"Not impossible," she said.
"Nor this impossible." He netted an image: a charred metal structure, much taller than a Hunter, its dominant feature a long central cavity. A twisted ruin from Banak's workshop. Ground zero of that explosion. "Except for the isotopic analysis. Metal origin on K'vith."
"A moment, Pimal." While I think.
Human organized their prehistory around metal tools: the Bronze Age, the Iron Age. K'vith, though, was almost without metal. The earliest Hunter eras marked stages in the development of ceramics. What very little metal a Hunter ship carried was in trace amounts within electronic devices.
Nor were only the humans so fortunate. She had been a cadet, little more than a child, but she remembered her first glimpses of Victorious. What a shock it had been. Metal walls. Metal shelves. The Centaurs had even squandered metal on mere table utensils!
That cadet could never have foreseen commanding a metal army—but on Caliban, such a force grew larger by the day. A fleet sheltered there, too, on which to carry her robot warriors. Thanks to Pimal's diligence. Thanks to her own scheming.
None of that could explain the twisted metal sculpture.
To have possessed so much metal back home meant wealth and stature. Someone among the clan should have recognized Banak's mentor. And yet, no one admitted to.
"A longstanding conspiracy," she concluded. "No other option credible. Agents of another clan?" From among the accursed Great Clans that had driven Arblen Ems to exile among the comets?
"Perhaps," Pimal allowed.
Suppose that metallurgist was another clan's agent. Suppose he recruited and trained Banak. How better, light-years from home, to serve his clan than by spying on Arblen Ems? How better to misuse Arblen Ems than through sabotage and by leaking its secrets to the UPIA?
Pieces of the puzzle still eluded her. "And Carl Rowland's near-death?"
"An accident, perhaps."
Like the "insurance" woman? In the wrong place at the wrong time, Rowland had called it. Glithwah had not believed him, either.
"No accident," Glithwah decided. Banak, knowing he had been caught, must have tried to clean up after himself. Likely he had summoned Rowland to a trap.
Pimal peered into distance, into the murky depths of the abandoned mine shaft. "No accident," he agreed.
With Earth looming in the bridge view port, Carl was as ignorant as when he'd first set foot aboard Admiral. About Corinne's location and safety. About whether Grace DiMeara was an Intervener operative. About the goals of the Interveners. About where the Interveners came from, and whether Discovery —with Robyn's intercession—might carry a human mission there. And about, in contrast, an almost trivial matter: whatever plans the UPIA had for him.
Just let him get to Earth, and all that might change.
Any Sec-Gen of the ICU was a formidable figure. Robyn Tanaka, besides, was an Augmented. With Augmented intelligence and the ICU resources she controlled, surely together they could find Corinne.
If no better option presented itself, Discovery had been Corinne's last known destination. He'd take a ship to Prometheus and backtrack. Any ICU ship would do. Or a ship he hired. Twenty years back pay ought to cover it. If need be, on a ship he stole.
"You want to sit?" Admiral's pilot said. He was a scrawny guy, on the squirrelly side, but he'd been genial enough during the long flight. Mostly they had talked hockey. Devon, the taciturn copilot and engineer, had mostly grunted. Devon had no use for sports.
Carl shrugged. "I'm fine, Brad."
"That wasn't really a question."
"Right." Carl took the jump seat behind Devon.
Between exchanges with Traffic Control, Brad asked, "So who do you like in the playoffs? The Rangers or—"
"Whoa!" Devon interrupted. "The ship's fine. It's something on the news."
Admiral was barely in range for Earth's commercial comm. Carl had yet to link in. When he reached the ground had seemed soon enough to start catching up.
"What channel?" Brad asked. "Any channel."
That sounded ominous. Carl let his implant choose. And then he froze. The breaking news involved a car bombing.
Robyn Tanaka was dead.
"Your orders, Foremost?" Pimal asked.
Because, at last, their consultation was complete.
She commanded a robot army and a war fleet in which to transport it. She commanded yet more ships, enough to evacuate everyone yearning to be free. Her UPIA watchdog was discredited and banished. Of her Great Clan opponents, their saboteur was no more than smears on a wall. Across the solar system, Discovery's outfitting would be almost complete.
