Analog SFF, July-August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I felt her hips gyrate a little beneath me. I couldn't believe it. One moment she was trying to dent in my temple, and the next she wanted in my pants. Truthfully, it was damn tempting. A little guilt-free sex—her husband's behavior got me off the hook with that one—was right there for the taking. Plus I hadn't had any sex, guilt-laden or otherwise, in way too long.

  But before I could make a decision one way or the other, three of her Adonis androids burst into the room. They headed straight for her, and I started to rise, bracing myself for another fight.

  "Stop!” she commanded.

  And of course, they did stop, standing as still and mute as statues, their large male appendages just inches away from our heads. I was almost off her, but she grabbed me by the scruff of my jacket and pulled me back down.

  "It'd be a shame to waste this opportunity,” she said.

  "Uh-huh. What about them?"

  "They can watch. It doesn't matter."

  I laughed, thinking she was joking, but the expression on her face didn't change. Any lust I'd felt moments ago faded. Shaking my head, I rolled off her and staggered up to my feet.

  "Not me, lady,” I said. “I don't make love to an audience."

  She propped herself up on her arms. Watching the movement of her breasts, I was struck with a pang of regret. What a shame.

  "You're walking away from sex with this,” she said, motioning to her body, “because you have a little performance anxiety?"

  After one last longing look at that very body, I headed for the door. I didn't think there was anything more I could learn from her, at least not in our present state of minds. If I stayed any longer, I knew which part of me would take control.

  "It's not performance anxiety,” I said. “I've just gotten better lately at self-preservation."

  And then, just like that, I knew who had stolen Karvo's voice.

  * * * *

  He showed up at my office ten minutes after I reached him on the com-com, his fur still wet and glistening from his bath. He'd been staying at a dirt-cheap hotel, anxiously awaiting any news, and when he walked through the door, he bumped the frame so hard I heard the wood crack. He didn't seem to notice. He'd dressed so hastily that his tuxedo was buttoned wrong.

  "Well?” he said.

  I took my time, deciding exactly how I was going to play my cards. The key was all in the delivery.

  "I found it,” I said.

  He let out a great big sigh, deflating at least a foot from his full height. “Thank god,” he said. “Was it Mortagai?"

  I hesitated. I could have told him the truth, of course, and maybe that was the more honorable thing to do. I could have told him that after I had my epiphany with Alexia, I'd gone straight to the biomechanical engineer Karvo had mentioned when he first came to my office, the one who confirmed that Karvo's voicebox had been removed. With a little bit of arm twisting, both real and figurative, I'd managed to squeeze the truth out from him: that he had been the one to remove the voice box in the first place, and that he still had it in his possession. He'd also erased the whole encounter from Karvo's memory banks.

  Most importantly, he'd done it all at Karvo's request.

  The engineer hadn't wanted to do it, but Karvo had been very insistent—hysterical, was the word he used—and the engineer had convinced himself that he was actually doing Karvo good by removing something that was causing him such distress. That was the realization that hit me while I was fending off Naked Kickboxer—that somebody who had paralyzing stage fright, who had to be coaxed and cajoled and comforted before every act, somebody who had performance anxiety of the worst order, might go to great lengths to sabotage their own career so they wouldn't have to deal with those emotions.

  Solving the mystery, though, turned out to be the easy part. The hard part was deciding how to give the bear his voice back in a way that would prevent him from doing the whole thing over again.

  "It wasn't Mortagai,” I explained. “In fact, it wasn't anybody you know. Just a two-bit thug who caught one of your shows and saw an opportunity to try to make a quick buck. He had once been an engineering student, so he had just enough knowledge to pull off the theft."

  "Is he in prison now?"

  "Well ... no. No, I'm afraid he's ... dead. He made the mistake of coming after me with a hyperpistol."

  "I see. Where is the voice module, then?"

  I reached into my side drawer and pulled out the black plastic case containing the voice module, placing it in on my desk. His mouth parted as if I'd just placed a bucket of tuna there—or, in his case, maybe an expensive plate of fresh sushi. He reached for it with his big paw, and I immediately held up my hand.

  "Not so fast,” I said.

  He looked confused. “Is there a problem?

  "No. No problem. I just have something else for you first."

  I reached into the open drawer and pulled out the second box, this one white, made of thick cardboard, and much bigger than the other one. It took two hands to lift it out and place it on the desk, and it landed there with a loud thunk.

  "What's this?” Karvo asked.

  "Fan mail,” I explained. “Mortagai had been holding it for you, and they were kind enough to print it for me. But not just any fan mail. This box is all from biological robotic hybrids like you. You're quite a hero to them, you know.” I watched his furry face and his dark eyes, watched how the words sank in, got traction, took root. I drummed my fingers on the desk, carefully choosing what to say, knowing this was where I really had to put on my own circus act and give my spiel the air of truth that would seal the deal. “So here's the thing,” I said. “I know when you get your voice back, and the next time you walk out on that stage, you're going to feel some fear. You're going to wonder if there's another crazy out there like him, someone who wants to stop you from doing what you love. So you're going to have to make a choice. You're going have to decide if all these fans—these hyros who believe in you, who see you as an inspiration of what's possible—are worth that risk. It's quite a responsibility you have, you know. I don't want you to take it lightly."

