Symbios

by Jack Kilborn

  It was stifling in the small building. The President immediately felt claustrophobic in the dark, hot room, and had to force himself to stand still while Stevens sought the lantern.

  Light soon bathed the capsule setting before them.

  It was better than twelve feet long, pale gray, with carvings on the outside that resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics to Roosevelt. It rested on the ground, almost chest high, and appeared to be made of stone. But it felt like nothing the President had ever touched.

  Running his hand across the top, Roosevelt was surprised by how smooth, almost slippery, the surface was. Like an oily silk, but it left no residue on the fingers.

  “How does it open?” he asked.

  Stevens handed his lamp to Roosevelt and picked up a pry bar hanging near the door. With a simple twist in a near invisible seam the entire top half of the capsule flipped open on hidden hinges like a coffin.

  “My dear God in heaven,” the President gasped.

  The thing in the capsule was horrible beyond description.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Stevens whispered.

  “And it is… alive?”

  “From what I can judge, yes. Dormant, but alive.”

  Roosevelt’s hand ventured to touch it, but the man who charged up San Juan Hill wasn’t able to summon the nerve.

  “Even being prepared for it, I still cannot believe what I am seeing.”

  The President fought his repulsion, the cloying heat adding to the surreality of the moment. Roosevelt detected a rank, animal smell, almost like a musk, coming out of the capsule.

  The smell of the… thing.

  He looked it over, head to foot, unable to turn away. The image seared itself into his mind, to become the source of frequent nightmares for the remainder of his life.

  “What is the course of action, Mr. President? Destroy it?”

  “How can we? Is it our right? Think what this means.”

  “But what if it awakens? Could we contain it?”

  “Why not? This is the twentieth century. We are making technological advancements on a daily basis.”

  “Do you believe the public is ready for this?”

  “No,” Roosevelt said without hesitation. “I do not believe the United States, or the world, even in this enlightened age, would be able to handle a discovery of this magnitude.”

  Stevens frowned. He didn’t believe any good could come of this, but as usual he had trouble going toe to toe with Roosevelt.

  “Speak your mind, John. You have been living with this for a month.”

  “I believe we should burn it, Mr. President. Then sink its ashes in the sea.”

  “You are afraid.”

  “Even a man of your standing, sir, must admit to some fear gazing at this thing.”

  “Yes, I can admit to being afraid. But that is because we fear what we do not understand. Perhaps with understanding…”

  Roosevelt made his decision. This would be taken back to the States. He’d lock it away someplace secret and recruit the top minds in the world to study it. He instructed Stevens to have a crate built and for it to be packed and boarded onto the Louisiana— no, better make it the Tennessee. If Mother found out what was aboard her ship she might die of fright.

  “But if the world sees this…”

  “The world will not. Pay the workers off, and have them work at night without witnesses. I expect the crate to be locked as this shed was, and the key given to me. Worry no more about this John, it is no longer your concern.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Roosevelt clenched his teeth and forced himself to stick out his hand to touch the thing; a brief touch that he would always recall as the most frightening experience of his life. He covered the fear with a bully Roosevelt harrumph and a false pout of bravado.

  “Now let us lock this up and you can show me that canal you are building.”

  Stevens closed the lid, but the smell remained.

  The twenty-sixth President of the United States walked out of the shed and into the rain. His hands were shaking. He made two fists and shoved them into his pockets. The rain speckled his glasses, but he made no effort to clean them off. His whole effort was focused on a silent prayer to God that he’d made the right decision.

  Chapter 1

  Chicago 2064

  Exactly nine hours and eleven minutes before I was charged with the complete destruction of Boise, Idaho, and the murders of the four hundred sixty-two thousand and nine people living there, I was mowing my roof and collecting the clippings like a good little taxpayer when I noticed a raccoon hiding in one of my hemp plants.

  Raccoons were on the endangered list. That meant if one took up residence on my city-mandated green roof, I wasn’t allowed to disturb its habitat. No mowing. No trimming. No planting. No gardening at all. Which meant instead of paying my weekly biodiesel tax in foliage, I’d have to pay in credits.

