Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Sure, the robot had all sorts of mysterious parts, but nothing that seemed large enough to supply the energy to move something so massive . . . unless one mysterious part contained a fusion reactor. That seemed more than unlikely, but surely, the robot was intended to move.

  Come to think of it, where was the thing's CPU?

  The sheet began fading in my mind, details growing fuzzy, so I regarded the dimming image as a whole. That's when I caught on and mouthed the classic Oh My God. Could've sworn I didn't twitch or wiggle, but Sunny turned toward me and said, “What's so funny?”

  Couldn't help it, I cracked up. I tried to tell her why but couldn't get the words out. After a minute, Sunny began laughing because I was laughing so hard.

  “Shhh,” she warned me between giggles. “You'll wake the boy.”

  Tears still leaking from my eyes, I finally got some control. “I told you about trying to make that robot work.” The thought almost set me off again.

  “Uh-huh. You and that Trader.”

  I was merely grinning now. “Exactly. Your big-brained husband and an even bigger-brained Tsf spent pretty much the day on it. Kept putting it together and taking it apart. Followed the pictorial assembly instructions more than carefully. We were meticulous."

  “And?”

  “We forgot something.” Another belly laugh got past me. “And we weren't the first ones to make the mistake. A team of Tsf scientists overlooked the same thing.”

  “So what did everyone miss?”

  I told her and it was her turn to laugh. “That is funny,” she agreed.

  My cheeks were tired from grinning so hard. “It just didn't seem important at the time.”

  * * * *

  In the morning, the same two cops chauffeured me to work, but this time they neglected to come in with me. My receptionist loomed behind his desk as usual, but no one else seemed to be around unless you count the docked cleaning robot.

  “Good morning, L,” I said, walking up to his station.

  He extruded a wad of tissue resembling a top hat circa 1800 on a thin stalk and waved it at me. “And a tip of the morning to you, Doctor.”

  “That's not—never mind. Is Deal-of-ten-lifetimes still here?”

  The hat sank into nonexistence. “That is a near certainty. After you last departed, she resumed experimenting with robotics, then borrowed room six for a lengthy dose of gravity therapy. It seems she spent undue time yesterday operating under Earth conditions, and suffered some loss of bone density. The Tsf metabolism, if you aren't aware, is considerably faster than yours or even mine.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “She assured me so, but mentioned it would require some ten Earth hours and two meals before she could normalize.”

  “Good enough.” I moved closer to L and lowered my voice. “In fact, her absence may come in handy. Have you seen Tad or Gara today?”

  “Both. Is there purpose in your question?”

  “I think they were avoiding Deal yesterday, and want to know why. At one point, our favorite Vithy was impersonating my shadow.”

  “She does that well.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Have you canceled any cancellations for today?”

  “I have not commenced rescheduling.”

  “Then I'll try to see where Gara's hiding.”

  L extruded a thin limb and used it as a pointer. “Her office might be an appropriate location to begin your search.”

  Taking his galactic wisdom to heart, I headed to my PT's room and softly tapped on the door. Vithy lack eyes of any sort but come factory-equipped with a fantastically acute sense combining hearing and touch.

  After the clinic had opened, I'd asked my employers to add a physical therapist and an analytical physiologist to my staff in case any alien patient proved to have physical problems. They brought me Gara, qualified on both counts.

  “Come in, Al,” she said in the contralto voice she always adopted when we were alone. No doubt she'd known who was knocking from the sound of my footsteps. Being sightless, she didn't turn when I entered, but I felt a delicate breeze on my face, which implied she'd used her multi-band sonar to check on my facial expression, muscular tension, and blood flow.

  Gara was . . . positioned behind her acoustic DM, her tenebrous body extended into a rectangular, paper-thin diaphragm about my height and four feet wide. Her data manager was entirely external and a piece of technology that gave me goosebumps. It resembled a shallow circular tar pit suspended vertically in midair, a computer monitor as designed by Hewlett Packard Lovecraft. From the crisscrossing web of ripples in this oily pool, I knew that Gara was making sounds inaudible to humans and sensing her DM's response in air movements too subtle to disturb a gnat.

  “I'm so sorry,” she murmured, “that events recent have left you apprehensive. But I am grateful you are uninjured.”

  “Thanks.” As usual when in Gara's presence, I felt myself relaxing. She spoke by vibrating sections of herself, which allowed her to . . . heterodyne her own kind of tranquillizing entrainment into her speech. That's one reason my human patients take to her with all the enthusiasm they never show for L and Tad. Lucky, because with the paucity of alien patients that have come our way, most of Gara's work has involved traumatized humans needing physical as well as mental therapy.

