by B. V. Larson
“He’s lying,” Lonna complained.
“He wasn’t in a hurry?” Jamison asked, puzzled. He turned to Turtle and spoke in a lowered voice. “Your spouse is very attractive.”
“Former spouse,” Turtle said. “But you’re right, and ever since she got into bondage play, she’s really blossomed.”
“No! Is this true?” He turned to Lonna. “Is this true, if I may be so bold?”
Lonna looked as if her artificial brain was resetting itself. Without her current fixation, Braxton, in the picture, she didn’t seem to know how to behave.
Lonna’s mouth opened, but she didn’t seem to be able to say anything.
Jamison started to put his hand on the outer curve of her shoulder. “Former spouse?” he said to Turtle.
Turtle nodded. “She’s all yours. Or somebody’s.”
When he rested his hand on the exposed skin of her shoulder, her programming kicked in, and she didn’t brush him off.
Synths were almost always approachable, but it was still considered rude to mess with anyone’s spouse. Nonetheless, it happened.
“I have a class three condo,” Jamison said near her ear. “You might like to come look it over sometime. It’s not a suite, but it’s not a bunk and a hot plate, either.”
Lonna took a moment to look into Jamison’s eyes with interest. “Really…?” she breathed.
P. O. Jamison let his eyebrows dance again and teased her with a silent grin.
“Are you serious?” she said. She smiled and pushed her breasts into his arm.
Jamison leaned even closer to her, lowered his voice, and began to explain his social advantages. After all, aboard Tarassis, the crew faction ruled these days. “Jamison,” Turtle said, “we’re working here.”
“Oh, well, pardon me. I’ll come back by later and...” (He winked at Lonna.) “... check on things.”
Turtle turned away and dropped into the formchair of unit 905.
The moment after he pressed the contact to his forehead, reality shimmered, and once again he resided inside the alien’s consciousness and looked through its eyes at the underground probe works.
Turtle sensed surprise. Before the alien could restrict his actions, he spoke up. “I have a question: Moving your ‘people’ into ours—does anyone aboard Tarassis know you’re doing this?”
“It was arranged with some. We told them of the worlds we’ve explored, and they allow us to house our minds in your bodies.”
“Your invasion has been a disaster,” Turtle told the alien. He recalled images of Braxton and others that he’d seen possessed. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s not working for us. It’s making our people non-human and non-functional. Sooner or later, lethal accidents are going to happen. I assume you will lose any of your ‘people’ residing in a human who gets killed.”
The alien concealed its emotions from Turtle, which told him that it was experiencing a strong reaction.
“After you implant yourself inside one of us permanently,” Turtle wanted to know, “what happens to the body you lived in on your current world?”
“It is left behind. It dies. There is no retreat for us once we make the journey.”
“So you have some way of projecting a self-sustaining consciousness—even if the original body dies?
“Yes.” The answer carried an overtone of superiority. “Your devices cannot do that.”
“Does United Tarassis know you can do this?”
“They may speculate. They have not asked this question.”
The alien seemed honest and forthcoming. Maybe it couldn’t help that. Maybe now that Turtle was more aware, any secrets were harder to keep.
Personality storage—virtually eternal life—an incredible advancement. But one moment’s consideration and it was obvious: Any use United Tarassis made of it was bound to be brutal and oligarchic.
Reading his dread, the alien spoke up. “You should work for us. We explore to understand and we do not punish those who help us, unlike your human masters.”
“I’m not going to work for you. Or anybody else.” It was what Scarn would have said.
The alien relaxed his hold on Turtle’s limited access and let him see the memories of some of the worlds the alien had seen: Other beings of incredible variety that lived in planetary oceans or in vast underground warrens or who soared over forests on wings of transparent tissue. But as beautiful and exotic as they were, their intelligences were even stranger, strange even to incomprehensibility.
“We went everywhere, we were everything…” the alien whispered in his head.