  The bear said nothing for a long time. He looked at the box of fan mail, then at the box containing his voice. I hadn't known him long, and still couldn't read his animal face all that well, but I thought I saw the conflicting emotions. I thought I saw the war within him between the old panic at having to perform and this newfound responsibility he must have felt to his fans. It was a toss-up which was going to win, and I found myself holding my breath until I saw him reach for one of the boxes.

  The white one.

  "Fan mail, you say?” he said.

  I smiled. “That's right."

  "I see,” he said. He seemed to be rising, inflating with confidence and bravado right before my eyes. “I see, well, I ... I'm quite touched.” He bowed his head, and when he looked up and spoke again, there was a quaver in his voice. “I want you to know, Duff, that I'm going to pay you as soon as possible. I'll be back here standing in front of your desk before you know it."

  I laughed. “I appreciate it. My credit accounts could certainly use a lift. But make sure you call ahead. I ... may not be here."

  "Oh? Where will you be?"

  I looked at him, not sure how much I wanted to say, not sure how much I wanted to even admit to myself, then looked past him at the tiny sliver of window that wasn't blocked by brown fur. Over the sleek metal roofs of the city's buildings, I saw Targal's endless, barren dunes under the searing yellow sun. I also saw, out there on the horizon, a flicker of white that meant another lighting storm was on its way. My bad ear would soon be ringing.

  The truth was, Karvo wasn't the only one suffering a bit of stage fright. I'd been kicked around, beaten, and battered in both mind and body, and I'd allowed my own fears to banish me to this place—a place where I might die of boredom before I died of poverty. I'd done it to myself, and it was time to get back on the stage.

  "Are you going to take a vacation?” Karvo asked me. �
�You could certainly use it."

  "No,” I said, shaking my head. “That's just the problem. I've been on vacation long enough."

  Copyright © 2009 Scott William Carter

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: PAYBACK by Tom Ligon

  * * * *

  Illustrated by Broeck Steadman

  * * * *

  Both war and diplomacy become very different when the sides are very far apart in all possible ways....

  * * * *

  "What does not kill me, makes me stronger."—Friedrich Nietzsche

  "That which does not kill me, has made a grave tactical error."—Jerry Pournelle

  * * * *

  The engineers who designed the weapon did not burden it with a motive. It was a simple machine, with a simple job to do: lock on to the pinpoint of neutrinos and accelerate toward them. It did not need to know why.

  The engineers themselves would not even whisper about such matters. Lofty topics such as morals and ethics were the job of clerics, and the clerics’ job was simple when the directive came straight from their deity. The word they called him meant Emperor, but it also meant God. He was old, older than their written history, his ancient body replenished by frequent sacrifices. He wielded awesome power, and his wrath struck a reverent fear in his subjects.

  The Emperor owned the galaxy. It was his alone, or so he claimed, and he forbade even his own people from moving out into it. Trespassers had been discovered, strangers who dared venture beyond their own system. He considered this intolerable, unpardonable, and ordered their extermination, even though the trespass was evidently through ignorance. The edict raised troubling questions and challenged rules of propriety and warning. Every engineer secretly wondered how this could be reconciled with doctrine, but not one voiced a question. They bowed respectfully to higher authority and did as their caste was raised to do.

  Indeed, they built the massive hydrogen-drinker and launched it with a great sense of pride. The opportunity to work with such vast resources, to finally build a device proposed in antiquity, was a rare treat in this crowded society. Most engineering assignments were triflingly mundane, undersupported, and unrewarded. And every engineer knew a little secret. The Emperor was not all-powerful. He feared the trespassers and could not destroy them without the help of the engineers.

  The machine was as close to invincible as the engineers could imagine. Its terminal speed would, in their octal number system, be a fraction of nearly seven sevens of the speed of light. At such a speed, the trespassers were unlikely to even see it coming, for the weapon would be right behind its own light emissions. And even if the trespassers could detect the weapon, there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  It was just barely possible, though, that the mission could fail. They dismissed the possibility of a simple malfunction. With their technology, the odds of a breakdown were too low to consider. The second possibility was a collision with a planetoid. This risk was also vanishingly small, even if the trespassers were to detect the weapon and attempt to move an object into its path. The direct route to the targeted system was well off of its ecliptic, and only a thin scattering of icy bodies sufficient to the task were close to the trajectory. To move such a massive and fragile body on short notice was beyond even the formidable technology of the weapon's builders. And while this defense might thwart the full intended impact of the weapon, the debris tearing through the targeted system would still be devastating.

  The final possibility was troubling because it was credible. There was a way to deflect the weapon. With any luck, if the weapon failed, the builders would already have passed to the next life before the Emperor learned of it. They took what precautions they could and trusted the aliens would not have time to react. The engineers would have been much happier if the clerics had not insisted a ritual warning must be sent, timed to be heard before the weapon struck. They followed the mission anxiously, as five octades of years passed, anticipating the date the weapon would reach the target, and knew they must wait longer still, until the evidence could reach them.

