by Larry Niven
***
As before, she’d flicked out before she could type an address. She was looking at the Taj Mahal, right down the row of reflecting pools, the picture everybody sees first.
A moment later she saw the people. She was the only passenger in a row of booths, looking at a line of four bored, uniformed guards only just starting to react. Behind the guards was—everybody. The whole world. India. Some kind of celebration, dark skin and wonderful bright clothing, lots of children, cameras and shouting and signs.
Two dark-skinned guards stepped forward. “—,” one said, and held out his hand. She saw the boredom fall away as he took in her armload of bags, the Western clothing.
She asked, “Speak English?”
He said, “Passport? Show me passport.”
She screamed over the roar of voices. “I don’t have it. I had no idea I was coming here.“
“How you get here?” He was retreating. Other guards were pointing rifles at her.
Behind them there was a white flash, a sudden expanding cloud.
The blast flung them all forward. Hilary slammed the door against the blast. It slapped against the cage and Hilary.
She was sitting on the floor with her head ringing. A man was pulling the door open. He had a gun—a smallish machine gun, which he held one-handed—and he was grinning. The guards outside the booth were down, maybe shot. The gun stank of chemical fire.
He took her by the hair, pushed the gun into her throat, and asked, “American?”
“Yes.” She stood up, carefully, following the pull of his hand.
“My card does not work. The police turn off the booths when a big event is run. Why does your card work? Does it?”
“It’s broken. It takes me anywhere. Anywhere! I never have a choice.” She was starting to cry. She handed him the card.
“Anywhere is good.” He looked outside the booth. People were starting to move. He took it and inserted it into PAY.
***
The air gusted away. Hilary felt it leaving her lungs. She gasped. Darkness tried to shut down her mind, but the dark man’s pull on her hair brought her back.
“What kind of jump card is this?” he asked, very faintly. Then, louder, “We should be frozen into ice. We’ve gone kilometers uphill. This is Everest!”
Hilary said, “That’s impossible. There’s no jump booth on Everest.”
“Look.” His grip eased a bit. “Someone left a sign. This is a temporary booth. It must have been lowered from a helicopter. God is great.” The grip tightened. “Girl, what is this card?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not my fault.”
The man looked at his own card, then put it away. “This will not take me anywhere. No booths close enough. Well, we’ll try yours again.” He pushed it into the PAY slot.
***
A roar like the end of the world flooded the booth.
The assassin flinched violently. Hilary didn’t; she was ready for anything, including the flinch. She lunged up against the gun, flattened it against the booth wall with both hands, and pulled the man’s trigger finger.
Whatever Whyte made these booths out of, it was way stronger than glass. Bullets bounced around the curve and into the assassin, up under his right shoulder. Hilary was screaming, the assassin was screaming, and neither could hear. Then the man had her by the throat with his left hand—but she had the gun. She turned it and fired again. He jerked, then sagged.
Outside, a great light was rising, rising. Nobody was looking at anything else. The noise was dropping toward a tolerable level.
And Hilary finally had a chance to think.
Where was she? Canaveral, of course. That rising flame must be D. D. Harriman, JumpShift’s attempt at a spacecraft with its fuel source pumped from the ground. It seemed to be working. And the assassin seemed dead.
She let the man sag. He was wearing a western-style business suit. She patted the pockets. No wallet, no glasses, pockets all flat, wait, yes. A jump card.
Next: push her own bent card into the slot. Ready for anything.
***
The silence was deafening. The dark was absolute, barring the light in her booth. She opened the door a crack and caught a whiff of jungle vegetation.
Dark: she must be on the far side of the Earth. No way could a normal card get her home from here.
For an instant she considered tumbling the corpse outside—but no. Interfering with a crime scene had to be illegal. Instead she inserted her own damaged card again.
***
Rocks and a rustic one-story building; and the light looked right. Noon in California Sierras, maybe. Cross fingers and—
She pocketed her own bent card and inserted the assassin’s. Her screen lit up. She punched the number she knew best.
Then she was gone.
