome home. We’ve been holding some packages for you.”

  “Uh, okay. Before we get into that, can I ask you something?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “When did we get access logs, and when did we get a concierge?”

  “The owners of the building are improving the overall infrastructure and atmosphere of Gemstone Lofts.”

  “Uh-huh. And what is Gemstone Lofts?”

  “This building, sir.”

  Lex mused for a moment about just how little time he’d been spending at home lately. He decided to set it aside for future consideration. “Okay, so what’s up with these packages?”

  “There are three of them, sir. Two require refrigeration. If you’d like, we can deliver them to you.”

  “Refrigeration?” He sighed angrily and glared at his fuzzy companion. “Any idea if they were ordered before I left?”

  “They arrived a few hours after your departure, so most likely. Why?”

  After grumbling under his breath, he said, “Never mind. Send them up.”

  The video pad clicked off. Lex picked up Squee and held her in front of his face. She stared innocently back at him.

  “Where is it?” he said. “Go get your slidepad.”

  Squee’s head perked up and she struggled free. She dropped to the floor and wriggled under the futon, emerging a moment later with a slidepad that was much abused but otherwise identical to Lex’s. The screen was lit up and smeared with drool. The slidepad was her favorite toy, and while most creatures would do little more than gnaw on a piece of electronics, Squee liked to pin it to the ground or hold it between her paws and nose at the screen. At first he thought she was mimicking the general motions. It turns out she was a bit more tech-savvy than that. Lex took the slidepad from her.

  “How do you keep turning this thing on?” He wiped it on his pants and flipped through the many open applications. There were windows filled with strings of random text, a few art programs with nose prints peppering the canvas, and a ’net browser pointing to the Cost-Mart site. There were a number of recent orders. “And where are you getting the money for this stuff? I don’t have my account information on here.”

  A knock came from the door.

  “That was quick.” He powered off the slidepad and dropped it on the futon. “Now leave it off. I mean it. You can play with it just fine while it’s off.”

  He turned to answer the door. The start-up sound of the device signaled Squee’s disobedience almost immediately.

  “Trev, it’s me. Open up, I need to talk to you,” said a voice from the other side of the door. Michella.

  He tapped the door control.

  “Sweetie!” she said, charging through and assaulting him with a hug and a kiss. She was dressed in layers. On top was a thin parka made from a silvery material that did the job of six centimeters of down, and beneath it a light hooded sweatshirt with the letters DZD in a stylized typeface. She had black pants with a slight sheen, made from the same material as the parka, and a s
leek pair of boots. The lenses of her angular-rimmed glasses were still dark. When finished with her greeting, she ran a finger along one earpiece and the tint faded.

  “Hey, babe. I thought we were meeting for dinner. That’s not for another three hours,” Lex said.

  “We were, but something came up.” She looked to the couch and squealed. “Oh, where’s my little angel? There’s my little angel. Come here, Squee sweetie.” The funk waited patiently to be picked up and gave Michella a few sloppy licks before scrabbling up onto her shoulder.

  “Something came up,” he said flatly. “That’s Mitch-talk for ‘I’m canceling our date.’”

  “Hey. You know I only cancel when I have to. And you canceled the last one.”

  “Does that mean you aren’t canceling?”

  “Well…”

  A voice came from the still-open door. “Trevor Alexander?” He and Michella turned to find two overall-clad porters with a hand truck loaded with three large boxes. “Where do you want these?”

  “Just put them anywhere,” he said.

  “What’s with all the boxes, Trev?” Michella asked, eyeing them with curiosity as the porters wheeled them inside.

  “I’ll explain in a minute. So what suddenly came up?”

  “Did he agree yet?” said yet another new voice. This time it was Jon, lugging a decidedly feminine overnight bag over his shoulder and wheeling a larger matching suitcase. “The clock’s ticking.”

  Michella shushed him. “I didn’t ask him yet.”

  “Didn’t ask me what?” Lex said, frustration growing.

  “Thumbprint here, please,” said the porter, datapad in hand.

  Lex grumbled and pressed his thumb to the pad. “Mitch, what did you need to ask me that involves luggage?”

  Michella glanced at the two porters, who stood patiently by the door, conspicuously failing to leave. Lex grumbled more loudly and dug out a few chips.

  “For your trouble,” he said. “And Jon, come on in.”

  “But we are going—”

  “We aren’t going anywhere until someone tells me what’s going on. So come on in.”

  “Okay then.”

  Jon hauled the luggage inside of the now somewhat overcrowded apartment. Squee hopped down from Michella’s shoulder to the top of the stack of boxes and started digging at it. Michella wiped some frost from the side of the box.

  “What do you need two cases of frozen burritos for?” she asked.

  “If you think that’s bad, I think the bottom box is six dozen blue socks. Squee’s been shopping again.”

  “Wait. The funk bought stuff?” Jon said.

  “She does that sometimes. Allergy medication, blue stuff, and burritos usually,” Lex said.

  Jon looked at Squee. “You are one whacked-out critter.”

  “Nothing in my life is normal,” Lex said, pulling open the first of the boxes and attempting to transfer some of the burritos to his undersized freezer. “So what’s going on, you two?”

  Michella looked to Jon.

  “Don’t look at me, you’re the one with the doe eyes and feminine wiles,” he said.

