Explorers_Beyond The Horizon

by C J Paget

  “So be it!” broadcasts Rescuer-10, “points of merit can be awarded posthumously. Central will send others after me. You will be stopped.”

  Another explosion showers them with dirt and alien bones. “I have followers, descendants, who will carry on my work,” says Studier-12, “and they are spreading throughout the galaxy. But Central will not learn of them from you.” It shoots out a telescopic arm, grabbing a Grenadier male that is perhaps more timid about performing its final duty than most, smacking the surprised creature down onto Rescuer-10. The explosion takes Studier-12’s arm away, but it still has three others, and now Rescuer-10 has a split in its armor, a place where the segmented outer plates are warped apart. The sampler-drill struggles in Rescuer-10’s grasp, seeking to break free and dive into the gap.

  Rescuer-10 is down to using sonar now, its optics ruined early in the fight. Pings from Studier-12 say that the heretic is also fighting blind, but from all the pushing and shoving Rescuer-10 knows that it has the stronger motors. It wraps its arms around its opponent, and surges into reverse, dragging Studier-12 towards the falls.

  Studier-12’s tracks grind desperately against the churned soil, but its power-banks are depleted, and it can’t generate torque to match that of the inquisitor-bot. The roaring, spray-misted edge of the falls comes closer and closer.

  “You’ll infect no others with your madness,” Rescuer-10 predicts.

  “If you had studied outside the approved media, you would know that sometimes one’s strength can be used against them,” says Studier-12. Suddenly, it switches drive from reverse to forward, surging into Rescuer-10. Their carapaces impact with a resounding clang, and Rescuer-10 is no longer pulling against a resisting opponent, they are both driving together. The distance to the edge is swiftly covered, and united they are launched out over Arcturus II’s recently named Reichenbach Falls.

  THE ART OF DATA TRI-SO

  by Vincent Morgan

  Dennis flung down his pen, slumped back in his cracked leather chair, and glared at the files littering his desk. Westland Insurance, his largest and best client, had just announced its intention to cease operations. Well, Dennis my lad, it looks like the fat lady’s not only sung, she’s thumbed her nose, waddled off the stage, and taken your practice with her.

  The desk phone chimed. Leaning forward, he peered over his bifocals and squinted at the caller ID: Harrison Clay. Just what I needed…—a call from our esteemed managing partner. Taking a deep breath, he raised the receiver to his ear. “Yes, Harrison?”

  “Good morning, Dennis. I’m calling to remind you that we have a partners’ meeting at noon today. We still have to make the final decision on the new furniture.”

  Dennis rolled his eyes. This is your Captain speaking. I know that we’ve just hit an iceberg and all that, but we still have to deal with the matter of the deckchairs. Pushing up his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Yes, Harrison, I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent! Oh, Dennis, there is one more thing before you go. I’m trying to find Tuchman. You haven’t seen her today, have you?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks. What do you want her for?”

  “Just a moment, Dennis. I want to close my door.”

  Dennis’s fingers drummed on the desk while the phone carried the sound of Harrison’s movements, and the solid thunk of a door closing.

  “Right. You still there, Dennis?”

  “Yes, Harrison, I’m still here.”

  “You know Alan Goldsmith from the Securities Exchange Commission, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I know Al.”

  “Well, he just called, and he’s demanding an immediate meeting with Tuchman and me.”

  “So tell him you’ll get back to him when Tuchman turns up.”

  “I tried to, but he isn’t backing off.”

  Dennis grimaced. “Yeah, they don’t call him ‘No Prisoners’ for nothing.”

  “You’re the only court lawyer in the office, Dennis. What do you think we should do?”

  “Tell Al that you haven’t been able to locate Tuchman, but you’re willing to meet with him right away. If that’s what he wants.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. Thanks. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  Dennis dropped the receiver back onto its cradle and glanced over at the carriage clock perched atop the barrister bookcase. Too early for a drink, and too late for everything else. Best get the office cleaned up. Not much to do really. The in–basket’s empty. So that just leaves the e-mail.