***
Flick, flick, flick. Bump bump bump. The floor was punching up under her feet, so she must be going west … not quite west, because she was hard up against one of the walls. She was sweating: that last place must have been in the mountains. The view flickered too much to tell anything else, except that the sun was nearly overhead.
Everything stopped.
Home. The sun was high, noonish.
The front door burst open and Mom stormed out. Mom was furious. She pulled open the booth door and waited for an explanation.
Hilary was propping a dead body against the wall. “I need the police,” she said.
“Hilary, for God’s sake! Is that blood?”
“It isn’t mine. Mom, it’s not exactly an emergency, and if I dial 911 they might hold me for hours. Should I flick to Morrow?” Wayne Morrow was their lawyer.
Mom said, “Yes, go to Wayne, for God’s sake. Here, I’ll come with you.” Mom squeezed into the booth, biting her lip, her feet entangled with the dead man’s. “What’s that?”
“His jump card.” It had a funny logo on it. “Mine doesn’t work. Mom? We can’t drag a bloody corpse into Wayne Morrow’s office. He’d freak. Help me.”
Mom got a cautious hold on the corpse, one that wouldn’t leave much blood. They dragged the body out. Neither noticed when the booth door closed itself.
Then it was full of Willie Day and a uniformed man.
Day saw the corpse first. “Holy shit.” Then Mom and Hilary. “Hilary, dear, we tracked you using your phone. Here,” handing her the phone and turning to Mom. “And you are?”
JumpShift’s man was kneeling over the corpse, feeling for a pulse, which was silly.
Mom said, “This is my home and you are an intruder. Who are you?”
“I work for JumpShift as a Security officer. I’m Willie Day. Your daughter has a card with unauthorized access, lots and lots of unauthorized access. We’d love to have her cooperation, and I expect she has a valid claim—”
“Lawsuit?”
“By the grace of God and a long-handled spoon, it may not come to that. Hilary, the corpse?”
“Set off a bomb at the Taj Mahal. Pushed that gun into my neck. Used my broken jump card. He kept his cool when we landed at Everest—yeah, Mom, Everest! But he freaked when he heard the rocket roaring in his head. That must have been the D. D. Harriman, right? I didn’t freak. I shot him dead.”
Mom started to stutter. “You. That card. Yours. We have a lawyer. I’m going to call him.”
Officer Day frowned, but didn’t interfere. “Good idea. And the police … may not have jurisdiction, but they’ll claim it. Hilary, you’ve been very lucky and very clever too. Mrs. Firestone, I think we can satisfy you and Hilary and your lawyer too.”
***
By the time the police were through with Hilary, she was exhausted. Mrs. Firestone took her home to sleep. She must have dealt with Mr. Firestone alone, and badly, because he was in the hospital with a mild heart condition.
The next day, Wanda and Hilary Firestone came to JumpShift’s offices in Beverly Hills, with their lawyer.
Wayne Morrow was a tall, prematurely bald,
lantern-jawed New Englander type from California. He examined Robin Whyte with the happy look of a new owner checking out an award-winning dog. Then he turned to JumpShift’s lawyers, Nakamura and Dwayne.
“Before we can get down to cases,” he said, “it would be well if you could tell us what exactly happened to Miss Firestone.”
Dwayne said, “Much of this consists of internal secrets.”
Robin said, “Truth is, we’ll be telling some of those secrets to the media pretty soon. Not as soon as we would have without your, um, interference, Miss Firestone, but what the hell. Willie, you’ve tracked her path, haven’t you?”
Security Officer Willie Day said, “We think so. Hilary, your card has been linked into the CNN news feed. From the Farmer’s Market in Los Angeles you went first to the San Juan Islands. You could have quit there. Then to the Mojave, where you nearly got killed—”
“Hilary!” Mrs. Firestone shouted. Dwayne repressed a wince. Morrow’s eyebrows went up, then he lost all expression.
“Testing an experimental teleport system has its dangers,” Robin said. “We’ll get to that.”