  * * * *

  The weapon's goal was just seconds away, judged in ship-time. In the reference frame of the civilization that had launched it, several days would pass before impact. The weapon prepared to shut down the electromagnetic scoop that collected the tenuous interstellar gas on which it fed, for it now had all of the speed required for its mission.

  The source of the neutrinos locked in its sights was the core of a yellow star. The weapon would plunge through the outer layers of the star, shielded by time dilation so well it would not even realize it had hit a star until it had penetrated nearly to the core. It would explode just short of the core, releasing the relativistic kinetic energy acquired over a vast distance. The explosion would, by itself, be enough to blast a world to vapor, but that effect would not be sufficient to the purposes of the Emperor. The explosion was intended to destabilize the very core of the star, triggering a nova. The trespassers would be exterminated, their entire system sterilized.

  The mission computer noted the last significant collision threat was safely off to one side of its trajectory and would be passed in an instant. The only other significant hazard would be moot in a second, when the scoop shut down.

  And, for just the briefest instant, the computer detected the threat the engineers had feared, the signature of ionized deuterium gas, a massive and dense cloud of it. It was close, and the scoop could not be shut down in time. The scoop instantly concentrated the potent fusion fuel and fed it to the reaction at a rate that exceeded the containment capability by an astronomical margin. An explosion the equivalent of a global thermonuclear war ripped down one side its massive armored hull. This was not enough to destroy the machine, but the explosion applied huge pressure to one side of the hull, breaking the structural members that held the major modules together. Worse, the explosion ruptured the main solenoids needed to produce the intense magnetic field that shaped the inner radius of the funnel-shaped ramscoop field. The energy stored in the magnets was released instantly and was nearly equal to that of the deuterium explosion.

  The combination of the two explosions deflected the trajectory of the weapon, and it would miss the star. The armored computer of the guidance system noted the malfunction, but, unable to do anything to alter the outcome, did nothing else. It simply did not care.

  * * * *

  Victor Gendeg gave up the richest strike anyone had ever found, an enormous metal planetoid core imbedded in a ball of comet ice, three light-days from Earth in the Oort cloud. He cursed and fumed all the way to his death at the combination of factors that made him the only person able to save human civilization. At the last minute, he released his horde of deuterium directly into the path of the hellish starship bearing down on his home and ionized it with the engines of his ship. What else could he do, given the circumstances? All the wealth in the universe is meaningless if it means the guilt of knowing you allowed all of humanity—twenty-one billion souls—to perish. His version of the story would have sounded far less noble, but this was the one his friends wanted the survivors to hear, the simple story of the hero who laid down his life to save everyone.

  * * * *

  Victor was not the only person prepared to die to save humanity, but most of the rest knew their chances of defeating the weapon were essentially zero. They could not know Victor had succeeded until seconds before the weapon arrived. The weapon was literally unstoppable, and the only hope was to deflect it, but they were not far enough away from the Sun to deflect it sufficiently. They were mosquitoes against a cannonball and did not have anywhere near the mass available to assure a kill. The experts expected the device would switch off its ram-scoop before it reached them, so the deuterium they carried would only explode if the weapon hit them directly. Even then it would have little effect. Still, hundreds of interplanetary craft of various sizes lined the trajectory of the weapon, figuring any chance at all was worth taking, and doing no
thing was certain death for everyone. They were as unhappy with their fates as Victor, but they had nothing to lose.

  Andreas Orndorf was the commander of one freighter in the sacrificial gauntlet, a scant eight astronomical units from Sol. His ship was accelerating straight out from that star toward the weapon, its computer handling the intercept. As he waited for the end, alone at the pilot's station, he had time to consider the gruesome fate awaiting humanity. Andreas was proud of his crew, all of whom had agreed to stay with the freighter as it attempted a collision with the weapon. The task required fantastic luck, and the sacrifice was probably meaningless even if they succeeded. But if they missed, the end would be horrible. The explosion would not come instantly after the starship plunged into the Sun. The core collapse would be announced by an intense burst of harmless neutrinos as soon as it happened. Then there would be an excruciating delay before the end, a long pause between the click of the trap door latch and the awful tug of the noose. The exact physics of the explosion were still a matter of moot debate: it might take minutes, hours, even days for the full force of the explosion to reach the photosphere. But when it did, the solar radiation would increase at least a thousand-fold, and the solar wind would become a tsunami. No shelter in the inner system would withstand the onslaught, and everyone would perish in radiation and fire. At least ramming the infernal thing would be quick and painless.

  What sort of minds could have conceived of this genocidal engine? How much hatred was needed to construct and launch a device of this kind? How deep was this hatred that the builders would be willing to wait nearly six decades after the launch to see the result? And how could they have come to loath a race they had never met, or even engaged in a single conversation? The sheer magnitude of malice seemed beyond human comprehension. The absolute despair he felt knowing this evil was going to succeed filled him with a grief that made him long for death.

  He heard the hatch behind him open and soft footsteps approach. Warm hands slid around the seat-back to his shoulders and began a massage. Had a human touch ever felt so good?