Turtle could feel the exhilaration in the memories of those who had explored for the joy of it, and he felt sadness at their leaving it to spend their conscious lives inside the minds of grasping humans.
Existence faded. He was back aboard Tarassis. The air around Turtle seemed to bubble and shimmer.
Lonna stood in front of him holding the contact she’d peeled off Turtle’s forehead. With no one else around to talk to, she’d taken action.
“I don’t care if taking this off makes you crazy,” she shrilled. “You’ve done a bad thing.” She waved her hands toward the ensign. “Look at my poor Braxton. Can you stop that thing on him?”
It took five seconds for Turtle’s mind to come back into focus. He went from the unexpected beauty of evolution’s inventions to Braxton slumped in unit 906’s formchair as though his bones had melted.
Lonna started dabbing ineffectually at the froth coming from his lips. There seemed to be an endless supply of the stuff. The tissue she was using was a wet lump in her hand.
Once again, Turtle’s life had surprised him.
Then he saw Petty Officer Jamison coming back this way. Turtle knew he wouldn’t miss Braxton’s state, which wasn’t good. He’d call the medics. Then an investigation would begin.
Turtle stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“What is it, Turtle?” Jamison demanded. He was already getting a big head due to his promotion. He was standing tall in his spacer’s blues and looked very authoritative.
Turtle saw something small and angular—a memcube—in Jamison’s pocket. He leaned a little closer to Jamison and said in a lower voice. “Is that memcube loaded with anything interesting?”
Jamison hesitated. “It’s different… but the material’s similar.”
“Ah,” Turtle said, interested. “You know, you might want to take a look at this.” He offered him a forehead contact.
“Aliens?” he whispered. “There’s nothing sexy that aliens do.”
“No, no,” Turtle said. He looked around as though to check if anyone was listening. Lonna was still soothing the mindless Ensign Braxton and wiping his mouth.
“Somebody on Level 37 got this from Palmyra House,” Turtle said. “It’s going around.”
He offered Jamison the contact again.
Jamison was interested. Palmyra House was an operation managed by a wealthy group of guests.
“It’s quality product,” Turtle said quietly. “They added a T-track for the tactile experience.”
“Yeah…?” Jamison asked.
“Have just a taste,” Turtle suggested.
“Well...” Jamison dropped his voice. “Palmyra House?”
Turtle turned the 905 formchair for him to sit more easily. Jamison slid into it and already the contact was on his forehead.
“Just a minute’s worth,” he said.
Turtle put in the code for a replay of the run where he got flashed. Since Jamison wasn’t wearing a Spang suit, the event would provide a lifetime memory but probably not be damaging to a person with his combination of ignorance and ego.
“The way it starts out,” Turtle said, “you wouldn’t expect how it goes, so give it a minute.”
“Okay.” Jamison was doing tight nods. “Okay. Let’s go. Just a minute or two.”
Turtle hit the go button, gave it five seconds and then he removed the slave-fun memcube from Jamison’s pocket.
<
br /> Around the corner, Lonna still dabbed at Braxton. He was improving. He would gasp, shiver, and then groan and flutter his eyelids—all the normal recovery signs.
“Here,” Turtle said, holding up the memcube. “Jamison forgot. It’s therapy. He meant to get it started.” Turtle dropped it into the slot, pressed the contact back on Braxton, and gave a command: “Play.”
Lonna still held one of Braxton’s hands, and she looked anxious. She was still imprinted on him. “Are you sure?”
“He’ll probably keep twitching and moaning for a while, but give it ten or fifteen minutes, he’ll be good as new.”
Lonna nodded.
Turtle left them all and headed for the slip-space lift. He needed a solid jolt of reality to start getting his life back in order. What he needed to do first was speak to Scarn before any of the shit he’d launched today hit the fan over somebody important.
