Analog Science Fiction and Fact 04/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “An Earth citizen, Haywood McCutcheon, is crucial to my investigation.”

  “I’m not going to extradite him. And I’ve told him that.”

  “I’m—”

  “‘Investigating a homicide.’ Yes, I know the phrase.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working for me much lately.”

  Ambassador Obote said, “I sympathize with those who grieve for Miss Cantara. And I’m horrified that an Earth citizen would be connected with such a crime.”

  “But not horrified enough to help me.”

  “You have nothing to do with it, Constable. Nor do I. Dozens of people, in Tranquility and elsewhere, have died in this first conflict between human worlds. I grieve the dead, but must concern myself with the living.”

  “So you would deal with a murderer. And to think I hesitated to approach you for fear of disrupting the negotiations.”

  “You haven’t proven your case against Secretary Whitford, at least not to an outside observer. But I have something you would dearly love to get your hands on, I suspect.”

  “Just what might that be?”

  “When I spoke to Mr. McCutcheon, he told me he made a recording of the events he ‘snipped’—horrible term, that—from Secretary Whitford.”

  “That’s the evidence I need to convict him!”

  “And you’ll have it—after negotiations between Earth and Moon conclude.”

  “Have you viewed the recording?”

  “I have not. Nor do I intend to. We’re averting a possible war, here. The population of the Moon may be small, but high technology gives even small nations potentially great power.”

  Dacia smiled and asked, “Are you so afraid of us?”

  She could see the ambassador’s grim expression through his faceplate. “What we fear is the possibility of raining nuclear fire down upon people who were once our friends. ‘Genocide’ is such a nasty term.”

  Dacia had no words. The flow of air within her spacesuit skimmed between the hairs on her arms and grazed the back of her neck, bringing a disconcerting chill.

  Ambassador Obote continued: “In the meantime, I can deal with your man Whitford. He’s tough, but also patient and calm.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the kind of man to commit a murder.”

  “Then, Constable, you should commit your efforts toward resolving that dilemma. In the meantime, Secretary Whitford and I have a much larger dilemma to solve.”

  Ambassador Obote began the return journey to the nearest airlock, leaving Dacia standing there staring at history and listening to her own breathing.

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Whitford asked. His image on Dacia’s office phone showed him in a nondescript hallway, probably somewhere in Embassy Row. “I’m trying to get these negotiations to some sort of conclusion and you’re talking to Obote, telling him I’m a murder suspect?”

  Dacia kept her features still as stone. “You are a murder suspect, Secretary Whitford. Besides, he already knew.”

  “So you see what I’m up against here. I can’t stay ahead of what he knows—he’s a trained diplomat, and I’m not, and that puts me at a severe disadvantage.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “I’m dealing with Obote. I’m dealing with the Asian Non-Aligned Nations and the Martian ambassador, trying to get their support. And I’ve got Lunar activists who say I’d better get something signed and get those Alliance peacekeepers off our world.”

  “You continue with your job, Secretary Whitford. I’ll continue with mine.”

  “I need to put this behind me, Constable. I can’t allow myself to be distracted like this.”

  “I agree. Because how much credibility will negotiations with a suspected murderer have? Ambassador Obote told me he can work with you, that he wanted me to postpone my investigation until after the negotiations are complete.”

  “That bastard. He wants me to step right into a trap. He’ll bring us right to the threshold of an agreement, then—”

  “Then,” Dacia said, “he destroys your credibility, all in an instant.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him about a memory recording he obtained from a certain Mr. McCutcheon.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “If you really don’t know,” Dacia said, “you won’t hesitate to ask.”

  A day later, Dacia found herself in Whitford’s office, next to his uncluttered desk again, standing alongside him and Earth Ambassador Kasinda Obote. Whitford held a small electronic chip in his hand. “Ambassador Obote was kind enough to provide me with the recording this Haywood McCutcheon gave him.”

  Obote said, “You mean you badgered and threatened me until I agreed to provide it to you.”