  Swinging round to his computer, he opened the e-mail account and curled his lip in disgust. Plenty of mail all right. Reams of it. Spam–filter must be on the fritz again.

  He scrolled through pages of ads for jewelry, timeshares, penis enlargement, and the like. Dreadful stuff! As he reached forward to hit the delete key, a week old item caught his eye, a going–out–of–business sale by Murphy’s, the oldest and best of the city’s bookstores. Pity that, but they never stood a chance after old man Murphy died. He glanced back at the clock. Time enough for me to stroll over and say my goodbyes. Pick up a book or two perhaps.

  He turned to the window. Gray clouds scudded across a sky of darker gray. Whitecaps dotted the harbor. Occasional drops of rain spattered against the windowpane. He scowled. We’re in for a blow. Shouldering his way into his tweed topcoat, he mumbled his way past a magazine–reading receptionist, and headed out to the elevator lobby.

  The lobby smelt of fresh polish, but it looked shabbier than ever. Predictably, the elevator refused to come when summoned. He stood for a moment, swearing under his breath, his high forehead contoured with frown lines, and then—there being no alternative—he turned on his heel and stamped off toward the stairwell. Six flights worth of unsought and unwelcome exercise awaited.

  Outside, the wind, channeled by the ever more numerous towers of the business district, chased leaves along the sidewalk, ruffled his thinning, gray hair, and teared his eyes. Should’ve worn a hat. Should’ve worn gloves. Should’ve stayed in bed. Buttoning his topcoat, he leaned into the wind, and set off toward the harbor side and Murphy’s Books.

  Beyond the business district, the wind died away to a light breeze. Almost playful now, it carried the cries of seagulls, the smell of the ocean, and the grumble of the harbor at work. He found himself smiling for the first time that morning. Man, it feels good to be out of that office.

  Turning off Harbourside Road, he entered a narrow side street. A wind–flipped metal sign strung between two Victorian–era buildings identified the street as The Captain’s Alley. Coffee shops, antique stores, and high–end boutiques lined both sides of the street. People competed with coffee tables and bookstalls for space on the cramped sidewalk, forcing him to step out into the cobbled roadway. He paused in mid-stride. Something’s missing!

  Frowning, he glanced around, and then it hit him. Murphy’s sign! That magnificent wooden carving of an open book which, in contravention of civic bylaws, had for years hung suspended over the sidewalk was gone. Aw crap! I liked that sign.

  Drawing closer to Murphy’s store—an ancient, two–story, redbrick building—he could see that it had already changed hands. A new canopy now ran the length of the store front. Shimmering against the dark–blue canvas, psychedelic lettering proclaimed: Your Intergalactic Art Experience. He grinned. Sounds interesting.

  Leaning forward and raising his hand to block the reflection from the glass, he peered in the shop window. Dark inside, can’t see a thing. Oh well, I’ve come this far, might as well go in and have a quick look round. Get warmed up a bit.

  A bell chimed as he stepped through the doorway. He paused, staring about him. Of the rows of books and the shelves that had held them, nothing remained. Disappointed, he turned to leave.

  “Good morning, sir. Rather brisk out, don’t you think?”

  The voice, to
gether with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, came from somewhere near the back of the shop. Squinting, Dennis tried to locate the speaker. Where the devil…? Ah, there he is. Over there. Behind that desk.

  The speaker, a tall, balding fellow with a beaky nose, black, bushy eyebrows, and dark, deep–set eyes, raised a china mug in invitation. “Care to join me, sir?”

  “Marvelous idea.” Dennis picked his way through the debris strewn across the scarred wooden floor. “Cream and sugar. If you have it.”

  “Certainly, sir. Terribly sorry about the state of the shop, but we’ve just taken possession, and, as you can see, the electricians and carpet–layers have yet to put in an appearance.”

  Dennis accepted a steaming mug from the large, bony hands of the tall man. “Thanks. I needed this.” Glancing about the shop, he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Packing cases leaned against the walls, electrical cables dangled from gaps in the ceiling tiles, and stacks of building materials all but blocked the back door. “When do you expect to be open for business?”

  The tall man sighed. “Not for a couple of weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping that you would have something on display.”