  Vithy don't fit into your classic categories of animal, vegetable, mineral, or fungal. But if you had to choose one of the above, you might go for vegetable because they use photosynthesis to fulfill most of their energy requirements—only they process various sulfur compounds rather than carbon dioxide. Our atmosphere neither harms nor helps them, but their unique bodies can retain enough needed gasses to keep them fit for days at a time, and without even stinking up the place. Since any of my clinic's controllable environments can duplicate the repulsive atmosphere of your choice, and since Gara's office has plenty of south-facing windows, she can recharge at will.

  What does she look like? That's a hard one. Her body is essentially a collection of shapeable, elastic, purple nanotubes dark enough to appear black except in direct sunlight. Each tube is equivalent to one of our cells and L, who's an encyclopedia about Tsf trading partners, tells me that the Vithy evolved as a gradual collaboration between individual tubes. L also mentioned, in the faintest whisper while Gara was helping a human patient in our smaller building, that some Pokaroll scientists consider Vithy to be colony creatures rather than individuals.

  In a nutshell, they're dark, very few molecules short of being two-dimensional when lying flat, and can take almost any shape. When it comes to making noises, they've got talent, even more so than L's people. They can vibrate their bodies to produce sonic massages, ultrasound waves, or just to sing hello in six-part harmony.

  I decided to be straightforward. “Gara, why were you avoiding Deal-of-ten-lifetimes yesterday?”

  She curled into a semicircle. “My people have had much experience with Traders. We have found some to be untrustworthy rather.”

  “I don't get it. We've had a dozen Traders here since you arrived, but this is the first time you've . . . kept such a low profile.”

  “This is the time first you have been exploded nearly.”

  I could feel a developing furrow between my eyebrows despite Gara's soothing influence. “What does that have to do with Deal?”

  “A question excellent most. I am suspicious always of coincidences.”

  I shivered involuntarily. “But they do happen.”

  “Inarguably.”

  “We humans have a saying,” I pointed out. “Correlation doesn't imply causation.”

  “Nor does lack of causation negate correlation. You may wish to know that this Deal has departed now her room.”

  “You can hear her door open from here?"

  “Easily.”

  I left Gara's office more troubled than when I'd entered—a first. And when I glanced down at the floor, my shadow was darker and more distinct than it should've been.

  “Wi
th your incredible hearing,” I murmured, “why do you need to, um, shadow me?”

  The darkness at my feet rippled. “It is one thing to hear, another to act if necessary.”

  * * * *

  Gara's office and the room Deal had commandeered were in separate corridors. Tsf can hustle when they want to, but Deal must've been feeling lazy this morning; she and I reached the reception area in a dead heat, just in time for us to get a glimpse of Tad's back vanishing into the third corridor. But even without Tad, we had plenty of company.

  A tall, heavyset man in a business suit that was the opposite of off-the-rack stood a respectful distance from L's desk. A large leather briefcase dangled from his left hand. I'd never seen him before, but his two outriggers were my uniformed guardians Phillips and Braun. They didn't look joyous.

  Paying no attention to the aliens in the room, a trick tantamount to ignoring the proverbial elephant, the man turned toward me with a kind of slow pomp, his posture and the set of his face declaring a vast self-importance. “Doctor Morganson? My name is Skyler Penwarden, Jr. I am an attorney representing an association of your neighbors.” Staring at me with blue eyes obviously trying to be steely, he deigned to hold a hand out for a shake. His palm was so dry that he probably sprayed it with antiperspirant. I made a mental note to disinfect my own paw afterward. “May I DM you my business card?” he added.

  “Why not?” I subvocally gave my DM permission to add his card to the stack but to accept no other transmissions from him. “How can I help you, Mr. Penwarden?”

  He released my hand, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a ream of paper. “At the behest of my clients, I am prepared to initiate a civil suit against you. The particulars are contained in this brief, and I'd advise you to familiarize yourself with it immediately. After you do so, I would be willing to sit down with you, or with you and your attorney if you'd prefer, to discuss the possibility of settling this matter out of court.”

  Had I ever heard anyone else use the word “behest” in real life? The lawyer handed over the so-called brief, and I gave him my finest sardonic look. “I assume this is Bradley S. Pearson's doing?”

  “He is one of the principals.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen to me, Mr. Penwarden. As I keep telling Bradley, this sort of harassment doesn't work. Washington, not to mention the entire UN, can't afford to let this clinic close.”

  The man's lips insulted the entire concept of smiling. “Our litigation is not targeted at closing your clinic. Our purpose is to simply ensure that you will not profit financially from its operation. I see no reason why the authorities should object. Please study the brief, then contact my office. You have my card.”

  “You're wasting your time and mine. This is my work, and I'll keep at it even if it doesn't pay me a dime. At this point, I don't need the money.” That was almost true; with a certain degree of penny pinching, I could've retired at that minute thanks to my bloated monthly salary.