The pieces were in place. The opportunity would never be better.
Her voice firm, her bearing proud, Glithwah directed, "Capture of human starship."
The earliest hints of an Intervener conspiracy emerged in "The Matthews Conundrum," in the November 2013 issue. Expanded and novelized, earlier crises of the InterstellarNet era (several first seen in Analog) are available as InterstellarNet: Origins and InterstellarNet: New Order.
* * *
Plastic Thingy
Mark Niemann-Ross9389 words
Illustrated by Josh Meehan
"Hey. Guy with the broom. Like, I need a plastic thingy."
Her noisy appearance at the front counter of Hankins Hardware is only made louder by the smell of chlorine. Doing her part to keep Portland weird, I think, as I put down the broom. She's wearing a funny sort of jacket, stretch pants, and steel-toed boots. Maybe that's odd, but what's really unique is her just standing by the counter.
Regular customers of Hankins Hardware know the store layout. They walk in, briefly acknowledge our presence, then disappear down the appropriate row. You want paint? Look in aisle one. Bolts? Located across the front of the store. Aisle five has been electrical for the past two centuries.
Newbies like her walk in and execute a "Deer in the Headlights" maneuver, freezing and scanning the store. Sometimes they carry a handful of broken parts or a plastic bag of moist pipes. Not wanting to admit they're confused, they take a right turn and head toward the paint aisle. If we're quick, we can intercept and point them in the right direction. If not, we wait until they loop around and reappear at the front of the gardening aisle.
But not this girl. No handful of parts. No wandering to the paint aisle. She just stands there, expecting us to get her a plastic thingy. It's near closing time, I should give her the endof-day brush off.
Every employee at Hankins has seen the obnoxiously cheery training video, but it's unnecessary. We like working here. We like the challenge of a customer puzzle. In my three years at Hankins, I've diagnosed the remains of hundreds of do-it-yourself projects. I can usually send customers home with enough fittings and washers to have a fighting chance at reassembly, possibly even improved functionality. Nothing's more uplifting than a weekend-warrior returning to the store with parts they didn't need and a story about the broken what-sit that now works perfectly, closing the narrative with you-guys-are-the-greatest-and-I'll-beback as they merrily head out the door into their sunnier future. I've got time to help her. That's one problem with my life—I've got plenty of time.
"I can help," I say. "What are you working on?"
"I'm not sure, you know?" she asks. In the normal customer scenario on the training video, this is where she pulls out the broken thing needing parts—or at least a photo. But she has apparently not seen the training video. "We're pretty sure it has to be plastic. But you're going to have to help us figure that out."
I'm beginning to think this could be one of those challenging customer situations from the training video. Dave, the only other employee in the store, sniggers. I've pulled the short straw on this customer encounter and he's going to retell and enhance this at the next employee party. Maybe she's one of the mystery shoppers, intent on tormenting me until I volunteer to set my hair on fire, at which point she will hand out a Mystery Shopper medal plus a five hundred dollar bonus. Oh yes, I thin
k. A bonus could mean a new game console in my future.
Plus, a Mystery Shopper medal would offset Dave's self-righteous lecture I've been hearing for most of the past year. Dave tells me I'm pathetic, I need a girlfriend, and I should develop some hobbies not involving computers. I agree about the need for a girlfriend, but the whole "being social" thing is daunting. Social means going out at night. With people. And talking. To them. About something. Erk.
I ask, "Are you working on water or electricity?"
She thinks for a minute. Furrowed brow and pursed lips. Cute.
"Stuff flows through it, like a pipe. Dig?" she asks. "But electricity or water? Who knows. Better give me something that can handle either."
Game on, mystery shopper. I smile.
"Okay—do you need some PVC conduit?" I volley back. "It's waterproof if you seal it correctly."
"Could be. Can you show me some?" She bounces along behind me towards the electricity aisle. Funny kind of walk—sort of tip-toe and high energy. Perky, I think. She looks at the elbow joint I'm holding up.
"Probably the right idea, but that won't work, you know," she says. "Like, wrong color. Needs to be red."
