Free Stories 2014

by Baen Books

  “Everything in service to the mission, correct?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Jamal agreed.

  “And what is that mission?”

  “To make it to the interstellar anomaly, designation LKpyx, and discover...discover whatever we can.”

  “Who has to make it?”

  Twisting his lips, Jamal thought for a moment before answering. “We do.”

  “Who do? You and me? No, kid. It’s not a who, it’s a what. The convoy. Everything we do is in service to the convoy, and it’s the convoy’s mission to get to the star and figure out if we're really seeing what we think we're seeing: a giant, artificial construct. Whether it's a Dyson sphere or not doesn't matter. What matters is the life--the intelligence, greater than ours. Where did they come from? Where are they now? Why haven't they contacted us? Huh? Inquiring minds want to know. You and I, we'll never get to see the answers. But the convoy will.” He patted Jamal’s head. “We’re just parts. Cogs in a machine. Pieces in I.C.C’s system. You’ve got to decide you’re ok with that, or be miserable. It is what it is. Life’s always been what it is. It’s whether you accept that or not that makes it good or bad, right or wrong, upsetting or not.”

  Jamal sighed. Why was everyone he talked to so...what was the word for it? It was a good word, he’d just learned it...Rational. That was it. They were like the computer. Didn’t they ever listen to their feelings instead of their brains? Or was that what being grown up was all about: learning to be logical?

  But wasn’t ignoring your feelings illogical? Why was his gut so insistent if he was supposed to ignore it?

  “What if there’s a better way?” he asked.

  “A bunch of big-wigged, scientific mucky-mucks back on Earth couldn’t figure out a better way, but sure, you’re what, nine? I have complete faith that a nine-year-old can figure out a better way.”

  “I know what sarcasm is.”

  “Good.”

  Jamal pouted. “Why don’t we just try my way? An experiment with Diego, to see if maybe I’m right and this is wrong.”

  Red and blue lights began flashing down one of the server rows, and Older Jamal went to check on them. “Think it’s best if you went home now, kid,” he called.

  I.C.C. opened the server room door.

  “That’s it? Just no?”

  Older Jamal sniffed again, loud enough to be heard over the humming of the servers. “Just no. Believe me kid, they thought of everything when it came to the mission. If you want to change the system you’ll have to shirk the mission.”

  Again, Jamal felt sick at the idea. The convoy was his home, the mission filled him with pride and wonder. They were explorers, boldly going...somewhere. He was proud to be a part of it.

  But not proud of how they were going about it.

  He went back to daycare the same way he’d come, and wasn’t surprised to find that none of the adults had realized he was missing.

  Nothing he did or said seemed to matter to anyone.

  * * *

  The day came far too soon. Jamal had wracked his brain for weeks, trying to find a suitable solution, and at every turn Diego tried to discourage him.

  “You don’t have to defend me, boy. Someone died for all of us. Someone died so your pabbi could be born, someone died so you could be born.”

  That just made him more upset.

  “I want to come with you, over to Hippocrates,” Jamal declared that morning. His parents had excused him from class so that he could say his goodbyes.

  “Your Afi is coming with me. I don’t want you there, Jamal. It’d be too hard.” He was packing a bag. It was tradition to pack up your quarters before you retired. The most important things went in a black duffle bag, to be handed out to your loved ones as mementos. This the retiree would keep with them until the end. Everything else went back into surplus. Supplies to be used again, by someone new.

  Bleary-eyed, Jamal hugged Diego around the middle and refused to let go for a full three minutes.

  “I know it’s hard. You cry if you want to, let it all out. I’ll miss you, too. But you’ve got to know I’m doing the right thing. It’s for the greater good.”

  Jamal wanted to puke on the greater good. The greater good could get sucked out an airlock for all he cared.

  “Now, I’m going to take a nice, soothing bath before I go. Would you mind putting my bag by the door on your way out?” He kissed Jamal on the top of the head, said one last goodbye, and went to his bathroom with a smile on his face.