  Dacia stared at Whitford, then Obote, then back at Whitford. What in the world is each of them thinking? Does Whitford really think this recording is going to clear him? Does Obote really believe he can continue to work with a man revealed to be a killer?

  Is that what Obote wants? Has Whitford walked into a trap after all?

  Whitford raised his other hand and produced two more chips. “I’ve had the original copied. I believe we should all experience them together.”

  “No,” Dacia said. “That’s not an experience I want to have, certainly not one I want to share.”

  “What are you afraid of? That you’ll be proven wrong?”

  “Really,” Obote said, “this is all quite irregular.”

  Whitford said, “This whole thing is irregular. The Moon struggling to become a sovereign state, our home planet trying to suppress us—”

  “This isn’t the time for speeches, Grayson!”

  “Neither is it the time for hesitation. I’ve been falsely accused, and I know it deep within my bones. I’m here to put this aside so that I can concentrate on negotiations and so the constable here can search for the real killer.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Dacia said. “How’s it work?”

  Whitford placed his chip against one temple. “Right there—then just press.”

  Dacia placed, then pressed:

  A whirlwind of sensory impressions—the chill of the corridor outside Rachel’s room, the sight of it blurred, all sounds muted, the difference between memory and sharp reality.

  And above all the most intense impression, Whitford’s concern about why she’d called him.

  Dacia was still just aware enough of her own consciousness to admit her confusion—Rachel had called Whitford to her? And why was his predominant emotion concern rather than rage or some other emotion that could easily turn murderous?

  Memory-Whitford buzzes at Rachel’s door as sensory impressions settle down, whether the hard surface of the door, the artificial illumination of the corridor, or the delighted screams of kids from the pool in the plaza fifteen levels down.

  Dacia realizes Whitford isn’t armed.

  Rachel opens the door and senses begin to whirl again, Rachel screaming at him, one hand pushing flat against Whitford’s chest: “You know how neglected I feel,” she says, her voice somehow distant, as if being heard through a filter or a poor transmission.

  “Now, honey, just stay calm,” Whitford says, his demeanor that of her loving fiancé and an experienced diplomat.

  Rachel’s the one with the gun; she’s pointing it at Whitford’s head, telling him, “You don’t have any time for me. I may as well shoot you as marry you if this is what I have to look forward to.”

  Then it’s all more of a blur, Whitford trying to explain about diplomatic protocols, political realities, and Rachel doesn’t want to hear it, telling him her father ran away when she was a toddler, her mother’s never loved her, and now Whitford has no time for her, either.

  Whitford protests that they’ve hashed this out before, and the fate of the negotiations rest upon him, the future of Lunar society itself, including their future children.

  “To hell with our future children,” Rachel says, and pla
ces the gun on overload. Before it can destroy itself, though, she places its barrel to her head and fires.

  Rachel disintegrates slowly, her agonized screams cut off as she turns to dust before Whitford.

  Dacia reached up and tore the chip from her temple. Tears streamed down her face, perspiration down her back, and she was bent double, breathing as hard as if she’d just completed a marathon under Earth grav.

  Next to her, Ambassador Obote had removed his chip as well and stood impassively next to her. “You’re a damn cool one,” Dacia told him.

  He said, “Constable, I’ve negotiated peace between tribes that massacred one another with knives and spears. I went right to the scene after the Volgograd mini-nuke strike. I don’t deny what we saw was disturbing. But I’ve dealt with much worse.”

  Whitford removed his chip. He stumbled backward and caught the edge of his desk to keep from falling. His features revealed lines they never had before; his eyes were haunted in a way Dacia doubted would ever fade. “I . . . loved her so much,” he said.

  Dacia said, “We know you did. Do you remember everything now?”

  “Only what I just saw. But I can figure out the rest, if it’s the same way I feel right now. I couldn’t bear the sight of her . . . killing herself. I knew trying to keep the negotiations going while grieving would be difficult enough, and to have that image before me, moment by moment—it would be too much.”