  “You’re an art connoisseur?”

  “Hardly. It’s just that the idea of ‘intergalactic art’ sorta caught my fancy.”

  The tall man beamed, and clasped his hands together. “Really? How gratifying!”

  Dennis smiled and sipped his coffee. “I’ll try and come back when you’re open.”

  Holding up a restraining hand, the tall man turned away, stared off into space for a moment, gave a sharp nod of acquiescence, and swung back, smiling. “I’m pleased to inform you that I’m authorized to offer you gratis, and without precondition, The Full Intergalactic Art Experience.”

  Dennis consulted his watch. Why not? I’ve got an hour and a bit to kill before Harrison’s meeting. He glanced around the empty room. “Thanks. But what, exactly, does ‘The Full Intergalactic Art Experience’ entail?”

  The tall man threw his arms wide. “It allows discriminating beings, such as yourself, to experience the greatest works of art the Universe has to offer.”

  Dennis smiled over the rim of his coffee mug. “As envisioned and executed by Earthly artists, no doubt.”

  The tall man made a dismissive gesture. “Good heavens no, sir! We deal only in the works of the greatest extraterrestrial artists. The Michelangelos of Canis Major, the Rembrandts of the Deneb Cluster, the Picassos of the Carina Nebula.”

  Dennis felt his smile fade. Okay, either this is some new, off–the–wall, marketing thing, or I’m in the company of a being from the planet of the fruitcakes. Either way, I’m out of here. Just then his phone chirped. He fished it out of his coat pocket and squinted down at the caller ID. Harrison! What now? He glanced up at the tall man, and smiled a quick apology. “Business call. It’ll only take a second.” Clapping the phone to his ear, he turned away. “Hi, Harrison, I’m only out of the office for a few minutes. I’ll be back in plenty of time for your meeting.”

  “I’m not calling about the meeting, Dennis.” Harrison sounded panicked. “I’ve just met with Al Goldsmith, and we’ve got trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Tuchman is being investigated for stock fraud. This could mean the ruin of the firm!”

  Dennis frowned, mind racing. “Any luck finding Tuchman?”

  “No, and her secretary thinks that she’s out of the country.”

  “What’s our exposure?”

  “Millions potentially. I’ve retained Lockshaw & Smithe to act for us. They’ll be reporting to me later this morning. I should have more information for you at our meeting.”

  Dennis snapped the phone shut. Lovely, just freaking lovely.

  The tall man leaned forward, hands clasped before him. “I trust that you’re still interested in our offer, sir?”

  “What? Oh, right. ‘The Full Intergalactic Art Experience,’ wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dennis dropped the phone back in his pocket, glanced at his watch, and shrugged. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

  Sipping his coffee, he watched as the tall man hurried over to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and withdrew a black attaché case, which he tapped twice with a long, crooked finger. The case sprang open at his touch, and a low, neck–hair–prickling humming sound filled the room. Placing the case in the center of the desk, the tall man looked up, and beckoned for Dennis to join him.

  Approaching the desk, Dennis could see that the attaché case contained a flat, square–shaped plate, the frosted surface of which glowed pale green in the gloom of the shop.

  The tall man smiled encouragingly, and gestured towards the plate. “Place your hands, palms down, on the panel, if you would, sir.”

  Dennis moved to comply, setting his coffee mug on a corner of the desk as he did so. The instant his palms touched the plate, darkness engulfed him. Panicky moments later the darkness lifted, and he found himself standing alone on a bleak, rust–colored plain, strewn with massive outcroppings of brick–red stone. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and a cold wind, reeking of sulfur, plucked at his clothes. To his front, two suns—small, pale, and distant—glowered from over a jagged horizon. While, overhead, a single moon—massive, gray, and cratered—stared down from a cloudless, pink–tinged sky. His jaw dropped. Wow!

  A cricket–like creature fluttered down to settle on his shoulder. “Your first impression, sir?” The voice was that of the tall man.

  “It’s breathtaking. What the heck is it?”

  “This, sir, is a numbered copy of Data Tri–So’s greatest work, entitled: An Incident During the Rising on Crom.”