  I had no desire to part with my hard-earned credits. Or my wife’s hard-earned credits. That was why I cut off the lawn mower and pulled my regulation Glock 1MV Taser from my side holster and aimed it right between the animal’s adorable masked eyes.

  I’m not a monster, even though the world news would make me out to be one later that day. The Taser was meant for human-sized opponents, but I didn’t think it would kill the little guy. It would just stun him long enough for me to toss him on my neighbor Chomsky’s roof only six feet over. Worst that would happen was a little singed fur. Probably.

  The raccoon stared back at me without fear, like he knew he was protected by the government. The fine for harming an endangered species was considerably more money than the biofuel tax. But even if the creature didn’t survive, I could still throw it on Chomsky’s property. Then I could arrest Chomsky for its murder. Chomsky was a dick.

  Still, I hesitated. The raccoon grew bored with our staring contest, turning his attention back to the hemp bush. He began to snack on a large bud. I holstered the Taser. Maybe if I left him alone, he’d OD.

  “Sergeant Avalon?”

  I turned. Neil Winston was standing on my roof, between a large hydrangea and some bamboo stalks. He was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. Though it was a cool sixty-five degrees, he had sweat on his forehead, and I resented what that implied.

  “What do you want, Neil?” My voice was hard, clipped, pure cop. He took a step back, but didn’t leave.

  “Victoria, uh, she said you might be able to help me.”

  I didn’t like what my wife did for a living, and didn’t like her clients. Neil was a skinny man with a big Adam’s apple, a few years older than me, a banker or an accountant or something uptight like that. Victoria respected me enough to not talk about her work, but I did routine background checks on everyone she associated with. Call me Mr. Concerned Husband.

  “Help you with what, Neil?” I could feel my shoulder muscles bunch up.

  “You sound, um, a little angry. Victoria said you weren’t a jealous man, that I could come to you without any fear whatsoever. I have to be honest. I’m feeling a little bit of fear.”

  I thought about the Taser, and allowed myself a small grin imagining what he’d look like flopping around on the ground, doing the million-volt boogie. He’d look pretty damn good, I decided.

  “That, uh, scowl makes you seem even scarier.” Neil took another step backward. “Sergeant Avalon, there’s no competition here. I’m a thin, homely, lonely little guy who has to pay a social worker for sex.”

  I hated the term social worker. It sounded like Victoria was helping poor people with their family problems instead of being a state-licensed prostitute. A state-licensed prostitute who made more than double my peace officer’s salary.

  “But you,” Neil blabbered on, “you’re a hero, you’re handsome, with large, intimidating muscles, you own a beautiful home, and you married a goddess. There’s no need to be jealous of me, Sergeant Avalon.”

  My wife bought the home with her savings, but the rest of what he said was
close enough to true. It looked like Neil’s knees were knocking together beneath his robe, so I eased off the throttle a bit.

  “What is it you want, Neil?”

  “You’re a timecaster, right? I mean, well, of course you are. But do you still do it? Use the machine?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “All the time.”

  I hadn’t turned on the TEV in about eight months. No need to, with crime practically nonexistent these days. All I used it for was show-and-tell at grammar schools.

  “Well, I, uh, wondered if you couldn’t maybe help me with something.”

  I let my frown deepen. What errand did Victoria expect me to run for this poor shlub? Find his missing kitty? Discover who was peeing on his doorstep?

  “Help you with what, Neil?”

  “It’s my aunt, Zelda Peterson.” Neil’s voice got lower. “I think someone murdered her.”

  I sighed. Besides being thin, homely, and lonely enough to pay for sex, Neil was obviously fuct in the head. There hadn’t been a murder in the taxpaying sections of Illinois for more than seven years. There hadn’t been a violent crime in more than five. The closest thing to a crime spree these days was a parking ticket followed by pinching an apple from a street vendor.