“Then to Forest Lawn,” Willie Day said. “Then the North Pole. Not dressed for that, were we? Then the market square in Ethiopia, then offshore from Spain, where we did the spit cage jump with Hosni. Then Jerusalem.”
“I was lucky that cop spoke English.”
“No, the Israelis teach English in their schools. Then India again, where they were doing a virtual tour for CNN, and that’s where you picked up a hitchhiker, right?” Hilary nodded. Willie said, “Mount Everest. Girl, you’re damned lucky the Boss’s new system has a heat pump, not just the momentum transmitters.”
“A little too much of that,” Robin said, then, “Oh, what the hell. You’ll have papers to sign to keep this confidential. Kid, we’re developing a teleportation system that sends any momentum difference to a third target. It takes the bumps out of travel. I’ve been testing it myself, but nowhere near as drastically as you have. As Willie says, I put in a two-way heat pump so I won’t freeze or broil when I go up and down.”
Willie said, “Then you went to the Cape. That’s where you shot the perp. He’s the real thing, by the way. He set off a bomb in the CNN tour of the Taj Mahal. Twenty-four injured, six dead. When we tell this tale, you’ll be a hero,” Willie said, then looked at Robin. Was she assuming too much? “Then a retreat in Madagascar, then a lodge in the Sierras. That was when you used the perp’s card and bounced home.”
Morrow said, “You’re telling us that you’ve endangered my client repeatedly.”
Nakamura started to speak, but Robin cut him off. “Not quite. Hilary could have quit at the whale watch. Just called her parents. She knew she was using damaged equipment. Our disclaimers are specific here. She’d have missed all the fun, of course. Hilary, why didn’t you do that?”
Hilary didn’t answer.
Mrs. Firestone said, warningly, “Hilary?”
Hilary said clearly, “Dad and Mom never let me go anywhere.”
There was laughter. Robin Whyte said, “Of course you’re entitled to compensation.”
“Quite a lot, I think. You endangered my client—”
“I saved her too, but never mind,” Robin said. “She’s done us some good. We’re examining the jump card; we’ll get something out of that. We can get huge amounts of data about the new system by tracking her path. Dialing at random—yes, dear, I know you didn’t actually dial, but the card was doing that for you. You went places I’d never have dared. Flicked halfway around the world. You do that at the equator and you land running at half a mile per second.”
For the first time since he’d met her, the girl looked scared.
About time, he thought. “What I’m getting at is,” Robin said, “I’d like you to take the same package Hosni LaSalle gets. As a test pilot.”
Hilary looked … yeah, she’d bought it. The lawyer Morrow was saying, “How much is that in money?”
“He gets a flat two hundred thousand for the stunt, plus some perks. You’d be paid for any publicity resulting from this deal, and, Hilary, there’s likely to be a lot. We’ll want you as a spokesperson. Let you in on more of what we’re doing. Newstaper interviews. Probably The Tonight Show.”
Morrow said, “If a jury got hold of this—”
Dwayne said, “Or we could countersue. She knowingly used damaged—”
“I’m in,” Hilary said. “Mom?”
“Oh, dear. Your father will freak.”
BOOK THREE: SPARKY THE DOG
BRAD R. TORGERSEN
ABOUT BRAD R. TORGERSEN
I first met Brad Torgersen in 2010 when I handed him a trophy for being a Finalist at the Writers of the Future Contest. We became friends, collaborated on three stories for various anthologies, and I was thrilled to see him make the Campbell ballot for Best New Writer, and receive both Hugo and Nebula nominations in 2012, incredibly early in his career for such honors.
Along the way I learned that his favorite writer, the one whose work inspired him to become a science fiction writer, was Larry Niven. And since Larry had also judged Writers of the Future and was acquainted with Brad’s work, I suggested to Larry that we break our six-book precedent and give him two protégés. He graciously agreed.
And while Brad was writing his share of this book, he also sold his first collection and his first novel. This is a young man with a truly promising future in the science fiction field.
Mike Resnick
SPARKY THE DOG
“BARRY?” ASKED THE WITHERED OLD MAN in the bed.
