Nathan drove away, cautiously easing onto the Leeds ring road. As always, the implant pumped pictures and feelings into his mind: Jenny carrying a frog in a bucket, her arms smeared with green pondweed. Now the images segued into his memory of the holographic girl, and the futile scrabbling of her ghostly arms.
It's not real, said Nathan to himself, reciting the stale old mantra. But he knew that for someone else, it was real. He realized that the implant projected so many vivid memories because Pigalle had spent so much time with his daughter.
The car crept along at thirty miles per hour. As he pressed harder on the accelerator, he remembered the way Jenny's phantom foot had tapped in midair. The muscles in his leg clenched and spasmed. Behind him, a Renault honked. The driver gestured insultingly as he jinked and zoomed past Nathan's BMW.
Here we go again, thought Nathan. He was tempted to visit a chopshop and get the implant rooted out, regardless of side-effects. But even without the implant, he would still remember the hologram girl and her toy koala, her father's face hollowed out with sorrow.
As he pulled over to think, his phone beeped a reminder alarm. Nathan shook his head. If he didn't have so much work to do, so many last-minute jobs, he wouldn't need to drive so fast.
He'd been hoarding clients to forestall being downsized. But it would do neither him nor PDMH any good if he lost his license, or fried his brains in a backstreet chopshop. He needed to slow down, not just in his car but in his life.
Nathan cancelled the upcoming conference call and turned off his phone. Then he sedately piloted his way back into the traffic and headed west, pottering along behind a slow-moving truck.
With no more interruptions, perhaps he would even arrive back early enough to watch Christopher play football. After all, Nathan didn't know how much time together they might have left. The final whistle could blow tomorrow.
This is how it changes: here, now.
Copyright (c) 2008 Ian Creasy
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* * *
Poetry: MUSHROOM AGRICULTURE
by David C. Kopaska-Merkel
We work in caverns
where scientists used to seek neutrons
or was it neutrinos? A mockery of farming
farmer tans are impossible
tractors would not fit, silos
a joke; we might as well be in
a dank dark silo our whole lives,
such as they are;
and I hate mushrooms.
—
I would go above like Diane to see
earth, sky, clouds—once; they say
one cannot see the sun
but surely the few nights before
the illness came would not be
as empty as nights down here
even if they were nearly as dark
—
And I would see her again,
lie with her as I did before,
her bones might take me
where she is now
and where, I want to believe,
she and the child wait for me.
—
And I would ask her why
why she gave up on the caves
was it the sunless, sleepless nights
the hopeless agriculture, the mushroom
caps made to seem every kind of
food we read about or
the old ones tell us about and maybe
it was the baby, which I thought
would help her dream with me
of a hoped-for future, and maybe it was the
neutrons (or neutrinos)
and maybe it was me.
—David C. Kopaska-Merkel
Copyright (c) 2008 David C. Kopaska-Merkel
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* * *
Novelette: SEPOY FIDELITIES
by Tom Purdom
Tom Purdom reports that his “grandson is a creative writing student at Philadelphia's highly regarded High School for the Creative and Performing Arts and serves on the tech team that maintains the school's computers and website. His younger sister writes scripts for a Buffy podcast, reads physics books, and makes arcane jokes about her secret Theory of Everything. Science and fiction is obviously a hereditary combination.” Tom's new story about human and alien interactions is set in the same milieu as his December 1992 novelette, “Sepoy."
Sepoy Fidelities
It had been the last time they would ever make love—and in their case making love was a precise use of language, not a euphemism. Francesca had rolled on her side when Jason had finally broken the bond and he had wrapped himself around her with his arm stretched along the swell of her hip and the long line of her thigh. The heft of her vibrant, competent body was, in its way, just as satisfying as everything that had gone before.
I was a real mouse when I was a girl, Francesca had told him when they had been sharing their memories of the people they had been. I couldn't hit a ball. Boys thought I looked dull. Nothing changed when I got older. So one day I let myself spend a little time poking around the tucfra recruiting site. And ended up running around in this.
Jason had found it harder to tell the truth about himself. He still felt like a fraud—like his body was just a facade and the real Jason Jardanell was still a helpless dependent whose muscles had been almost completely useless since they had been devastated by the slackbody virus just after his sixth birthday. He had picked up Francesca once, and tossed her on the bed, just for the sheer joy of knowing he controlled two functioning, professionally developed arms.
“Would you like to play something?” Francesca murmured. “One more time? We've still got a few minutes."
“Is that what you want?"
“If it's all right with you. This is nice but—"
“Then let's do it. It might make Byron and the Colonel feel better if they happened to hear any of it. They could tell themselves we've been in here making music."
Francesca giggled. She rolled out of bed and he watched her walk across the bedroom to her dressing room. Her husband had outfitted his mansion with one of the pleasanter luxuries of the rich—a mammoth bedroom with oversized dressing rooms on each side. Each dressing room contained its own bathroom, enormous walk-in closets, a full wall entertainment screen, and all the furniture and appliances a well-heeled husband or wife needed when they wanted to lounge in privacy just a few steps from the conjugal bed.
