Analog SFF, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Ridiculous. We're His greatest creation."

  "Nope. The truth is, all our observing is collapsing way too many probability waves—forcing Him to recalculate way too many numbers. We're bogging down His computer, Senator. We're a bug in His system. The only way He can keep up is by rounding off the results—which is why pi now comes to an end after only ten thousand decimal places."

  The senator laughed. “Really, Professor, how much pi do you people need?"

  "Oh, if it were just pi, we'd be fine. But we're forcing Him to round off all His numbers, including the fundamental constants of nature—the fine structure constant, the mass of the electron . . . the forces that hold the universe together. Unfortunately, when a constant like 1.51 goes to 2.0, well, all those beautiful stars and planets you like to observe start coming apart. The universe disintegrates into a seething sea of quarks."

  "Quarks?"

  Hawkins nodded grimly. “He gets the blue screen of death. His computer locks up."

  "Locks up...?"

  "Even worse, with all our begetting and multiplying, the process is accelerating. Last month it took a quantum computer to see the problem. Last week I saw it on my PC. This morning it showed up on my Blackberry."

  The senator blinked. “I . . . I don't understand."

  Hawkins sighed. “Oh, it's simple enough, Senator. Just ask yourself, what do you do when your computer locks up?"

  "Why I . . .” The senator looked down at his hands. He extended two fingers on one hand, then one on the other. “Oh, my..."

  "Exactly,” Hawkins said.

  "How . . . how much time do we have?"

  "Well, let me put it this way,” Hawkins said. He frowned down at his watch. “I wouldn't plan on a late lunch. In fact, by my calculations, I'd say we can expect a reboot just about—"

  Copyright © 2010 Bond Elam

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: FISHING HOLE by Rick Cook

  Remember this the next time you're not sure you understand the menu....

  I don't see why we couldn't have gone to Fillipo's,” Gary Farber grumbled. “They have wonderful pasta."

  "Talk about sending coals to Newcastle,” said his wife, Joan, whose taste for culinary novelty considerably exceeded his. “Professor Sforza can get good pasta at home. We ought to show him something that's what Seattle food is all about."

  Which is why they had settled on a sushi bar down in the International District with a reputation for the best chefs, direct from Japan. They dutifully waited in the ground floor lounge for over an hour until they were called and had climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor dining room with a magnificent view of the Space Needle and seating for perhaps a dozen people at the scrubbed pine bar. Now their grinning host directed them to three narrow stools squeezed in among the others.

  Joan Farber turned to their guest. “You have sushi in Italy, don't you, professor?"

  Professor Pietro Sforza shrugged. “In Italy, not so good. We prepare it differently."

  "Well, you're in for a treat tonight,” Gary Farber told his guest. “Tomi has the best sushi chefs in Seattle."

  "On the West Coast,” their host corrected with a grin.

  "What's your special tonight, Tomi?"

  "Very special indeed.” A machine-gun burst of Japanese to the sushi chef, who bowed briskly and set to work.

  While Joan concentrated on the chef's preparations, Gary and Professor Sforza continued their conversation on their mutual interest. Gary was a petroleum geologist and Professor Sforza was an invertebrate paleontologist. The fields overlapped considerably, so most of the discussion was unintelligible to Joan. She bore the stereo technobabble with the good humor that comes from fifteen years of marriage and watched the chef turning something unappetizing and slimy-looking into a work of art. With a final flourish, the chef presented his creation to Joan with a bow.

  Whatever it was looked and smelled delicious. It was some kind of shellfish with the tail curled over upright on the plate and delicately glazed with a soy and citrus sauce. While the professor and her husband continued their conversation, Joan picked up her chopsticks and sampled the creation.

  "Oh, this is wonderful!” Joan Farber exclaimed around the morsel. “It's so wonderfully sweet. Here, honey, you have to try this."

  Her husband didn't even look at the creation on her plate. “I'll stick with the shrimp, thanks."

  Joan made a face at him. “Coward. Here, professor, try this.” She passed the plate across her husband to where their guest was sitting.