  “Trev, I need a big favor, but I think you’re going to like it.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “You know how I’ve been having a little trouble getting any really noteworthy information on the Neo-Luddites lately?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The network feels like that well’s run dry, so they want me moving on to something else. Something more interesting and less likely to upset people, which is absurd, because anything even remotely interesting is bound to upset some people. The good news is I think I’ve found a way to get the information I’m after, regardless. There’s this silly little story, just the kind of spineless time-filler they want me to focus on for a while, that they’ve okayed me to cover. And a lead I’ve been milking for almost two months finally agreed to a meeting that’s right in the same neighborhood if we can get there in time. The bad news is the network doesn’t feel time is of the essence for this one. They won’t charter a special flight or a particularly fast one. By their schedule I won’t get there until late next week. My lead will be cold by then. But, I mentioned that I might be able to find a certain pilot who would give us a bargain on a fast ride…”

  Lex stopped cramming his freezer and turned to her. “Do you mean to tell me that after all of these years you finally want me to fly you somewhere?”

  “That depends. You know planet Movi?”

  “Not really.”

  “Could you bring it up, Jon?”

  “Already on it,” her partner said, pulling up the coordinates and showing it off.

  Lex eyed it. “Okay. What about it?”

  “Do you think you can have me there in four days?”

  “I could have you there in two.”

  “Feel like giving a girl a ride?”

  “Always,” he said. “It’s just you, right? I only have one passenger seat.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Alexander. I’m just here to give you guys a lift back to the dock,” Jon assured him. “I’m the designated desk jockey for this story, prepping reports and readying feeds.”

  Lex clapped. “All right, let’s go then!”

  “Don’t you need to call the courier company to extend your time off? And the chauffeur service?”

  “Yeah, about that. The courier company, not so much. We’ll discuss that over dinner.” He snatched up the remaining frozen box. “We’re having burritos.”

  #

  “I tell you, babe, you are going to love this. There is no other way to travel. Everything else is just sitting in a big moving living room. No connection to the stars,” Lex raved as he navigated his way through The Upstairs, the orbital section of the starport where he kept his trusty ship. He had his hands full wrangling Squee, a duffel bag of his own, one of Michella’s bags, and the case of burritos, but he was managing fairly well. Squee had forced him to improve his zero-g skills, and it was paying dividends.

  “You didn’t tell me this part of the terminal was zero-g,” Michella griped. “Low gravity makes me nauseous.”

  “The SOB is zero-g, too,” he reminded her.

  “Oh…” she said. The usually confident and capable Michella wasn’t maneuvering very well, and she was looking more than a little green.

  “Don’t worry about it. I have some of those free-fall patches in the cockpit for when I take on passengers,” he said. “Slap it on your arm and your stomach settles down. By the time it wears off, you’ll be used to zero-g, I promise.”

  “Why don’t you just install gravity plates?”

  “A pack of patches and a little patience is way cheaper and lighter.”

  They drifted a bit farther along the claustrophobic corridors of the station until a scrawny jumpsuit-clad man with a crooked baseball cap appeared from around the corner. It was Blake, a friend from Lex’s racing days, and the SOB’s keeper whenever Lex wasn’t using it.

  “You’re back soon. And is that Mitch? I never thought I’d see the day she’d show her face up here.”

  “Blake! It’s been too long!” Michella said. She briefly attempted to finagle herself into a position to hug, realized it would require her to let go of the hand grips with both hands, and decided to give him an air kiss instead. “Trevor has been trying to get me into his ship for so long, he finally wore me down.”

  “And right when she needs a ride somewhere. What are the odds?” Lex added.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Watch GolanaNet News in a week or so, and you’ll find out, but only if we get moving,” Michella said.

  “Well, the SOB is fueled up and ready to go. See you later, Mitch.”

  “It’s Michella, Blake, not Mitch,” she said as she continued down after Lex to the docking bay. “Have you got everyone calling me that?” she whispered harshly.

  “Hey, take it from me. You don’t get to choose what nickname sticks,” he said. They dr
ifted a bit farther along until they came to the windows facing the docking bays. Before long, the slick black chassis of his personal ship revealed itself. “Behold, your chariot.”

  Michella managed to right herself enough to look through the window. “I have to say, Trev, the ship is very pretty. I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep yourself from bolting a few more engines on to it like you did the last one.”

  “Heh. Wait’ll you get inside. You’ll understand why I didn’t need to.”

  He grabbed the handrails on either side of a large screen surrounded by an array of buttons and controls. A tap pulled the interface out of sleep mode and displayed a simplified view of the SOB. He selected something marked “Cargo Module Manipulator.” Outside the window, a spindly robotic arm unfolded from the dock wall and attached to the bottom of his ship. A sequence of clamps detached, and a sturdy box about one and a half meters square and a half-meter tall slipped free. It was maneuvered to a port beside the window that matched the profile. Hissing gas and flickering indicators marched through an automated sequence. The port slid open, and the box jutted a third of the way into the access way. In an efficient and practiced manner, Lex opened the end of the box and started to cinch their larger luggage in place with the straps attached to the module’s interior. In no time they were left with only their carry-on luggage. The module flipped shut, retracted, and was reattached to the belly of the SOB.

  “Time to disembark,” Lex said, engaging the appropriate controls.

  More mechanical arms deployed a deflated plastic sleeve with latching rings on either end. It was transparent, had internal ribbing, and was more or less perfectly designed to draw juvenile comparisons to a prophylactic. It was attached to the docking port of the SOB and the matching one on the space-station wall. The station-side port opened like a camera shutter, first just a sliver to allow the sleeve to inflate, then completely to allow them access.

  “Okay,” Lex said, grabbing the port with one hand and reaching out with the other. One by one he grabbed the remaining items and heaved them into the tube. “Carry-on one, carry-on two, burritos, Squee.”