  “And McCutcheon escaping to Earth?”

  “Even if he experienced the recording, he couldn’t know the context. Just that a politician wanted something suppressed.”

  Ambassador Obote said, “I had the impression he wasn’t taking any chances.” He went to Whitford and grasped his shoulder. “We’ll continue negotiations whenever you’re able. In fact, I’m going to recommend taking down the checkpoints and having our troops stand down.”

  “Thank you,” Whitford said.

  Obote excused himself and left. Whitford said, “I’ve been foolish. And selfish. And I failed Rachel.”

  “Rachel was troubled,” Dacia said. “And you had bigger responsibilities.”

  “I won’t after the Moon is free. No more diplomacy.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What I should’ve done before. Remember Rachel.”

  Copyright © 2011 Dave Creek

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  SHORT STORIES

  Quack

  Jerry Oltion

  Stage lighting always made Dustin sweat. At least that’s what he blamed for the sudden burst of perspiration whenever he found himself on a sound stage, facing yet another fraud practitioner of “alternative medicine.”

  It couldn’t be the competition. These guys were idiots. They could barely tie their shoes, much less debate medicine on national television. Take tonight’s offering, for example: a homeopath. Doctor—though how he had acquired a medical degree Dustin could hardly imagine—Nathan LeTourneau, MD, CCH, DHPh. He and other practitioners of his particular brand of quackery claimed that medicine could be diluted millions of times—diluted so much, in fact, that not a single molecule of the original remained in the final concoction. Yet they claimed that their oil-less snake oils were as beneficial as the real thing, that somehow they were more beneficial after dilution, though the final result was 99.999999 and as many nines as you cared to add percent distilled water. Total nonsense.

  LeTourneau seemed a pleasant enough man. He had shaken Dustin’s hand and said, “I’m very happy to meet you,” when he arrived at the studio, and he engaged the technicians in small talk as they snaked his microphone up through his shirt and clipped it to his lapel. He said, “Check, check . . . check please,” for the sound check, then added, “Garçon, l’addition s’il vous plaît” and smiled and said, “It’s nothing, a little joke,” when the technicians looked at him in puzzlement. He had no facial tics or other obvious nervous quirks that so many proponents of alternative medicine displayed when faced with the scrutiny of scientific inquiry. It was almost a shame that Dustin would have to tear him apart in public.

  “It’s interesting to see the part of the studio that the cameras don’t show you, isn’t it?” he said to Dustin.

  “Gives you a new perspective on the ‘glamour’ of show business,” Dustin admitted.

  They were seated at an angle to one another on either side of the empty chair that Shelly Nguyen, the show’s host, would sit in during their debate. The chairs were plushly upholstered, their wood trim stained a deep brown. The glass coffee table in front of them gleamed, not a speck of dust on it. The floor was carpeted in an understated tan twill that complemented the upholstery and the woodwork, and the backdrop behind them was a translucent panel upon which the evening view of the city from some distant hilltop was being projected from behind. The whole set was bathed in brilliant white light from eight or ten spotlights, four of which were bouncing off big white umbrella-shaped diffusers to cut down on shadows. Yet just to the side, outside the range of the cameras, stood a battered metal cart with an equally battered television on it, facing them so the people on stage could see how they looked on screen. Wires snaked from that to the control board, a four-foot-wide panel of switches and sliders on a 2 x 4 frame that looked more like a garage workbench than a high-tech information center. A nest of wiring below the bench served as a foot rest for the operator.

  The floor was concrete with a few throw rugs scattered here and there to deaden echoes. Plywood panels braced with more 2 x 4’s stood at angles around the stage, also hung with carpet.

  Noting Dustin’s gaze, LeTourneau said, “I expected Sonex. The pointy, egg-cartony foam stuff.”

  Dustin snorted. “Sonex is expensive.”

  “Ah.” LeTourneau seemed disappointed by that revelation.