  Professor Sforza smiled as he took the plate. Then he looked at it and his eyes bugged out. His face turned ashen and his mouth began to move soundlessly.

  "Are you choking?” Gary asked.

  "This . . . this . . .” Then he lapsed into Italian, getting faster and louder all the time. "Cretino!" Professor Sforza gasped. "Che avete fatto?" He yelled. "Questo é un peccatto!" He jumped up and thrust the plate of sushi under the chef's nose. "Citrullo! Avete fatto un spaglio. Non é giusto! Strunzo!"

  Professor Sforza's command of educated Italian had failed him and he was yelling in his native Calabrese. The chef had no idea what he was saying, but he knew his creation was being insulted. So he started yelling back in his Hokkaido dialect of Japanese, which no one in the restaurant understood either.

  The plate Professor Sforza was waving under the chef's nose was jiggling so much that Dr. Farber had trouble seeing what was on it. Finally he got a half glimpse of what it was. His mouth dropped open and he grabbed the professor's arm in both hands so he could get a better look. Then he started yelling too.

  Tomi tried to intervene, but no one paid any attention to him. So he started yelling in a mixture of English and Osaka dialect Japanese. Meanwhile, Joan Farber was trapped with her husband on one side, Professor Sforza on the other and Tomi behind her. She was so embarrassed she quietly folded up and slipped under the counter.

  When the police came pounding up the stairs the argument was still going full blast. They looked at the situation, listened to the mixture of Italian, two dialects of Japanese, and Dr. Farber's incoherent English and did the logical thing—which was to arrest everyone. All of the participants went peacefully, if not quietly. However, the booking officer was somewhat nonplussed when Professor Sforza insisted on checking the remains of the sushi as property and demanded a separate receipt for it.

  Tim Valdez hadn't been in Tomi's that night. In the first place, his taste for sushi was mitigated by his extensive knowledge of bivalve, arthropod, and cephalopod parasites. In the second place, he couldn't afford the trendiest new sushi bar in Seattle on his salary as a paleontology postdoc. In the third place, he'd spent the weekend hiking a particularly promising piece of Miocene beach recently exposed by a road cut. All of which meant he was blissfully ignorant when he arrived at work Monday morning.

  His ignorance—and his bliss—lasted about as long as it took him to exchange greetings with George McDermott, the dinosaur specialist who shared his office.

  "Hi, George. What's happening?"

  "Just this,” George said, pushing a small greenish object across the desk to Tim. There was an odd quality to his voice, Tim thought, as if his necktie was too tight.

  Tim squinted. “What is it?"

  "You're our invertebrate guy, you tell me."

  Tim squinted some more but didn't move to pick the object up. He prided himself on his ability to identify trilobites. “Looks like the cephalon of an Isotelus of some sort. If it's ‘maximus,’ it's a juvenile. Nice fossil."

  "It's not a fossil,” his colleague said in a strangled voice.

  "A replica?” Tim leaned forward to pick the thing up off the desk. His first thought was that it was unusually light. Thin plastic? Then he looked more closely, his eyes bugged and his mouth dropped open.

  "What is this thing?” he yelped.

  "You're our invertebrate guy,” George repeated. “You tell me. I will tell you this. That is chitin an
d it is not pressed, formed, or otherwise manufactured—as least, not so far as I can tell after most of two days examining it under a microscope. There were shreds of tissue clinging to it when it was brought in."

  "Where in God's name did you find this?"

  George made a grimace that might have passed for a smile in bad light. “That,” he said, “is the unbelievable part."

  * * * *

  Two days later they got a visitor. She was nearly as tall as Tim. Her light brown hair was cut short and streaked with lighter highlights. Her eyes were startlingly blue in a tanned face and her nose was sunburned.

  "Sally Lund, Fish and Wildlife,” she said without preamble. “I understand you've got an exotic invertebrate here that came out of the Sound."

  "Well,” Tim temporized. “We think it came out of the Sound."

  "But you're not sure? It's a matter of jurisdiction. If it came out of the Sound, we've got an interest. Otherwise it goes to the state."

