Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “I understand some of it. Or at least I think I do. Grant money is tight, correct?”

  Sandra sighed. “It's not just about university endowments.”

  “Oh, it never is. But it just so happens that the university is sitting on a gold mine.”

  “We don't know what we're sitting on. That's just it. The association wants to find out ... before unveiling it to the public.”

  “The association?”

  “It's not just the university, Giles. Listen. We don't know what this thing is, but it's almost certainly an alien artifact. Some explorer found it in Central America. He mentioned it to a wealthy friend, who happened to be an alumnus of the university. That was about six years ago, and a few articles got published on it at the time. Sensationalist articles.”

  “Tabloid stuff. Nobody believed it?”

  “Totally ignored by everyone except those who were certain the artifact contained an alien impregnated by Elvis. After an exchange of money it landed in the hands of the alumnus, who donated it to a group of scientists and professors at the school. They formed an association to study it.”

  “To which you belong.”

  “I joined later. They recruited me.” Sandra shrugged. “They thought I was a good match for the job. I once wrote a paper about weird science. My professors castigated me, told me I had too much imagination. But the paper got me noticed, at least by people who also have some imagination.”

  “And you're smart. But why a neuroscientist?”

  “Because we think the artifact might be a helmet. I mean, we did until you managed to crawl inside.”

  “A helmet?” Giles paused, lost in thought. “A helmet...”

  “And the magnetic fields it generates on the inside are its way of communicating with the wearer. If their brain cells use electrical signals like creatures on Earth, then a magnetic interface makes a lot of sense. That's what I'm studying.”

  “Privately funded by the association.”

  Sandra smiled. “We try to be private. It's hard to hide a magnetic field. The underground room is shielded and the internal fields the artifact generates aren't too strong, but sometimes it also emits external magnetic pulses of gigantic magnitude. We don't know what the external magnetic pulses are supposed to do. To us they're a nuisance that gives us away.”

  “Didn't matter about the shields once I was on to you, and your technicians knew it. You can't hide a magnetic source from another magnet, even if you redirect the fields with a shield. There's no such thing as a magnetic insulator. My electromagnet was attracted to your shield, just the same as it would have picked up on the magnet inside if there'd been no shield.”

  “So now you know about us. And thanks to you, now we know it might not be a helmet. It might be a craft.”

  The door opened and Handen walked in. He took a sip from a cup of coffee. Apparently he'd been listening in. “Some of us had already hypothesized that very thing.”

  Giles said, “I could have guessed just from the maps inside.”

  “We never saw them before,” said Sandra. “We examined the interior with fiber optics many times, but we didn't see anything. The artifact is so small, and we never even knew it closed up like that, because...”

  “Because no one could come even close to fitting inside. Until me, that is. It appears to become activated only when there is a warm body fully inside. I didn't see any hatch either, until it morphed into place after I got all the way in.”

  Handen grinned. “If you hadn't gone inside, I would have suggested it.”

  Sandra gave him a hard look. “We didn't know it was safe—”

  “I figured it was safe enough,” said Handen. “And I knew you wouldn't be able to resist, Mr. Bailey.”

  “It moves,” said Giles decisively. “But I've got no idea what propels it. How high did you say it levitated when I was inside?”

  “A few feet. It went up almost instantaneously.”

  “The operators may have electrical brain impulses resembling our own, but they must be able to withstand acceleration better than we can. That thing has a lot of power.”

  * * * *

  Outside, the night had grown chillier. Giles noticed someone had taken his scooter.

  “They'll drop it off at your apartment,” said Sandra. She ushered him a short distance down the road to an unlit house, where a few cars were parked.

  “Giles,” she whispered, looking around. “Before Professor Handen joins us—” She stopped when she heard footsteps.

  “We'll take my car,” said Handen. He indicated a Mercedes.

  Giles wobbled on his damaged prosthetics, but managed to stay upright. Sandra opened the door to the back and told Giles to get in.