  Desiring nothing more than to run down the hall wailing, Jamal took a deep breath and retrieved the bag from the table. He couldn’t deny Diego his last request.

  The bag was heavy. Way too heavy for Jamal to lift. He had to drag it all the way across the room. And then it hit him. It was heavy like a person--a small person. Like a Jamal-sized person.

  He would go to Hippocrates after all, and stop this terrible mistake.

  * * *

  Few sounds came through the fabric un-garbled. Light was totally absent, and the tight space forced him into the fetal position. It was a deadly combination of comfort and sensory deprivation that lead to an impromptu nap.

  There was no telling how much time had passed before a jarring woke him. Someone had picked up the bag. Afi, if his ears weren’t lying. It must be time to go.

  Hold still, he told himself. If he’d stayed asleep he probably wouldn’t have had anything to worry about.

  He could tell when they’d entered the shuttle bay, and again when they’d boarded a shuttle. He was thrown unceremoniously into an empty seat, and it took all of his will power not to let out an oomph.

  What would he actually do once they arrived? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Surely he would make a grand speech. Something like in the movies, where the hero dashes in and convinces everyone he’s right through the power of words.

  But what then? If Diego said he didn’t want to retire would everyone else just let it happen?

  He never got a chance to find out. He never even got to make his speech, grand or otherwise.

  He was picked up and plopped down several more times before he decided they’d reached the end of the line. This was it, the place he was supposed to be. Time to make his grand entrance.

  Jamal deftly unzipped himself, jumped up, and cried, “Stop!”

  Everyone stared. There were five other people in the pristine, white room--but none of them were Afi or Diego.

  Nearby stood a door, and without missing a beat Jamal threw it open. On the other side lay a glass cubicle--an observation station, like all the clone-growing rooms had.

  A place from which to watch someone retire, should you feel the need.

  On the other side of the pane, Diego reclined in a dentist’s chair. On one side was a lady wearing one of those medical masks and a hair net, and on the other sat Afi, holding Diego’s hand. They’d wrapped Diego in a long, white fluffy robe that folded down around his feet. He’d been swaddled, like Akane. His eyes were closed.

  Clear plastic tubing stuck out of Diego’s right arm and extended up to a bag of foggy, slightly blue liquid. The lady pumped something into the bag with a needle, and the solution turned pale yellow.

  “No!” shouted Jamal. He banged on the glass with both fists. “Stop it! Stopit stopit stopit!”

  Diego’s eyes flew open as Afi and the technician’s heads both snapped in Jamal’s direction.

  “Please,” Jamal pleaded. “Please don’t take him away.” His vision blurred, and he had to take huge gulps of air as his lungs stuttered. “Please.” His voice cracked and he turned away.

  As he hid his face there was a commotion on the other side of the glass. Furniture squeaked across the floor, metal rattled, three voices argued and one yelped. When Jamal looked up and rubbed his eyes, Diego stood before him, palms pressed to the window.

  “It’s ok, Jamal. You have to let me go. It’s time for you to learn new things and meet new people. You can’t hang around an old fool
forever.” Diego sounded muffled, but the words were clear. So was the meaning.

  “I don’t want to let you go.” He knew how selfish it sounded. He pressed his palm against the glass as if pressing it to Diego’s hand.

  “Go back out that door, now,” said Diego. “It’s time to say goodbye.” With that he returned to the chair, lay back down, and shut his eyes.

  * * *

  Jamal had never been in more trouble in his life. Apparently hitching a ride to the retirement wing was almost as bad as abandoning the mission. Almost.

  No one cared about his excuses. No one cared he’d done it for a noble cause. All they cared about was teaching him never to do it again. They gave him a week to grieve, then enacted his penalty.

  As punishment they made him clean the access ducts without the aid of bots. Ironically, the same ducts he’d high-jacked as a short cut to the server room.

  Gleaming before him now was a plate that read:

  Here interned are the ashes of Dr. Leonard McCloud.

  May the convoy carry him in death to the stars he only dreamed of in life.

  It marked the final resting place of some guy from Earth--some guy who had helped build the mission, but never saw it launch. Guess there really are dead people in the walls, Jamal thought.