  "Yes, but, I mean, well . . . Fish and Wildlife?"

  "So what did you expect? Some hard-eyed guys in suits with guns in shoulder holsters?"

  Actually, that was exactly what Tim had been expecting. But graduate school is a great place to learn to keep your mouth shut—if not most of the rest of the social graces.

  "Have you got the specimen?"

  Wordlessly, Tim pushed over the clear plastic box holding the carapace. The woman flipped open the box and delicately removed the item from its foam cradle.

  "What is it?"

  "It's an Isotelus," George put in helpfully. “That's an arthropod."

  "What's its habitat?"

  "It's benthic,” Tim said, feeling odd about using the present tense. “It's a detritus feeder in shallow water."

  "No, I mean where does it occur naturally?"

  "Ohio.” George was being helpful again. “Southwestern Ohio, actually."

  "You mean it's a freshwater species?"

  "No,” Tim said. “As far as we know, they're saltwater forms. At least, they're found in saltwater faunal assemblages."

  Sally Lund gave Tim a long, hard look. “You mean this thing lives in the ocean and it's from Ohio?"

  "Well,” Tim said apologetically, “the only other ones we know of are middle Ordovician."

  "That's about 450 million years ago,” the ever-helpful George added.

  Sally Lund closed her notebook with a snap. Then she sighed, sat down, and regarded the two paleontologists.

  "Why don't you guys just tell me about this from the beginning?"

  Forty-five minutes and two cups of George's excellent coffee later, the woman slouched back in her chair and tapped the carapace thoughtfully with her forefinger. Tim noticed she bit her nails.

  "What are the chances there are more of these things out there?” Sally Lund asked.

  "We can only hope,” Tim said.

  She made a face. “You may hope. If there's a population, much less a breeding population, the paperwork on my end will be enormous.” She looked at the specimen again.

  "Well,” Sally said judiciously. “I think we can safely assume this thing didn't come from the Pike Place Market."

  Tim hadn't thought about it at all, but now that she mentioned it, that did seem like a safe assumption.

  "That means it was a direct sale,” Sally went on, “and that probably means pirates."

  Tim had a vision of a figure in a cocked hat and an eye patch resting a peg leg on a treasure chest full of trilobites. “Pirates,” he repeated.

  "Oyster pirates."

  "Oyster pirates?” Tim repeated.

  Sally looked at him sharply. “Is there an echo in here?” Tim flushed.

  "Sorry,” she said. “It's a New Englandism. Term of the trade, you might say. Goes back to the days when shellfish beds were privately owned and some folks weren't too choosy about where they tonged. Today it means anyone who collects shellfish without worrying about the legalities. Oysters, clams, abalone, sea urchins, whatever they can get that will bring a good price."

  "Don't the restaurants know the shellfish are pirated?"

  The tall woman grinned mirthlessly. “Not so's you can prove it."

  "What will you do now?"

  "Now I start checking for trendy restaurants serving unusual seafood. There can't be more than a couple of hundred suspects in Seattle."

  "So once we've found restaurants serving this stuff, what then?"

  "Then we go dumpster diving,” Sally said. “And I do mean ‘we.’ I need someone who can identify this stuff.” She made a face. “Besides, I want someone to remind me this isn't a hallucination."

  "Why not check the kitchens?"

  "Because by now, the word's out that we're talking to the restaurant owner and anyone who's got any of this stuff has put it down the disposal. Sort of the restaurants’ version of ‘shoot, shovel, and shut up.'” She looked at Tim. “Bring rubber gloves."

  * * * *

  One thing about fossils is they don't smell. Tim had never appreciated that aspect of his chosen profession until he started pawing through garbage, trying to separate the truly exotic from the merely unusual from the simply disgusting.

  A check of the dumpster behind the sushi restaurant turned up two more trilobites of different species. The dumpster behind another restaurant on Sally's list contained a half-dozen ammonite shells and several clumps of cup-like shells Tim identified as belonging to an extinct oyster-like animal called a rudist. There were also the remains of a couple of very suspicious teleost fish (one served almondine, one in a tomato sauce).