Michael Gratzhausen had been a shy child, according to Francesca, and he had compensated by working out with personal trainers. Jason eyed the image in his dressing screen every time he passed by the camera and saw himself wrapped in the duplicate of Michael's body the tucfra had given him. He succumbed to the temptation twice this time, once while he was still naked, but he was nagged by the same emotions that had pecked at the moments he had just shared with Francesca. What would the tucfra do with him when this assignment ended? Would he ever walk around in anything this splendid again? Or love a woman as magnificent as Francesca?
They were both wearing businesslike turtlenecks and slacks when they emerged from the dressing rooms. Jason picked up a cello and Francesca sat down at the bedroom fortepiano—the lightly strung early version of the piano that Mozart and Haydn had actually had in mind when they composed.
“Can we give the Shui romance another try?” Jason said. It was a twenty-first century composition, but Tang Shui had written it for the gentler sound of the older instruments. Francesca had never played it before he had encouraged her to run through it with him.
“Whatever you want."
Jason picked up the bow and drew it along the strings of the cello with Michael's knowledgeable, experienced hands. He spent a minute with his ear to the strings, making his final meticulous adjustments to the tuning. Then he nodded at Francesca and started to ride the long, slow arc of the opening cello part.
“You have a call from Dr. Mineaux,” the house said. “Priority minus one."
Francesca stopped pla
ying in mid phrase. “Le métier tristesse de le regimente Dillon."
The system responded to the password they had been given for the day and placed the image of a dapper, bearded man on the bedroom screen.
“I take it you're both primed for the evening's adventure,” the man said.
“We'll be leaving at twenty-two hundred,” Francesca said. “As scheduled."
She had turned away from the piano and placed her palms on her knees, as if she needed to brace herself. She always seemed to lose some of her poise when she talked to the de facto rulers of Earth—even when they clothed themselves in the bodies of amiable sophisticates.
“Our intelligence indicates there's only two people in the boathouse, as promised—Dr. Levar and Captain Kelly McMay. We still think you should be prepared for a trap, but it looks like they'll be the only adversaries you'll have to worry about. We'll continue to observe the boathouse until the handover is finished, of course."
Francesca nodded. They had both decided it was best to say as little as possible when you were talking to the tucfra. You didn't take chances when you were dealing with people who could choose your next body.
“I'm afraid my superiors are becoming a touch tiresome,” the tucfra officer said. “They've asked me to reemphasize our relationship with Dr. Levar. If this does turn out to be a trap—if Dr. Levar fails to keep her end of the bargain—then I think it's obvious we will no longer be bound by our own pledges."
The tucfra's face hardened. “We will accept her capture. Her death would be preferable."
“I understand,” Francesca said.
“Of course, you're also supposed to factor in our assessment of Dr. Levar's mental state. We don't know she'll kill Michael—and perhaps herself—if she feels cornered, but you will have to assume it's a possibility. I realize that leaves you with some conflict in your instructions but you can at least take comfort in the fact that my overseers have confidence in your judgment."
The officer smiled. “Enjoy your evening."
The screen darkened. Francesca lowered her head and rattled off half a dozen piano notes with her left hand.
“At least he didn't remind us we're dispensable,” Jason said.
Their last briefing had laid out their priorities with less ambiguous precision. Michael Gratzhausen's survival was, of course, the uncontested no-questions-asked winner of the number one slot on the list. Michael had to be rescued alive and in good health. Michael was the indispensable component in the tucfra's plans. He had the kind of personality traits a good ruler should have, in the opinion of their employers. He had been endowed with traits that couldn't be artificially instilled in a human personality without disrupting equally desirable traits such as ordinary human unpredictability.
As for Jason and Francesca—the mission planners had decided Jason should be awarded the second position and Francesca the third. If anything happened, Jason had been informed, he was supposed to ignore the impulses common among males of his species in his cultural sector. He must refrain, no matter how he felt, from any attempt to protect Francesca if that attempt might endanger him. It would take the tucfra twenty-six days to replace him with another version of Michael, the planning officer had explained—long enough the opposition could exploit Michael's unexplained absence and create serious difficulties. Francesca's death would be an inconvenience, but she could always be replaced with a second wife who would provide Michael and his children with the same kind of guidance Francesca had provided.
But that was only a consideration, it seemed, if Jason had to choose between his survival and Francesca's. If he encountered a Michael-Jason choice, then he would, of course, understand that his own demise was the preferable, if regrettable, option. Jason could only replace Michael for a limited time, even if he was inhabiting an exact duplicate of Michael's body. Michael's closer acquaintances were already beginning to notice the “changes” in his personality. Jason had a splendid future as a valued agent of the Tucfra Hegemony, but he wasn't the kind of person who could cope with the long term, sometimes tedious, details of government.
Francesca shrugged. “It looks like it's time we returned to the world, Lieutenant."
“At your service, Major."