Minutes later, when Scarn opened his door for him, Turtle saw he had been studying something on his handpad and making notes. Scarn lived in a high-standard stateroom. It had twenty-square-meters of space, two chairs, a sofa-sleeper, a toilet and personal food dispenser. He had no frills.
“Scarn, two things you were right about: My marriage was a terrible mistake… I guess it was just a rebound after Iris, who I still can’t get out of my head.”
“What’s the other thing?” Scarn asked.
“Uh… I think we have to get out of this place.”
“Back to the lower decks? You have reasons for bugging out?”
“I do. While Braxton was trying to get me flashed, I met this rat-weasel thing, and they’re doing to us what we’re doing to them, except they’re not harvesting technology—they’re migrating, and they’re using us as their carriers.”
“It might be an improvement.”
“Scarn....” Turtle lowered his voice to near inaudibility. “Here’s the worst part. UT was in on the deal. They okayed the transfer.”
That got Scarn’s full attention.
“And worse than that...” Turtle lowered his voice more. “...after they transfer their consciousness into one of us, their original body dies. Get that, Scarn: They gave up their bodies. No going home. These aliens have everything invested in this.”
“So we get implanted and that’s it, they stay?”
“There was an implication that it could be temporary, but only if we could develop their kind of probe unit. But get the implication of that: If the alien consciousness and its memories are going to be transferred out later, might it not kill the host—kill us, that is—just as they told me it would kill their original bodies? Scarn, think of it: What if UT gets this tech? What kind of nightmare would they dream up?”
Scarn blinked. “Like what?”
“What if that captain of ours wants to start over again as a handsome young man? Why couldn’t he transfer himself into some useful body for fun, or for keeps?”
Scarn processed that for two seconds. “Holy shit… They’d steal the body of any healthy breather they could find. Like mine. Or yours.”
“Right,” Turtle said. “‘UT reincarnation services’. I can see their slogan: Why grow old? Give a young, wasted life your vast experience!”
“They could ask any price… the guests would give up everything. This is troubling information.” Scarn gave him a long odd look. “Turtle. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Scarn’s eyes moved around his quarters, looking everyplace but at Turtle, who was now becoming concerned. Hesitation was not usual for Scarn.
“What? Spit it.”
“There’s a woman....”
“Crap no, Scarn. Not today.”
“I’m human. I’m male. It happened. You’re still after Iris, and you’ve had a snyth girl for months.”
“Yeah…” Turtle admitted. Living below-decks had built up weaknesses in both of them. They had never had good food or interesting women in their lives, and on the upper levels those two things were considered normal parts of anyone’s life.. “But Scarn, look at her.” He pointed at Lonna. “Look at him. And I just got out of the hospital—all because of women, Scarn. They give people obsessions. You’ll do stupid things.”
Scarn said nothing. Nor did he look at Turtle.
“How about,” Turtle said, “we both take libido neutralizers? I can live with the side-effects if you can.”
After a silence, Scarn said two words: “Neva Savvan.”
Turtle gaped. “No... Scarn, you can’t....”
The name was well known. It was common gossip that navigator Neva Savvan was the first mate—in more ways than one. It was common knowledge that she was sleeping with Captain Errit Stattor.
Scarn felt self-doubt. In all of his dreams, this was the woman he chose? The captain’s mistress?
Turtle suspected that even flirting with her could result in stunning revenge. Scarn could barely have chosen worse.
“Scarn, if you get shot into the core for this, I can’t promise I’ll go with you.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
“I think we need to go to a dark place and have a drink.”
Scarn didn’t say anything, but they headed for the door in agreement. This was more like Scarn—actions without discussion.
Without talking, they walked down to the lifts and stepped inside, heading upward in zero-g.
“I don’t like being an animal with barely controllable drives,” Scarn finally said. “Makes me feel defective.”
“You sound like my echo.”
Below his feet, Turtle looked down. Many decks below at the far end, past thick shielding, burned the nuclear core. That was where refuse was thrown for additional power.