  “No,” said Handen. “He rides up front. You ride in the rear.”

  After they piled in, Handen turned on an interior light and the heater, but didn't start the engine. Gravely he looked at Giles. “I'm going to repeat my scholarship offer. One last time.”

  “I've been thinking,” said Giles. “Maybe I ought to earn a degree, if it'll let me study things like that artifact. It's the coolest thing I've ever seen.”

  Handen smiled, turned off the interior light, and started the engine. “I'm delighted to hear it.”

  “But I'm going to tell everyone about it,” said Giles.

  From the back seat Sandra groaned.

  “Stubborn,” said Handen, as he put the car in gear and drove onto the road. “Very stubborn, Mr. Bailey. I'd hate to lose you.”

  “Lose me?”

  “Giles,” said Sandra, “please—just join us, and everything will be all right.”

  Giles looked at Handen's silhouette. “Otherwise, I get arrested for being some kind of kooky terrorist. Is that right, professor? And nobody will believe me about the artifact. After all, I have no proof. And that lab ... it's going to disappear soon, isn't it? You're in the process of moving. That's why the equipment racks are empty.”

  Handen nodded. “We've built a better lab. Safer and more secure.”

  “More secure from prying eyes,” said Giles. “Such as your competitors.”

  “Listen, Giles,” said Sandra. “Think about it. Why should we alarm people with a mysterious artifact? We're studying this thing, and when the time is right and we know more about what it is, we'll go public.”

  Giles frowned. “That's the party line, I take it. Sure, you'll go public. When the time is right, and when the university's scientists understand it enough to file a patent on it. But you seem to be willing to play their game, Sandra. I guess maybe it's not such a high price to pay. You get to do scientific research on one of the most exciting objects anyone's ever found, and to you, and other scientists, I suppose, that's worth the sacrifices you have to make to the bean counters. Except that you've got no right to keep this to yourselves. It's not your property.”

  “Oh, but it is,” said Handen. “Legally so, bought and paid for.”

  “Intellectually, it's not yours to keep to yourselves.”

  Handen smiled. “The law isn't very intellectual, Mr. Bailey.”

  From the back seat came Sandra's pained voice. “Okay, Giles, so maybe I've made too many compromises. But don't you see?

  Eventually this knowledge will be shared.”

  “Will it? Or will they just keep on filing patents? How about it, Professor Handen?”

  “Depends on what we find.”

  They approached the apartment complex where Giles lived. Giles hadn't realized how much time had passed while he'd been underground—the eastern sky was already yellowing. He said, “I seem to recall someone telling me that unjust laws shouldn't be followed. What about it, Sandra? Besides, if the association believed they were legally in the clear, why do they hide it? They probably realize they'd be forced to let other scientists study it and somebody else might figure out how it works first. There go the patents. And all the money.”

  “Don't be like this, Giles. Don't make them ruin you. They've got a lot of p
ower. You can't fight them and win.”

  “On the contrary,” said Giles. “I've already won.”

  Handen snorted. “You've got to love this guy! So much confidence.” He pulled the Mercedes into the parking lot and stopped. “Last chance, Mr. Bailey. Tomorrow—today, rather—it's lights out for you, unless I get your signature on a few private documents I've had our legal team prepare.”

  “I'm going to college, Dr. Handen, but not on your terms.”

  “Then you're not going anywhere, Mr. Bailey. Except possibly to jail, after I talk to the police—I'll find something interesting to tell them, and make the charges stick if I want. Regardless, your employment options will be quite limited. And that's a shame. I really mean that.”

  Sandra began to sob. “I won't be a part of this. I can't, professor. Let's just let him talk. No one will believe him—”

  “No.”

  “We'll start even more rumors—”

  “We've started too many rumors as it is,” said Handen. “People are getting suspicious. Other universities are asking questions. No, Sandra. Mr. Bailey has made his bed and now he has to lie in it.”

  “I won't let you.” Sandra's voice wavered. “I won't ... I'll back him up.”