  It had surprised Dustin, too, when he’d done his first talk show. He’d imagined riches showering down upon every aspect of television production, but he’d soon learned that the money went to the owners and the stars. The studios got enough to function, nothing more. And people like him, the occasional guests, got nothing at all, save the satisfaction of speaking out for true science in the face of vast public ignorance.

  Shelly swept into the studio, perfection in motion. Her black hair was cut in layers that looked casually windblown, but Dustin knew each lock had been carefully placed. Her dark brown pants were tight enough to show off the curve of her legs, her lavender blouse was cut low to show more curves, with the tiny black microphone nestled just off center like a beauty mark against the pale white mound of her left breast.

  “Two minutes, gentlemen,” she said. She sat and plugged her microphone wire into the jack dangling over the side of her chair, then tucked the wire out of sight behind her. “Everyone comfortable?”

  “Fine,” Dustin said.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” said LeTourneau.

  “Remember, look at each other or at me, not at the cameras,” she said.

  Dustin glanced outward at the two cameras, ridiculously tiny things the size of personal camcorders atop wheeled pedestals big enough to hold research-grade telescopes, with wide motorcycle-style handlebars sticking outward so the operators could swivel the cameras smoothly as they panned this way and that.

  He looked back to LeTourneau, sweating under the lights.

  “Good luck, doctor,” he said.

  The sound tech stood beside the monitor on the cart and said, “Ready in fifteen. Ten. Five.” Then he switched to hand signals and silently waved four fingers, three, two, one, and a closed fist.

  “Hello, and welcome to The Second Opinion,” Shelly said. “I’m Shelly Nguyen, and with me tonight are Doctors Dustin Wegner of the Centers for Disease Control and Doctor Nathan LeTourneau of the Institute for Holistic Naturopathy.” She nodded at each in turn, then looked directly at the camera on the left. The host, apparently, could get away with that. “Let’s get right to it. Dr. Wegner believes in what we’ve come to call c
onventional medicine. Dr. LeTourneau believes in what we often call alternative medicine. His specialty is homeopathy, the treatment of disease with medicines that are so incredibly diluted that scientists would be hard pressed to tell them apart from distilled water. Dr. LeTourneau, would you care to elaborate a little on how homeopathy works?”

  LeTourneau laughed. “I wish I could, but any explanation I could give would be nonsense. The simple fact of the matter is that neither I, nor anyone practicing homeopathy, knows how it works. Anyone who says they do is a fraud.”

  Dustin felt his pulse quicken. “Hey, you’re stealing my lines,” he said. He laughed for the camera, but he wasn’t laughing inside. What was this guy up to?

  “My apologies, doctor,” said LeTourneau. “Believe me, there is much more to say in the same vein, and I would not presume to debate you on the science, or lack thereof, in a field of medicine that relies almost entirely upon anecdotal evidence. So I would like to skip over all that, concede that the science is sorely lacking, and move on to a more interesting and perhaps more fruitful topic of discussion.”

  “What topic might that be?” asked Shelly, just a touch of frost in her voice. She didn’t like having her show hijacked.

  “The fact that homeopathy does work.”

  Dustin smiled. “I can debate that.”

  “I’m sure you can,” replied LeTourneau. “So I will concede to all your arguments in advance. It certainly doesn’t work in a vast number of cases. Its efficacy is perhaps only a tiny bit better than the placebo effect. As a scientific method of medical treatment, it is at best a cruel joke. It—”

  Dustin leaned forward. “Are you sure you even need me here?”

  LeTourneau nodded vigorously. “I need you desperately, Doctor. I need you to help me understand why it does work when it does, and why it doesn’t when it doesn’t.”

  “It doesn’t work because it’s not science,” Dustin said. He leaned back in his chair, once again on familiar ground, but before he could launch into his canned spiel on what science was, Shelly interrupted.

  “That sounds like a challenge,” she said. “Dr. LeTourneau, are you seriously asking Dr. Wegner to collaborate with you on a scientific study of homeopathic medicine?”