* * * *
The boat was a coast patrol catamaran—a platform crowded with weapons and crew stations that had been laid across two sleek high-speed hulls. Jason and Francesca had pulled wet suits over their clothes and settled into lounge chairs in the officers’ ready room. Byron Traine and Colonel Wolsner were standing near the starboard windows watching the lights of the casinos and pleasure malls that glittered along the shore.
Byron Traine was wearing the armored dress jacket he usually wore when he was on duty, but he was carrying a bigger sidearm and he had stored the weapon in a bulky shoulder holster he wore outside the jacket. His waist belt held two stubby laser “swords” that had been tucked into gleaming leather sheaths. He looked, as usual, as if he was trying to repress a smile. Byron was a slender, good-natured young man who still acted as if he thought skirmishes and raids were slightly more dangerous versions of the amusement park rides he liked to frequent during his leisure hours.
Jason's own pistol was a large, flat item that had been crammed into a sealed storage pocket on the chest of his wet suit. His laser sword and three sets of spare batteries rested in a smaller pocket.
Francesca smiled. “I hope you won't be too disappointed if this all goes off without a hitch, Byron."
Byron turned around and smiled back. He had been placed in command of the special operations squad sitting in the enlisted ready room. It was the first time he had been given command of a combat unit. He had been Michael and Francesca's personal bodyguard for most of the four years he had been a commissioned officer.
“At this point in our adventures,” Byron said, “I think a quiet and uneventful boat ride will give me all the entertainment I need."
Colonel Wolsner was carrying his standard-issue Jersey Guard pistol on the standard-issue cross belt rig that came with his standard-issue Jersey Guard duty uniform. He had been one of Francesca's supporters ever since she had made her first appearance in the Commonwealth of Sovereign Jersey and captured Michael's heart. He had believed her influence over Michael was one of the best things that had ever happened to the Gratzhausen family, but his attitude had changed as soon as she had revealed she was a tucfra agent.
I knew he thought the tucfra are just a bunch of racketeers, Francesca had said. But I didn't expect the contempt I keep picking up. Byron still seems to think I'm the same glamorous figure he's been protecting ever since he got his commission. The Colonel makes me feel like he can look right through my skin and see the real me hiding inside.
Jason had been surrounded all his life by people who expressed their hatred for the tucfra—and their contempt for seeps-as casually as they talked about the weather. Francesca had been born in Florida, to parents who had served the Tucfra Hegemony and retired on comfortable pensions. Jason had grown up in the New England Confederation, under a government that maintained its independence with a fanatic disregard for every other consideration. As a child, he had thought the term seep referred to the way tucfra agents oozed through human society like some kind of toxic waste. He had been a teenager when he had discovered it was a corruption of sepoy—the name the British had conferred on the native soldiers who had manned the army that held India for the British Empire. There were, as far as anyone could tell, only about two thousand tucfra living in the sealed habitat they had constructed in the Sahara. That handful of aliens—who seemed to be a wandering band of adventurers—had taken control of an entire planet by working through human agents and human institutions, in the same way a few thousand British imperialists had once ruled the teeming millions who inhabited the Indian subcontinent. The tucfra ship had orbited Earth just as the conflicts created by global warming were approaching a peak. Its envoys had descended from the sky in disarmingly human bodies and started peddling tech
nological abatements and recruiting employees. The peace called the Tucfra Hegemony had settled on the Earth before its inhabitants quite understood what had happened. The United Nations had acquired a powerful military force. Major nations had fragmented into harmless political divisions such as the Cooperation of Gandung and the Commonwealth of Sovereign Jersey.
“You could get yourself a new body and volunteer to take the lady's place,” Colonel Wolsner said. “Don't your friends in the Sahara keep a few good bodies hanging on racks for overnight use, Mrs. Gratzhausen?"
Francesca maintained her smile. “That's one of the rumors you hear, Colonel."
“You didn't manage to confirm it during your own stay with them?"
Francesca raised her arm off the chair and glanced at the time strip on the back of her glove. Colonel Wolsner didn't know it, but he was triggering an inhibition that always made Jason feel momentarily confused when it blocked his own responses. The tucfra body transfer technology was one of the subjects their human agents couldn't talk about—were psychologically incapable of talking about.
“Michael Gratzhausen is our first priority,” Francesca said. “We've been told that twice when we got our orders. We're going to get him out for you, colonel. He would be my first priority in any case. But there are no conflicts between my personal desires and the orders we've been given."
“And you will continue your role as Michael's wife."
“If Michael wants me to. It will be up to him. He's a good man—a good husband, a good father, and a good political leader. You know that as well as I do."
“I also know the tucfra have partitioned a great nation into seventeen impotent little pseudo-countries. And commandeered 15 percent of an entire planet's economic output just to support the lifestyle they maintain in their desert paradise."
Francesca settled back in her chair. A hint of a drawl colored her voice—a sure sign she was deliberately maintaining a composed, unprovocative facade. “This isn't the time to get involved in an argument about the rights and wrongs of the Tucfra Hegemony. We're going to bring Michael out. We're going to restore him to his rightful position. You want that. I want that. Ninety percent of the people who live under Michael's government would want it, if they knew what we're doing."
Asimov's SF, March 2008 Page 13