Free Stories 2015

by Baen Books

The Andromeda had made it to New Peking without further incident. Catherine had been somewhat concerned, at first, that her prisoners would attempt something foolish, but once Lazarus Goodchild started cooperating, there’d been no problems.

  Goodchild was an odd case, Catherine thought. According to what he’d told Tran, his act of piracy was done more out of desperation than out of a desire to operate outside the law. It didn’t excuse his actions, but he feared for his life if he failed to recover the AI. Being turned over to the Fleet, if nothing else, guaranteed his safety. The Andromeda had encountered a Concordiat Defense Force heavy cruiser two systems away from New Peking, and the prisoners were transferred without incident. Tran had told Catherine that, given the circumstances of Goodchild’s cooperation with the OSI, the crew of the Sundevil would likely face prison instead of being executed. The Law of Outer Space allowed for pirates to be put to death, but the death sentence wasn’t always carried out in the modern era. It looked bad, and criminal justice reformers were always trying to ban the practice.

  It had all been rather ironic, Catherine thought, that the would-be pirates’ lives were saved by a plea for mercy by an artificial intelligence. The machine had definitely taken to heart, or whatever analog for the heart that she possessed, the notion that human life has value, and her opinions on the matter had value.

  I find it rather inspiring, Catherine wrote, using a stylus to write in her journal by hand. (Many people lacked the ability to write by hand, but Catherine liked to maintain the skill.) People’s bias against machine intelligence is understandable, given the bloody history of artificial intelligence. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if we haven’t crossed the line from rational pragmatism into bigotry. I believe, beyond all doubt, that Ember is as kind and humanitarian as any human being I’ve ever met. If the soul is defined by one’s capacity for compassion, then Ember has more soul than many, many people. I can’t speak to the religious or metaphysical implications of that thought, except to say that I think Bishop Cardigan probably wouldn’t have approved.

  Or, perhaps he would have, Catherine wrote. The Church of Avalon tended to be conservative in its views, but taught that compassion, mercy, and forgiveness were the most Godly attributes that Man could aspire to. Bishop Cardigan, Catherine’s childhood clergyman, had been an untiring, relentless advocate for the poor, the downtrodden, and the forgotten. He spent many a day counselling prisoners, prostitutes, and drug addicts. “Sin is no excuse for sin,” he would always say. “Wrath and vengeance belong to the Lord.” I expect had he been on board the ship, he would have agreed with Ember’s insistence that we not leave the pirates to their fate.

  I hope she has a fulfilling life, wherever she ends up, Catherine concluded. I can’t imagine what it’s like for an artificial intelligence, how she truly perceives the world around her, but I hope the Concordiat authorities treat her well. Tran assured me that she would be studied, but not dissected like a science project. He seemed to think that she’d end up at a university someplace, or at another scientific institute. I don’t know if that’s true, but I certainly hope it is.

  The Andromeda had needed minor repair on New Peking, but with the money Catherine had been paid for this job, paying for it had been no trouble. After a few local weeks dirtside, so her crew could gets some well-deserved leave time, the Andromeda had lifted off again to seek out its next contract. Such was the life of a spacer. It meant not having much of a home life, and rarely seeing your family if you had one, but Catherine couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  A light flashed on her tablet, and an icon indicated that she had a message. Catherine snapped the stylus into its place and tapped the icon. “This is the captain,” she said.

  It was Luis Azevedo. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, I apologize for disturbing you in your rack.”

  “Not at all, Luis. What’s the matter?”

  “There’s no problem, ma’am, and we will be underway on schedule. However, there is something that I think you’ll want to see. We received a message from a courier ship passing through the system. It locked onto our transponder signal and sent a message, addressed to the skipper of the Andromeda.”

  That was different. Getting a message to a ship in space, unless you knew precisely where it was going to be, was a challenge. Catherine made it a point to make the Andromeda’s whereabouts generally known, so that potential customers could find her, but it was odd to receive a message in deep space like this. Very odd.

  “I see. Good work, Luis. Send it to me. I’ll take the message here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the junior officer said. “Sent.”