  But since this was one of my wife’s clients, I responded with restraint.

  “You’re fuct in the head,” I told him.

  Believe me. That was restraint.

  “Look, Sergeant Avalon, I know it sounds crazy. I know nobody gets murdered anymore. Heck, there hasn’t even been a fatal car accident in as long as I can remember. That’s because of peace officers like you. Because of timecasters. Since everyone knows there are no more secrets, everyone is more careful. I was serious when I said you’re a hero, Sergeant Avalon.”

  If he laid it on any thicker, I could insulate my house with it. And, truth told, he appeared pretty shaken up. Normally, anyone who spent time with Victoria had a happy, satisfied look. A look I normally wore, except on the days she worked.

  “Why do you think she was murdered, Neil?”

  His eyes got glassy. “Aunt Zelda is the kindest person on the planet. Everyone loves her. I visit her once a day. We have coffee after work. Yesterday, I went to her apartment, and she wasn’t there. I let myself in and waited around for her to come home. She didn’t.”

  “Did you call her headphone?”

  “Aunt Zelda never got the implant. But she has a regular cell. I called it, and it was in her purse, in the bedroom.”

  “How old is your aunt, Neil?”

  “She’s in her seventies. But her mind is perfect, Sergeant Avalon. She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me. She calls me when she goes to the corner download kiosk to buy a magazine, and that’s just a block away. Plus there was blood.”

  “Blood?” I was becoming curious, a hazard of my profession. I kept it from showing.

  “A few drops. On the sink.”

  “Any pets? Cat? Dog?”

  “No pets.”

  “You’re sure it was blood?”

  He began to shift his weight from one leg to the other. “It was definitely blood.”

  “If you’re so concerned, why not go to the Peace Department?”

  “I did. I spoke to another sergeant there, a man named Teague. He laughed me out of his office.”

  No surprise. Teague was a dick.

  “Was your aunt chipped?”

  “Of course. But she’s not showing up on GPS. Teague said maybe the chip shorted out. But they’re bioregulated, aren’t they? They run organically. They don’t short out. They just cease some of their functions when the host dies.”

  I thought about it. Having a chipped person not show up on GPS made this whole thing even more intriguing. A few years ago, a tanker sank, and they were able to find the bodies under four hundred feet of water. Chips eliminated the need for paper money, identification, and keys. Each one was unique to a person’s DNA, and operated as credit and keys only while the owner was alive. After death, they could no longer open doors or buy things. But GPS still worked.

  The only way to short out a chip was to destroy it on purpose, like the dissys do.

  “Please, Sergeant. I’m willing to pay for your time. Name a price, I’ll pay it. Any price. Ever since yesterday, I’ve been worried sick. I can’t think about anything else.”

  Worried sick, but he still managed to enjoy an afternoon with my wife. I glanced back at the raccoon still happily nibbling away. That was a vicious circle going on there. Eat marijuana, get the munchies, so you eat more marijuana. Maybe I’d be lucky and he’d pop.

  “Two months’ worth of foliage for my property size,” I said. “That’s my price.”

  He frowned. “I live in a condo, Sergeant Avalon. I don’t have a roof, just a little garden on my porch, and some kudzu in the bathroom. I could pay you the equivalent amount in credits.”

  “No deal. If you can’t get the foliage, you can come up here once a week and work my roof.”

  A fair compromise. He came here to get a little trim. Why not give a little trim back?

  “Done. When can we do this?”

  “Now is good.”

  “Now. Excellent. I’ll go get dressed.” He turned to leave, then turned right back around. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  I shrugged. “Meet you out in front in ten.”

  Neil disappeared. I gave my little pot thief one more glance. “If you feel like dropping dead, please go next door to Chomsky’s roof.”

  The raccoon’s mouth was full, his cheeks puffed out with weed, but he probably wouldn’t have replied anyway.

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  Copyright © 2009 Joe Konrath

  Cover art copyright © Carl Graves

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.

  Edition: February 2011