"Well, we have red paint. But let's focus on what it needs to do. Is plastic important? Can it be metal? Or something else?"
"I'm not, like, good with the technical stuff—I just do language." She reaches in her coat pocket, but comes out with a cell phone instead of the plastic thingy I hoped for. "Let me ask."
She rubs her finger over the display like she's playing Tetris. Maybe she's using some sort of new dialing app. She bites her lip for a minute, then forcefully pokes at the phone.
"His Greatness says I'm stupid," she says, looking up. "He thinks we're all stupid and inferior. According to him, the Universe is just too complex for anyone like us to understand. Better show me some other stuff. Something red, you know?"
Garden hose? I'm thinking. Red electrical tape? Dave is still smirking behind the cash register as we pass en route to aisle two.
"Wait!" she announces. She digs through the snack shelf and comes out with a handful of our finest bubblegum. A brief look, then pulls the entire box off the shelf. "I'll take it. How much?"
My turn to laugh at Dave. We sell gum by the piece, not the box. Nobody's ever bought a whole box. Dave's going to have to ring it up like a handful of loose bolts and washers. He reluctantly starts counting. One. Two. Three. Four...
"Um, Miss," I say. "We don't all need to stand around while Dave figures this out. We have some red things back here." I point to home and garden. She looks at me, grabs one piece of gum, unwraps it and places it in her mouth like a twenty-dollar chocolate truffle. Closes her eyes and chews. Awkward silence from Dave and me.
"Wow," she says. "There is nothing like home-grown. Okay broom-guy. Show me red." She follows me down the home and garden aisle.
We dig around in the bins, but nothing's working. Red things don't seem to be appropriate electrical conductors, or they aren't the right size, or who knows what. I'm sure to get the Mystery Shopper award any minute. I have a flash of brilliance.
"Maybe there's something in the catalog," I walk to the front counter with her in tow. Dave is finishing the count as I reach behind the register for the overly large catalog. "How about we go across the street to Jerry's bar, I'll buy us a pair of beers and we can see if there's anything listed that might work."
She lights up. "Beer?" she asks, executing a little bounce. "Dyn-O-Mite! I love beer! Mr. I'min-a-big-purple-hurry can cool his interstellar jets. Let's go."
Dave is staring at me in astonishment. Granted, I am stretching far outside my introverted norm with the beer ploy, but I'm going all-out for the medal. I am going to provide exceptional customer experience.
"Um, the gum is seven dollars, thirty-five cents," Dave says.
"Far out!" she responds.
Far out? I wonder. An unexpected dialect of Portland retrospeak.
She pulls out a wad of bills, drops them in front of Dave and pops her gum. Dave paws through the money, revealing a mix of foreign currency, older U.S. dollars, and some plastic and metallic play money. He makes change for an old twenty and hands her a receipt. She scoops up the gum and assorted bills as we head out the door.
Personally, I can't stop smiling. I'm about to be awarded the Mystery Shopper medal, score five hundred dollars and share beers with a cute girl. Dave will need to stop with the being-social-and-girlfriend lecture. And the employee party story is absolutely going to be in my favor. I'm stiffing Dave by leaving him to close up shop, but this is just too good. We cross Hawthorne Boulevard and enter Jerry's Bar.
"By the way," I say. "My name is Roger. Roger Cadden. C-A-D-D-E-N" Spell it correctly on the medal, please.
"Sara," she replies. She doesn't look up from the menu. "Sara Ferrous. Do they really serve tater tots? I haven't had those since Wisconsin."
"Your names rhyme," I say.
She looks up and pops her gum. "Do they?" she asks. Sarcastically.
I am so smooth, I think. Not!
The waiter swings by for drink orders.
"I'm splurging. I'll have a Michelob," Sara tells the waiter. "And, like, a plate of Tater Tots."
"Sorry," our waiter says. "We only pour microbrews on tap. Nothing in bottles."
"Okay. Then I'll have a Michelob on tap."