“I’m surprised you called after the dinner hour,” replied a much younger man—who’d poked his head through the old man’s bedroom door.
“Come on in,” the old man said, beckoning.
Barry Jerome Jansen walked quietly to the side of the adjustable-geometry mattress where his friend lay. Robin Whyte was thin. Far thinner than the previous time Jerryberry had seen him. Not a hair on the old man’s head, nor any eyebrows either. Liver spots covered the billionaire to the point that he appeared leopard-like.
As penthouse apartments went, Rob’s was palatial. Statues from China and Rome. Marble from Greece. A plush, hand-woven carpet from Southeast Asia. But even the old man’s grand style couldn’t quite mask the lingering scents of long-delayed decay: disinfectants, rubbing alcohol, half a dozen different ointments, and the undeniably telltale aroma of living flesh that’s spent one too many years clinging to its owner’s bones.
“What’s the occasion?” Jerryberry asked, specifically working to keep his nose from wrinkling.
“You know me,” Rob said. “When I get an idea, I hate to sit on it. Especially these days. Not much time left.”
Longevity treatments—the exotic kind only available to the richest of the rich—had allowed Robin Whyte to push well past one hundred and twenty years. But then cancer had ultimately caught up with him, and he was now too frail for the chemo and radiation therapy that might have slowed the metastases.
“You’re looking good,” Jerryberry said, mustering a smile.
“Cut the crap,” Rob replied, laughing quietly, which began a small fit of coughing. Jerryberry eyed the large, red panic button at the bed’s side, then saw the remote medical cameras that oversaw the whole room, and decided that the in-home nurses would come when the in-home nurses would come. They didn’t need Jerryberry playing doctor for them.
Besides, Rob never called unless it was for business reasons.
“How’s the exposé coming?” Rob asked.
“Post-production is going great. We’ve got over three hours of footage, photos, interviews, all of it gelling nicely. With the big anniversary of JumpShift coming up, it’s been a good time to be a newstaper—at least one with exclusive access.”
“Good,” Rob said. “I look forward to seeing my program when it airs. Did you bring the camera like I asked?”
Jerryberry held up the small case he carried: portable tripod,
with palm-sized digital recording device, and attendant microphone.
“Deathbed confessions?” Jerryberry said, half-joking.
“You might call them that,” Rob replied. “Go ahead and get your stuff set up. The doc tells me I’ve got weeks. Maybe, days. I’ve liked living longer than most, but even I have to admit: getting this old sucks.”
“I’m not exactly a spring chicken myself,” Jerryberry chided him. “Or have you gone so blind you didn’t notice the silver in my hair?”
“Better to have silver on the dome, than nothing at all,” Rob said. “My ex-wife told me that.”
“Which one?”
“Karolyn,” Rob said. “The only woman—of the three—who actually loved me. God rest her soul.”
“How long has it been now?” Jerryberry asked, setting the tripod up at the foot of the bed and adjusting the camera’s ambient lighting sensitivity for best picture quality.
“Too long,” Rob said.
“Okay, we’re good to go,” Jerryberry said. The little blue light on top of the device told them both that the digital camera was recording steadily. Jerryberry would obviously cut and edit later, for salient content. Whatever Rob ultimately approved for public release, per their tacit arrangement.
“Have a seat,” Rob said, pointing to the nearby chair. Jerryberry sat down and pulled the chair close to the bed, so that he could look Rob in the eye without blocking the camera’s angle.
“When we did the bulk of the interviews,” Rob said, licking his lips, “I made sure to include all of the exciting stuff from the early days. The research. The scoffers in the academy. Breakthroughs. Even some of the mishaps.”
“Like the girl?” Jerryberry said, grinning.
Rob chuckled. “Poor Hilary! Yes, like her. But what I didn’t tell you was the one thing I didn’t dare tell until I was sure that I wouldn’t care who found out—because I’ll be gone soon.”
“Okay, that sounds juicy enough,” Jerryberry said.
Rob’s eyes suddenly glazed over and he rested his head on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling—which was mostly glass. The orange light of sunset glowed beautifully on the bellies of several small clouds.