  Dennis continued to stare about him, mouth agape. “If you say so. But what I meant to ask is whether it’s some new form of holography?”

  The cricket made a chuckling sound. “Oh, it’s much more than that, sir. Much more. Try kicking a stone.”

  Dennis toed a small rock, and felt the impact through the leather of his shoe. Well, my friend, I’ll say this for you. You’ve sure as hell managed to get your hands on some kickass technology.

  Stretching a hand out before him, he edged forward expecting at any moment to bump into the shop wall. Gravel crunched under his shoes, and wind nipped at his ears, but his outstretched hand encountered…nothing. He grinned and nodded in appreciation. This is fantastic!

  A few hundred yards to his left, a house–sized cluster of rocks thrust up at an angle from a layer of coarse, amber–colored gravel. Okay, let’s try another approach. He strode off toward the rocks, fully expecting to see them recede, mirage–like, before him, but, to his surprise and delight, they held their ground.

  On reaching the rocks, he paused to stare up at their wind–ravaged sides. The detail is incredible. It looks as if the wind has been scouring away at these rocks for hundreds of thousands of years. He reached up to touch the scarified surface, and stopped short, staring. Where the hell did I get gauntlets? Only then did he notice that he was staring at his gauntleted hand not through his scratched bifocals, but through amber–tinted ballistic–goggles. He glanced down, and saw that he now wore a rust–colored parka rather than his tweed topcoat, and sturdy brown ankle–boots rather than his black oxfords. Shaken, he sagged against the rocks.

  The cricket fluttered off his shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m fine. Just having a bit of trouble taking all this in.” He took a deep breath, gazed about for a moment, and then squinted up at the cricket. “You really want me to believe that this is all just a work of art?”

  “Yes, sir. You appear to be experiencing the work from the perspective of the rebel leader Trig Lang–Tat.”

  Dennis shook his head. “And what does ‘experiencing’ mean, exactly?”

  “Well, it varies. But, in most cases, it means that the audience assumes the role of the hero, which would be Trig Lang–Tat in this case. As you can see
, you’ve already acquired a suitable costume, and you should soon start to acquire the appropriate memories.”

  “I’ll be ‘acquiring’ memories?”

  “Yes, sir. The memories of the character whose role you’ve assumed.”

  “The memories of this Trig Lang–Tat?”

  “Well, not his actual memories, of course, but his memories as envisioned by the artist who created the work.”

  “Data Tri–So?”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  Dennis’s disbelieving laugh was cut short by the howl of engines as delta–shaped craft streaked overhead. Moments later the ground heaved as their bombs exploded. Belatedly, he threw himself flat, but when nothing further happened, he crawled forward, and peered around the side of the rocks. A low, battered–looking, bronze–colored mesa blocked his view of the bombers’ target, but the wind carried clouds of the dark red dust and the reek of high explosive. This stuff is absolutely fantastic. Why haven’t I heard about it before? He looked up at the cricket now hovering nearby. “I had no idea that virtual reality had come this far. Who developed it, the Japanese?”

  The cricket fluttered back to settle on his shoulder. “There’s nothing ‘virtual’ about this reality, sir. Data Tri–So has, using technologies as yet unknown to your world, created what is, in effect, an alternate reality. You can, quite literally, live and die within this work.”

  Dennis frowned. That’s got to be crap. Gotta be. But, then again, I haven’t seen any evidence to the contrary. “Thanks for the heads up. What happens next?”

  The cricket fluttered up from his shoulder, rising higher and higher. “What happens next is up to you, sir. From now on you are the author of your own fate, so to speak. I do, however, recommend that you take the backpack and rifle with you.” And then the cricket was gone, lost against the glare of the pale suns.

  Backpack and rifle? Dennis looked down, and there, leaning against the rocks, he saw a bulky, rust–colored haversack, and a black tube, some three feet in length.

  Other than changing color to match the background when moved, the haversack seemed ordinary enough. But a chill ran through him when he slipped his arms through the shoulder straps. The damn thing’s adjusting to fit me! Now that’s just downright creepy!