  “Thank you. Blackwood out.” Catherine ended the call, and brought up the message she’d downloaded. It was text only.

  My dearest Catherine, it began, I hope this message finds you well and in good health. I know it has been a long time, but your family needs you and your ship. Please come home.

  Catherine looked down at the signature and authentication. There was no mistaking it; the message had come from her father. She read through it three times. She hadn’t spoken to her father in fifteen years, and the two had not parted on good terms. Now, out of the blue, he was asking her to come home, to Avalon.

  She brought up the navigational system, tapping the screen rapidly. It would take the Andromeda just over seven hundred flight hours to reach Avalon from her present location. Catherine then called her first officer.

  “Good evening, Kapitänin,” Wolfram said, appearing on her screen. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine, Wolfram,” Catherine said. “We have a change of plans, however. As soon as we’re finished taking on remass and supplies, I want you to lay in minimum-time course to Avalon.”

  “Avalon? Going home?”

  “So it would seem. Meet me in Astrogation in thirty minutes. I think I may have found our next job.”

  Imperium Resource

  by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Try this one, Lord Thomas,” Maskew Zamerling said, holding up a gorgeous cut crystal pitcher. Although there were liberated artificial intelligence units and employees in plenty, the unctuous CEO of Astra Acqua had insisted on serving me himself. It came as no surprise that he reserved the honor; visits from those of such a lofty rank as I enjoyed were rare and wondrous treasures meant to be savored. I relaxed in my oxblood-colored chair and held out the matching beaker to his ewer.

  “My goodness, but these cups are heavy in the hand, aren’t they, Mr. Zamerling?” I remarked, as liquid as clear as the vessel from which it was decanted poured in a tinkling stream. “Beautiful, though. I think I’ll commission a set for myself when I get home.”

  “I am glad you like the design. We find that quartz crystal prevents any extraneous flavors being imparted to the beverage, my lord.”

  I turned the glass in my hand, curling my long fingers around it.

  “And what differentiates this from the last sample?”

  Zamerling smiled at me. He had a face made for simpering, with long, dark eyes, aquiline nostrils and full lips in a pasty, greenish complexion. I had a sudden, visceral need to divert his features from its expression, with the back of my hand, if necessary. I tamped down this sensation. Natural as it was, the moment’s satisfaction would derail my purpose in having made the trip to obtain an exclusive interview. He poured a half-cup for himself, and sat down again in the armchair across the narrow table from mine. Everything in the office was of the very highest quality and of unimpeachable taste. The chair itself had automatically elongated its back and foot rest to accommodate my lofty height without more than a whisper of sound.

  “This comes from a source in the northernmost mountains in Shalim, Lord Thomas, far from here,” he said, raising the cut-crystal glass to admire the contents. “A rather high percentage of copper, a touch of sodium, and borax, which gives it that unmistakable sweetness on the palate which is the mark of the terroir of High Shalim. A connoisseur’s beverage, my lord.”

  “C
heers, then,” I said, tipping my glass up, and rolled the liquid on my tongue. The water did taste a bit sweet, refreshing, with no metallic tang or perceptible aftertaste. “Very nice. I have never taken the time before to notice the differences between kinds of water. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes bad. Most of the time, I barely notice it unless I’m thirsty. H2O’s H2O. Adam’s Ale. You know.”

  Zamerling looked pained. “We rather prefer the term ‘dihydrogen monoxide,’ my lord.”

  “At your prices, a multisyllabic pronunciation does add cachet,” I remarked, taking another sip. I shot him a conspiratorial glance. “As well as the mysteries associated with your product. Is it true that you have discovered an entirely new aquifer previously unknown to geologists? That the purest and most delicious water flows from a source that no one else has ever discovered here on Bleke, right here in its newest settlement of Conoceil?”

  “You read through our advertising copy, my lord?” Zamerling looked surprised. I draped my long arms across the high back of the seat and affected a careless air. Perhaps I had gone too far in showing interest. After all, the nobility, of which I was a fully paid-up voting member, owing to my ancestral connection to the Imperium house, scarcely if ever delved into anything more than shallowly. “That detail was in the eighth or ninth page.”