  Viscous cleaning solution ran down through the words, obscuring them. He mopped the orange-scented cleaner up with a rag.

  There would be no plaques for Diego. Spoons only get remembered by other spoons.

  “I.C.C.?”

  “Yes, Jamal?”

  The boy rubbed a hand across his eyes. The fumes stung. “Does it hurt when you die?”

  “I have not experienced death, and do not have enough information to extrapolate--”

  A burning rimmed his eyes. What strong cleaner.

  No, he couldn’t fool himself. He wasn’t crying because of the chemicals. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Never mind.”

  A stiff silence followed. Jamal continued to polish the nameplate long after it was clean.

  Though he was angry for Diego for leaving, Jamal realized he was also proud of the old man. He'd done something he believed in, no matter the personal cost. He'd done it for Jamal and Akane and all the other children. That could be good--should be good. But Jamal knew it was ok to be sad, too.

  Akane. Diego was gone, and Akane was here. She is cute, Jamal admitted to himself. And gurgley.

  That day, before he'd gone off to attend to his punishment, she'd grabbed his finger for the first time. She'd held it and smiled, and he had smiled, too.

  He didn't want her to go back to Hippocrates anymore, or to disappear altogether. He didn't even want her to be a boy. Now he just wanted to be a good big brother. Like Diego had been for Anita.

  “Diego...he was your friend?” I.C.C. eventually asked. It was a cautious question, asked micro seconds slower than usual questions from the AI.

  “Yes,” Jamal croaked.

  “I don’t comprehend what that means.”

  Wiping the snot from his nose, Jamal cleared his throat. “I know,” he said, and patted the wall as if I.C.C. could feel the gesture. “I’ll teach you.”

  A Thing of Beauty

  by Charles E. Gannon

  “The children have become an unacceptably dangerous liability. Don’t you agree, Director Simovic?”

  “Perhaps, Ms. Hoon. But how would you propose to resolve the problem?”

  “Director, it is generally company policy to…liquidate assets whose valuations are subpar and declining.”

  Elnessa Clare managed not to fumble the wet, sloppy clay she was adding to the frieze, despite being triply stunned by the calm exchange between her corporate patrons. The first of the three shocks was her immediate reaction to the topic: liquidate the children? My children? Well, they’re not mine—not anymore—but, just last year, they would have been mine, when I was still the transitional foster parent for company orphans. How could anyone—even these bloodless suits—talk about “liquidating the children?”

  The second shock was that these two bloodless suits were discussing this while Elnessa was in the room and only twenty feet away, at that. But then again, why be surprised? Their company, the Indi Group, was simply an extension of the megacorporate giant, CoDevCo and evinced all its parent’s tendencies toward callousness and exploitation. It also possessed the same canny ability to generate profits, often by ruthlessly factoring human losses into their spreadsheets just like any other actuarial number

  The third shock was that Elnessa could hear Simovic and Hoon at all, let alone make out the words. Because of the xenovirus which had hit her shortly after arriving on Kitts—officially, Epsilon Indi 2 K—Elnessa had suffered losses in mobility and sensory acuity. But every once in a while, she experienced an equally troublesome inversion of these handicaps: unprecedented (albeit transient) sensory amplification. Six months ago, she had had to endure a hyperactive set of tastebuds. All but the blandest of foods had made her retch. And now, over the past four days, her steady hearing loss had abruptly reversed, particularly in the higher ranges. Elnessa had acquired a new-found empathy for dogs), and could now pick out conversations from uncommonly far-off, whereas only a week ago, she had been trying to learn lip-reading.

  She realized she had stopped working; had, in fact, frozen motionless. And Simovic and Hoon had fallen silent, were possibly watching her, wondering if she had—impossibly—heard them. Elnessa raised her hand haltingly, then paused again, hefting the clay. Then she shook her head, plopped it back, and began rolling it to work the water out. Meanwhile, she continued to listen carefully, hoping they had believed her depiction of “distracted aesthetic uncertainty.”