  "This is absurd,” Tim said as he looked over the collected remains. “There are museums and collectors who would have paid thousands of dollars—no, tens of thousands—for these specimens."

  Sally shook her head. “The pirates would have had to know who to go to. Not like driving your truck up behind a restaurant and unloading a couple of baskets of shellfish. These guys are creatures of habit and none of them are what you'd call the brightest clams in the bushel.

  "Now, come on. They're bringing the restaurant owner in for questioning and I want you at the party."

  Tomi Shinbura, accompanied by his lawyer, was already in the interrogation room when they arrived at the FBI office.

  "What precisely, is my client charged with?” the lawyer asked as soon as the introductions were made.

  The government lawyer looked at Sally. “Dealing in exotic animals."

  "Wait a minute,” Tomi said. “Those things are not on the controlled list."

  "Of course they're not on the controlled list!” Tim almost shouted. “They're extinct!"

  "If they're extinct,” Tomi's lawyer said blandly, “how could my client possibly have served them in his restaurant?"

  Before Tim could think of an answer, Sally cut in. “Their status is going to change real fast."

  "But you can't charge my client retroactively,” the lawyer said.

  "Yeah,” Tomi said, gaining courage from the exchange. “Who do you think you are, anyway?"

  Sally leaned over the table until their noses almost touched. “I,” she said slowly, “am an agent of the United States government. Just like the Immigration and Naturalization Service. You know, the people who check on folks like your fancy sushi chefs. Not to mention your dishwashers and busboys.” She let that sink in while she sat down again. “We also have a real tight working relationship with the local health department. Especially where selling dangerous seafood is concerned."

  "Those things weren't dangerous!” Tomi protested.

  Sally smiled evilly. “Prove it."

  "This is blatant harassment!” the lawyer put in. “My client and I are leaving right now.” He rose, but Tomi put a hand on his arm. “Hold on, Ian,” he said calmly. “I think the lady's done threatening and she's ready to start bargaining."

  The lawyer looked at Sally appraisingly. “Immunity for my client on any and all charges that might arise out of, or be discovered, in the course of this ma
tter. In return you get full cooperation.” Sally nodded to the government lawyer and Shinbura's lawyer nodded to his client, then sat down again.

  "Now,” Sally started, “where did you get this stuff?"

  "I don't know his name. Some guy with an old pickup truck. Shows up every so often with a couple of baskets of stuff."

  Sally looked at him hard.

  "Okay, okay. I think his name is Jimmy Harker."

  "When did you see him last?"

  "Couple of weeks ago. For three or four weeks, he was regular as clockwork. Then last week, nothing. Not a peep. Those things we were serving Friday night were the last ones in the tank."

  "Didn't you try to contact him?"

  The Japanese-American shrugged. “How? It's not like he gave me a business card or anything."

  Further questioning produced a description of the pirate and his truck, several repetitions of the story, and not much else.

  "What now?” Tim asked as they came out of the federal building.

  "Now we find Jimmy Harker."

  "You know him?"

  "He's come my way once or twice before. I know where he usually hangs out and who his friends are."

  "Today?"

  "Naw. These guys are out late at night or at oh-dark-thirty. We'll try tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up about four."

  From context, Tim guessed she meant four am.

  At ungodly o'clock the next morning, Sally turned up at Tim's house in her tan uniform, complete with a very businesslike 9mm automatic in a well-worn belt holster.

  "Expecting trouble?” Tim asked mildly.

  "Not if I can prevent it,” Sally said.

  The official truck was a pale green Suburban with a noticeable list to starboard and rust nibbling at its fenders. “Best one in the garage,” Sally told him as he yanked the door open. From the way she said it, Tim wasn't sure if she was kidding or not.

  * * * *

  Traffic was light at this time of the morning and Sally expertly steered through the twisting maze of streets that took her down to the bay at various points. Finally they spotted a rusted-out blue pickup truck parked off to the side of the road next to a particularly noisome mud flat.