  In fact, it had been on page ten, but I wouldn’t say so, for fear of revealing myself as having an academic or inquiring bent. I affected an artful smile.

  “My secretary read it for me,” I said, waving a hand toward the slender, blue metal-clad mechanical who hovered near the office door. “OP-634g thought it was curious enough to bring to my attention. If this claim is so, it interests me deeply. I wish to be the first among my cousins to serve such a beverage in the Imperium Compound. Maybe to the Emperor himself. He is my cousin, you know.”

  “I know,” Zamerling said. I was certain that he did. He had surely researched me and my illustrious background when I made the appointment to meet with him. I watched the circuits sparking behind his carefully bland countenance. We nobles were known for many things, but deep pockets, liberal spending, and adherence to the latest trends were high on the list. To become one of those trends was to open the way to a torrent of heretofore-unrealized wealth. I turned my chin this way and that so that he could remark upon my resemblance to the Emperor. Shojan XII and I shared tawny skin, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, broad forehead, a straight and well-built nose, and clear eyes, though the Emperor had the black hair most common to the Kinagos. I had inherited a sandier poll from the Loches, my mother’s family. “And what may we do to obtain your custom?” The "we" implied more of a royal pronoun than a reference to the company he represented.

  “Well, I must have a tour of this aquifer,” I declared, crossing my expensively shod ankles upon the footrest. It shifted slightly to ease the pressure upon the lower of my extremities. The chair, and all the furnishings in the room must have cost the equivalent of my monthly income, which amounted to a considerable sum. We Kinagos have investments that go back over five millennia, and have been absurdly profitable for more than three. “Naturally, I wish to confirm that the statement is true. Such a personal examination would allow me to take in the kind of details that cannot be satisfied with a gazetteer’s description. It’s a superb success story, yours. A marvel, a treasure, a flowering in the desert, or so I have heard. I must see for myself.”

  “A… a tour, my lord?” Zamerling asked, weakly. The eager-to-please attitude had taken a missile from unexpected quarters.

  I sprang up. “Yes! And this very minute, too. The longer we delay, the more likely it is that one of my cousins will discover this fantastic resource of yours, and I will not be thwarted of the novelty. We import so many luxuries and curiosities from outside the Core Worlds, it will be a coup on my part to bring a hitherto undiscovered one from within.”

  Zamerling stood up, but without any of the energy I displayed. His long eyes darted back and forth.

  “But it’s dark, and dingy, and wet there.”

  “I would expect a secret resource such as an aquifer to possess all of those qualities,” I said. “How else would it become an underground success in this day and age, so to speak?”

  “The aquifer is rather dangerous, my lord. The sands of Bleke shift frequently, causing frequent landslips in our facility. You would have to descend several kilometers into the earth.”

  I waved a hand. “Nothing that I haven’t tried before. My cousin Xan went through a spelunking phase, and dragged us all along with him into the nooks and crannies of Keinolt, the Imperium homeworld. I have been down to the very mantle, and stood upon it with these very feet! Though not these boots. It was rather hot there, I confess, hotter than this climate, though it was also a dry heat. I could have done with a pitcher or so of your water. No, I must see where this marvel of crystalline refreshment springs from, if you will forgive the pun. I cannot make a substantial order without being satisfied as to the veracity of your claim.”

  Zamerling made one final essay.

  “Er, what do you know of geology, Lord Thomas?”

  “Very little,” I said, cheerfully, favoring him with a sample of my patented laugh, which combined a snort and a derisive hoot. It echoed off the walls of the sumptuous office suite and no doubt penetrated the eardrums of my listener. “It hasn’t been that interesting to me thus far. You’ll forgive my frankness, I hope?”

  I smiled. The circuits continued to compute behind his greenish brow. His natural inclination to indulge one of my rank as well as native greed were at war as to how to display to me the object of my desire against the pressing need to conceal the possibly illicit source of his company’s success.

  But greed won out, as I knew it must.