  Handen turned around. “So we'll have to ruin your reputation too. That's just another loss we'll have to accept. And frankly, Dr. Plindolie, it's a smaller loss than Mr. Bailey here.”

  “Nobody is ruining anybody,” said Giles. He opened the door. “Although you won't come out of this smelling so sweet, professor.”

  “You can't prove anything, Mr. Bailey, as you've already admitted. And your reputation is in tatters. You can't win.”

  “I told you before, I've already won.” Giles got out of the car.

  Handen's grim facade showed a tiny but noticeable crack. “What did you do?” Then, more to himself than anyone else, he said, “You couldn't have done anything. You were constantly watched. You couldn't have...”

  Giles went around to the back door. Sandra rolled down the window.

  “I guess you were right,” said Giles. “Sometimes secrets aren't so bad. It all depends. This secret wasn't right because the motivation was greed.”

  “What did you do?” asked Sandra. “Back at the lab, what did you do?”

  “I didn't do anything, except be myself. As it turns out, that was enough. Don't blame yourself, you couldn't have known. No one could have guessed it.”

  “Guessed what?”

  “That the craft could learn the brain patterns of an operator so quickly.”

  “But that's why we need you, Giles. In one night you helped us make a breakthrough!”

  “Breakthrough,” said Giles. He smiled. “Good choice of words.”

  “You activated the helmet. Or craft, or whatever. That proves you're special.”

  “No, I think it proves just the opposite. Proves I'm normal, since it treated me like it would have treated anyone else. Here I was, thinking I was different because I look different. Everybody treats me differently, you know. But I wasn't seeing the big picture. And he—or she—fixated on me.”

  Sandra gaped. “What are you talking about? You think it's alive?”

  “It might be a finely tuned artificial intelligence. Or it might be alive, in some sense I don't understand yet. If so, maybe the operator is a symbiont. Either way, I finally made a friend.”

  Handen shot out of the car. “You have no friends, Mr. Bailey. You're all alone!”

  “Except for me,” said Sandra.

  “I'm not as alone as you think,” said Giles. “And I bet I know what the artifact's external magnetic field is for.”

  “What are you talking about?” sputtered Handen.

  “Brain rhythms—the oscillations in brain activity by which we process information. I've picked up quite a bit of neuroscience in my time at the research center.”

  “What are you...?” A look of comprehension settled on Handen's face. His cheeks began to sag.

  Sandra got out of the car. “What are all those people doing?”

  A crowd had started to mill around the parking lot. Some of them were waving, pointing at the sky, and talking on their cell phones.

  Giles said, “My hypothesis is that it locks onto brain rhythms, once it's imprinted on the operator's activity pattern. It probably produces its own pattern, matching it to the operator and creating a sort of resonant circuit. It must be exquisitely tuned. With the resonance amplification and its powerful external fields, it can track the operator's pattern wherever he goes. Like my tool cart, only with a much more complex circuit that can identify an individual in a noisy environment.”

  The artifact hovered about forty feet above Giles's head. Bits of soil stuck to it and a few scratches ran along the sides, evidence of having recently burrowed through a bunker and the ground above it. Sirens could be heard from the distance.

  Giles walked into the gathering crowd.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Kyle Kirkland

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: SHOTGUN SEAT

  by Paul Carlson

  * * * *

  Illustration by Mark Evans

  * * * *

  The most irresistible revolutions can be those that sneak up on you a little at a time....

  * * * *

  The phone rang at three-fifteen am. I looked at the clock, then the phone. Remembered why I felt so worn out. That cheered me up enough to grab the handset.

  “Hello?” My bleary eyes couldn't make out the caller ID.

  “Hey, Claude, it's Doug.”

  “Doug?”

  My brain finally kicked into gear. Dispatcher Doug Gonzalez worked the graveyard shift at Argus Trucking. He always went home two hours before I got in, so I rarely saw him.

  “Claude, my man, I called all the guys on the list. You know how it is.”