  Simovic’s voice resumed a beat later. “So, Ms. Hoon, do you have any suggestions for the most profitable method of divesting ourselves of these young—er, high-risk commodities?”

  “Director, at some point, the attempt to find a profitable method of divestiture can itself become a prime example of the law of diminishing returns. Sometimes a commodity becomes so valueless that the simplest and least costly method of liquidating it is best.”

  Elnessa reminded herself to keep breathing. The good news was that Simovic and Hoon had believed her performance as “the Oblivious Artist,” contemplating the frieze before her. The bad news was that the discussion at hand had already moved from “should we get rid of the children?” to “how do we go about doing so?”

  Simovic carried the inquiry further. “So we just abandon the asset in place?”

  “Director, I would suggest junking the asset at a considerable distance from the main colony, and even the outlying settlements. I suggest using an infrequently visited part of the planet. No reason we should risk being seen and reported for disposing of unwanted material off-site.”

  Elnessa was now acclimated enough to the horrific conversation that she could actually work and listen at the same time. She straightened, began layering in thin strips of micro-fiber pseudoclay that would hold and provide a reflective receptacle for the back-lit acrylic inserts with which she would finish the high-relief center panels of the mixed media frieze. With one eye on Simovic’s and Hoon’s reflections in the inert monitor of her combination laser-level and grid-plotter, Elnessa smoothed and sculpted the materials while straining her ears after every word.

  Simovic chuckled: the sound was more patronizing than mirthful. “Ms. Hoon, sometimes the direct approach to seemingly low-value divestiture is not the best alternative—particularly if one has had the opportunity to plan in advance.”

  Hoon’s shoulders squared defiantly. “What advanced planning are you referring to, sir?”

  “Well, in fairness, it’s nothing that you could have been aware of. Suffice it to say that with the appearance of this—ah, unregistered vessel—in main orbit, the asset in question may not be wholly valueless.”

  Hoon sounded skeptical. “And just why would a bunch of grey-world orphans be of interest to—to whoever it is t
hat’s hovering just outside Kitts’ own orbital track?”

  Elnessa watched Simovic lean far back in his absurdly over-sized chair and steeple his fingers. His smile had mutated from ‘smug’ through ‘shrewd’ and into ‘predatory.’ “Come now, Ms. Hoon; surely you can think of at least a dozen reasons why unrecorded corporate wards would be items of interest to any number of parties.”

  Hoon’s defiant frown slowly evolved into a smile—at about the same pace that Elnessa felt her blood turn into ice. People, particularly kids, who were ”unrecorded”—who lacked birth certificates and national identicodes—were rare, and therefore inherently valuable, black market commodities. And there wasn’t a single use for such commodities that was anything less than hideously illegal and immoral.

  “And why,” Hoon asked in what sounded like a purr, “are you so sure that our mysterious visitors will be interested in such a trade good?”

  “That,” Simovic answered with a self-satisfied sigh, as expansive and deep as had he just finished a very filling meal, “will become obvious within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Elnessa blinked and doubled the speed at which she was putting the finishing touches on the clay components surrounding the central space she had left open for what she had silently labeled The Brazen City. She had to complete the frieze soon, and in particular, she had to finish on time today, because she needed to make an early visit to her dead-drop site.

  She had to make sure that her contact Reuben came to debrief her. As early as possible.

  * * *

  Sitting on the spongy, close-mowed kitturf that seemed half-lichen, half crabgrass, Elnessa surveyed the small patch of ground that served as the colony’s park, promenade, and grey market. She watched as Reuben led the newest batch of fresh-faced PDPs—Parentless Displaced Persons—to the sparsely-appointed playground at the other end of the public square. Although the orange-yellow disk of Epsilon Indi had almost dipped behind the horizon, the amber-white gas-giant Lee was in gibbous domination of the darkling sky. If one looked closely, the resulting double illumination created faint secondary shadows, with the stronger ones (generated by the system’s primary) rapidly losing ground to those created by the weak, but steadily reflected light of Kitt’s parent-world.