  Zamerling drew his pocket secretary, the ever-present, slim, communications, recording and entertainment device that we all carried, from a silk-lined custom-tooled black pouch at his hip, and touched the screen. I noticed that his model was from the same high-end manufacturer as my own, albeit a level or two below in grade.

  “Chuchang?”

  “Yes, sir?” a toneless high-pitched voice responded. It sounded to me like an LAI, but its lack of inflection could also be attributed to a very well trained secretary or aide.

  “I need a car outside my suite in ten minutes,” Zamerling said. “Lord Thomas Kinago and I will be visiting Source Number Four.”

  The voice evinced no surprise. My instincts told me that it was a human or Wichu employee, rather than an artificial intelligence.

  “Number Four, sir? Will you require safety equipment?”

  “Yes. Full body suits, lights and respirators. Alert staff on site that we are on the way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” Zamerling said, putting the device back into its slipcase. He stood and gestured toward the door, which slid noiselessly into the wall. “After you, my lord.”

  I strode out into the anteroom, my confident steps a counterpoint to his more hesitant paces. He guided me along a well-lit corridor with miniature waterfalls set into the black stone walls tinkling out an ever-changing melody, an extravagance on this dry hunk of rock that passed for a planet, but perhaps an allowable fillip. I passed a discreet sign indicating the comfort facilities. The sound of running water sounding out all day would without a doubt have a psychological effect on the employees.

  At no time during our conversation had I brought up the water shortages that had been plaguing the newly settled city of Conoceil for more than a year. No doubt Zamerling assumed that pedestrian a situation would be beneath the notice of a lofty personage such as myself, and under normal circumstances, he would be right. My cousins and I seldom paid heed to any catastrophe or disaster that did not immediately impact our lives. Wealth and position shielded us from the ordinary citizen of the Imperium, and, to be frank, also shielded the ordinary citizen from our playful and often careless ways.

  However, the matter had been brought to the Emp
eror’s attention as a question of some urgency. Conoceil, the nearby city on Bleke, the second habitable planet circling Leo’s Star, had been founded some years past when a massive and potable underground aquifer was found in the center of a vast desert continent. A town had grown up around it, and began to flourish. The income of Conoceil proper derived mainly from tourism and the cultivation of tropical plants and fruits imported from other Imperium worlds. I had served numerous Conoceillian-grown succulents on my own table. They were delicious and beautiful, a feast for the eyes as well as the tongue. Conoceil also boasted root plants that had their own charm and flavor. According to geologists, the planet had once been as lush as the Imperium homeworld of Keinolt, but over hundreds of millions of years of steadily warming climate, the lifeforms had retreated underground, where they had been nourished by the ambient heat and the numerous aquifers spotted about the planet under its sandy blanket.

  Yet recently, what had seemed to be an endless underground freshwater sea had begun unaccountably to dry up, leaving the groves and orchards scrambling to make up the shortfall of water from ever lower reservoirs. To the despair of the growers, the local wells, reliable for centuries, had also begun running dry. Examination had left geologists none the wiser as to the drought’s cause. The nearest potable well was over fifty kilometers distant.

  At the same time, Acqua Astra, also a major employer in the region, continued to ship immense quantities of its delicious and pure-tasting water to other planets circling Leo’s Star, not to mention Keinolt and the rest of the Core Worlds. Luxury hotels in many a sector had those distinctive ochre-yellow bottles of Acqua Astra on their hospitality bars. (In theory, those were refillable and recyclable, but they tended to be taken home by tourists as desirable souvenirs. Even I had a few scattered among my travel memorabilia.)

  When such a strategic resource as water itself begins to run short, it causes hardship, finger pointing and other outbursts in the population centers. Accusations against the corporation had arisen in the popular press op-ed sections on the Infogrid, rising most lately into the realm of the court system. Acqua Astra had argued to the government of Bleke that it drew water from the same sources that it claimed from time immemorial, which was to say around twenty or so years, and had not outstretched the boundaries of those deeded properties. After a search by several groups of experts, no contradiction of their claim could be determined.