Our waiter smiles. I wonder if he's thinking Sara is a mystery guest for the restaurant. This bar hasn't poured a glass of Michelob for at least twenty years. I ponder telling the waiter she's my mystery shopper, but I don't want to ruin the surprise when Sara hands me the award and check. In any case, he doesn't seem to mind flirting with Sara. Who wouldn't?
"We're fresh out," he replies. "How about our Little Bagdad Lager? Pretty much the same thing." He turns to me. "And for you?"
"I'll have a glass of porter," I reply. I'd love a full pint, but want to keep my wits about me. "And a basket of Cajun Tater Tots."
The waiter heads off and I pull out the store catalog. Thick, ungainly book, lots of pictures and numbers. Most of the pages are black and white, but a few are in color. This could take a long time if we proceed page-by-page, but I'm committed.
"So let's see what we can find that looks familiar," I start. "How about some of these sump-pump parts? They work on electricity and water."
The waiter returns with beer, distracting Sara from my attempted exemplary customer service. She sips, closes her eyes and smiles. But only for a minute, after which she consumes two massive gulps and belches like a college sorority sister. The tater tots show up in time to sop up the beer.
"Mibht be," she mumbles, spewing small bits of tater tots in my beer. Her pronunciation is the slightest bit slurred and has a new Midwestern accent. "Let's ask his great bulbous self! He's the one who wants this stuff anyways."
Sara drinks a third of the pint of Little Bagdad Lager and pulls out her cell phone. She plays Tetris for a minute while the display blinks and wiggles. I'm not sure it's a good idea for her to be drunk-dialing the award committee, but she has a head of steam and proceeds without asking for my advice.
"Ficus wants to see," Sara says. "Hold up the catalog."
I'm guessing Ficus is the fictional mystery parent/boyfriend/husband trying to fix the mystery whatever. I hold up the catalog and look at Sara's ring finger. No ring, so it must be boyfriend or parent. Interesting.
Sara turns the phone to the catalog. I'm expecting a picture of Ficus, but instead there are lines and colors moving up, down, left, and right. The patterns move in from the center and fade to the outside, like a Star Wars jump through hyperspace. Sara takes a quick glance at the face of the cell phone.
"Like, he wants to know if you have anything red."
"Red? For plumbing, or electrical?"
"Hang on." She finger-paints, then ponders. "He says 'it depends.' Or he might be saying 'it changes.' It's, like, hard to know what he means for sure, you know? He wants you to turn the page."
&nbs
p; I obey, furrowing my brows at the returning waiter.
"I'll have another beer," Sara chirps. "Next page," she tells me.
I spend ten minutes displaying consecutive pages of the catalog to the cell phone. I show plastic thingies for plumbing. For electrical. For hanging on walls and for gluing. I'm beginning to feel stupid and Sara is beginning to be drunk. She turns the phone back to read it, then gives it two strokes and a poke.
"Putz!" Sara exclaims louder than necessary. "I came all the way down here, and now he says this is taking too long. He wants you to come take a look. Fine, let's book." She grabs her gum and tries to stand up. The beers have gone to her head.
Warning klaxons go off inside my head. Following a mystery shopper to her home is probably not approved as part of excellent customer service. I consider the possibility that Sara is a psychopath, she is luring me to her basement and I am going to wind up hanging from a meat hook. Hopefully we're heading to a big corporate surprise party where I'm the guest of honor and the CEO is going to hand me the award.
I pay the tab and we head for the door. Sara staggers, catching herself on my arm. Maybe dating Sara is part of the award package? One can hope.
At the door, Sara pauses, then carefully pulls all the band posters down from the window. "These things are awesome!" she whispers and rolls them into a tube. "Loooo-king Goooood!"
We turn off Hawthorne Boulevard and walk about a block. I assume we are headed for a meeting room in one of the apartment buildings, but she stops at a large shipping container parked in the street. Pressing her palm to a panel opens a sliding door. Funny place for an award ceremony.
"Watch your step," she laughs as she trips over the threshold. I follow her into a room filled with electronic displays, two chairs with seat belts, and a large open area in the back. Sara places the band posters and gum in a locker, then incorrectly estimates the distance to one of the seats and crashes into it. She drunkenly buckles up.
Analog Science Fiction and Fact - September 2014 Page 6