“Scarn, use caution. I’d be pissed to lose you because you did something stupid.”
Scarn lifted an eyebrow and might have nodded. “I think I’ve heard that before.”
“Look, here’s the truth. Being in lust is to wander a wasteland devoid of rationality. My own experiences, Scarn, remember it. Your prefrontal lobe could be a crappy replacement from Lt. Gomax. You should check the label.”
Scarn was frowning as though he might be considering the issue. “There’s an all-station party coming up.”
“Yeah?”
“Iris will be there, too. You can see her.”
“Scarn—” Turtle just looked at him. Then he sighed.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Obese and sweating, Captain Errit Stattor strolled smiling through his outer office, reviewing those who served him.
The archaic incandescent lighting made his two dozen aides look jaundiced, hollow-eyed, and slack. Captain Stattor loathed wearing his constant smile, but it frightened and confused those around him.
When he had first entered those immense and weirdly anachronistic stained-glass doors, all voices ceased and all movement stopped. In a single motion, everyone stood, and then everyone bowed.
Captain Stattor appreciated this. He hadn’t requested it, but it smoothed the ripples of the morning’s indigestion.
“An honor, an honor,” he mumbled. “Please sit. Please.”
But they remained standing, deeply bowed at the waist.
Stattor lifted one of his short arms and waved it over them. “Your devotion impresses me, but, please. Be at ease, my people.”
Still, none moved.
Today, as he feigned reviewing them, he wore his full smile with the fat of his cheeks pushed up in tight lumps under his eyes. He had more reason to appear happy than they could know, so whether they sat or stood or died on the spot, he wouldn’t give one gaseous emission from his rumbling guts.
Without sound, his aides remained beside their desks, bowed and dead-faced, waiting for him to complete his morning slow-walk among them.
This wonderful morning, at 11:00 AM, Usko Imani was to be brought into his presence. She was the last woman to voluntarily make love to him, and as of today, this very day, he had not seen her for exactly twenty years. It was a special occasion.
>
Seeing and speaking to her was an anniversary gift to himself of the highest order. A second gift would be finally tying up one of the few remaining loose ends of his life.
As Stattor passed through them, sweat began to trickle out of his scalp. Here in the nerve center of his domain, the domain of United Tarassis, he could order any of a hundred actions on any of two hundred decks. Even the below-deck breathers, who believed they had relative freedom from his whims, were sadly mistaken.
Today, he felt not only a peculiar sense of serenity beyond that which he normally experienced, but he also felt one of those increasingly frequent twinges of immortality. Yes, something grandly mysterious was waiting to happen to him. It could be today, it could be tomorrow or next year... but no, he sensed it wasn’t that far away. It was close and it would happen soon.
The coming transformational event would be strange and wonderful, and the entire realm of humanity aboard his vessel would know of it. He was Errit Stattor, captain of Tarassis and absolute director of United Tarassis. His life was smoothly grand.
Without him, the masses knew they would be lost and that even more of them would devolve into sniveling breathers. The captain had been assured of this by his underlings.
Now he had almost reached his inner office. His feet and ankles began to radiate pain, but he ignored this as he turned and spoke to them. “Please, treat me as you would anyone else.”
He’d always enjoyed that joke.
No one moved; even breathing could not be heard.
His feet hurt. He’d asked for full gravity to be switched on inside the chambers, but he hadn’t quite realized what that would feel like. He wondered if he should have the technical people shot, even though they’d only been obeying orders. After all, they should have known better.
The crystalline doors of his private office sensed his presence, opened, and he passed grandly through, leaving a lingering odor in his wake.
Alone, he folded forward and clasped his distended guts in his arms. His intestines felt like he had swallowed hot gravel. Waves of pain flowed up from his ankles and pooled in his thighs as great reservoirs of agony.
Many years ago in his youth, years before he met Usko Imani, the police had chain-whipped him. That had hurt less.