  I knew. Company procedure, with a specified order of phone contacts. A lot of truckers are party-hearty types when they're off duty, and it'd take an earthquake to wake them up. Doug knows it and I know it. Even so, it had been six months since he called me at night.

  “So, Doug, wuzzup? Burnin’ hot load?”

  “Talk about hot. Some outfit called Sylvantronics took out insurance for seven million bucks! Got to deliver their goods by three this afternoon. Tell me you can handle it, buddy.”

  “I'd never let you down, amigo.” Already I was reaching for my company shirt. “No traffic at this hour, so I'll see you in a few.”

  I could grab something to eat later, before or after making the pickup, depending. The suits at HQ would be ecstatic. The company gets to keep a share of those insurance premiums, but it'd be up to me to make sure nothing bad happened along the way.

  I was almost out the door when Laurie woke up. “Doug called?” To my nod she added, “Don't work too hard.”

  After forty-three years of marriage, she knows me better than I do. I kissed her on the forehead. “Might get some overtime out of it.”

  Zoomed my old Camaro into the company lot with five minutes to spare. I love the cool night air, which is all too rare in the middle of a Southwestern desert summer. Inside the dispatch office, Doug had the paperwork ready. There was an unfamiliar bicycle in the corner.

  I scanned it with a practiced eye. Twenty-nine miles to make the pickup, in a high-tech area, then two hundred thirty to the drop-off, way out in the desert. I'd heard of Sylvantronics and their robots, but didn't know they had a facility in the middle of nowhere. A promising development, robots, but far too expensive for my household.

  “The trucking business never looked better,” said Doug, with a sly grin I couldn't quite figure out. “Have yourself a fine drive.”

  Energy conservation always wars with safety considerations, and that year the company yard was rather dark at night. I could find my rig blindfolded, so I figured, what's to worry about?

  Someone was standing by the truck. I'd been mugged a few years earlier, so I hesi
tated. Then, recalling Doug's grin, I kept walking.

  A moment later I remembered: I was scheduled to have a brand-new trainee that day. But Lou wasn't coming in until seven am, almost four hours later.

  “Mr. Dremmel?” came a soft voice. “Mr. Gonzales said I could meet you out here, by your truck.”

  “That's me.” Was this Lou, after all?

  “Hang on a sec.” I unlocked the driver's side door, so the cab light cast its dim rays on the scene. There stood a young Asian woman, dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap. She wore a small backpack.

  Time for some fast mental footwork. “You're, umm, Ms. Lu?”

  She offered a hand. “Lu Ai-Ling. Your boss said to come in today for evaluation and training, so here I am.”

  We shook on it. Her hand was small and without calluses, but her grip was firm.

  “Now?” I mumbled. “At...?” I had to force myself not to stare.

  She laughed, sounding almost as nervous as I felt. “I know this must be unusual, but your office lady, Beryl, gave me a link to the company system. When Mr. Gonzales logged in your response at three-fifteen, my home computer woke me up.” She hooked a thumb over a slender shoulder. “I live about a mile from here.”

  “This outfit could use more dedication like that.” Sounded dumb, but I really did mean it. “No wonder Doug was grinning.” I climbed into the cab and opened the passenger side door. “Possibly this is his idea of a joke.”

  The light illuminated Ai-Ling as she climbed into the shotgun seat. I almost did a double take, but only my eyes moved. She was gorgeous. I'm not too good at judging ages, but she couldn't have been out of high school more than five years.

  Hey, I can be as politically correct as the best of ‘em. Yes, there are women truckers; employees and owner-operators both. Most travel with partners, and a few work on their own. Trucking is murder on your hands, and requires long and unpredictable workdays. Not conductive to a healthy lifestyle, so maybe that's why it's mostly guys. I'd have bet a week's pay there wouldn't be many truckers like Lu Ai-Ling on the road that day.

  Curious, she reached up and unhooked my CB mike. “Use this a lot, good buddy?”