  Still, that bombshell failed to dent him. “Again, I advise you to study the brief. You will find that it is not merely your future earnings you may need to protect. I'll expect to hear from you very soon.”

  He wheeled around with the stately grace of a galleon, and I'm sure would've made an impressive exit if Deal hadn't hopped forward and wrapped the end of one of her limbs around his upper arm.

  “Hold up a sec, podner,” Deal clicked, the translation coming out in the exaggerated cowboy twang she'd abandoned yesterday.

  Penwarden made a few sincere efforts to pull away before he gave up. He stared close-range at Deal, his face now suffused with an unattractive shade of red. “Release me immediately, Trader, or suffer serious legal consequences.” I had to hand it to the man: he looked a mere 30 percent scared and 70 percent pissed. In his shoes, I would've hit 90 percent on the fear meter and rising. Of course, I happened to be one of the few humans who knew just how lethal Tsf could be.

  Deal was immune to the lawyer's glare. “I reckon you can fergit that shet. I'm what they call a dip-la-mat in these here parts and got am-munities. But I just gotta check on if I was hear'n you right. Was you figgerin’ to get yer mitts into the doc's well-earned nest egg?”

  Penwarden was one tough cookie, but the steel in his eyes was rusting fast. “That depends on how reasonable Doctor Morganson can be. I'm sure we can work something out. Let me go. Please.”

  Deal relinquished the man's arm and Penwarden immediately scooted to the clinic's exit. The cops became the second line of geese following their migrating leader. At the door, I thought the lawyer might turn and deliver some new legal threat, but he was gone before his small flock had caught up.

  “This,” I said, shaking the document in my hand, “I don't need. Are any of your people lawyers?” I asked Deal.

  “We have not evolved past an occasional necessity for arbitration, Doctor.” The sagebrush twang had gone. “But our arbitrators do not use our legal system as a bludgeon.”

  How nice for you, I thought, walking over to the reception desk. “L, would you mind tucking these papers away for now?”

  L extended a pseudo-hand, took the brief, opened a desk drawer with another temporary hand, and put the vile thing out of sight. “The myrmidons,” he complained, “continue to be rude, and that barrister . . .” he paused to give me time to admire the latest addition to his vocabulary, “behaved no better. Not one of them spoke to me even though I invited conversation most politely!”

  “That is strange,” I commiserated.

  Deal reclaimed my attention by gently tapping my shoulder. “After you departed yesterday,” she said, “I essayed a few more experiments with the robot.”

  Had she figured it out? “What kind of experiments?”

  “I tried constructing it from the middle of the instructions rather than what we assumed was the beginning, and in many other sequences. My results were even less successful than all previous efforts. When fully reassembled, the machine failed to intone your name even once. If the Hoouk sent us this item as an intelligence test, I must tilt my gondola in disgrace.”

  I tried to reclaim the excitement that came with last night's breakthrough, but the day had killed my mood. I had so much on my mind: the pending lawsuit with attending hassles and fees, a possible bomb attack on my loved ones, and Gara still attached to my feet at the heels and matching my every step. Shake it off, Al, I told myself, remember what you tell your patients. Do you want your anxieties to run your life, or you?

  “I may know how to fix the robot.” Perhaps not the most tactful way to put it after Deal's IQ self-evaluation.

  The Trader made a popcorn popper's worth of clicks, which the translator simplified to a single, astonished “What?”

  The humor of this worked its way though my funk. “You're going to kick yourself when I tell you. Or should I say punch yourself?” I suppose Tsf limbs could swing either way.

  “I am eager to proceed with this proposed auto-mutilation. Please instruct me immediately!”

  I smiled and meant it. “If you wouldn't mind, could we have another joint session with Cora first? Then we'll have the whole day free.”

  “Certainly. This will provide a chance for me to cultivate patience, a sadly undernourished animal in my emotional farm.”

  * * * *

  After our time with Cora, a note-for-note repeat of yesterday's initially promising and then disappointing performance, Deal led the way to the robot at a pace that made me trot to keep up. I wasn't in any such rush. In fact, I was feeling a distinct reluctance for my theory to be tested.

  Back in Frankenstein's Cyberlab, machine parts lay cleverly organized all over the floor. Fine. We needed to start from scratch.

  “Would you care to reveal your idea now?” Deal asked.

  “Not yet. I'm trying to build suspense.”

  “Humans can be surprisingly cruel. What is our next step?”

  “Reassembly for the umpteenth time. Exactly the way you first did it.”

  Deal aimed a
platoon of eye-cilia toward me. “And you expect a different result?”

  “We'll see. Put it together as fast as you like.”

  Practice, plus not having to wait for me to follow the action, allowed the Trader to work with such blistering speed that the robot almost seemed to implode into existence.

  “And now?” Deal asked when she was finished and the robot had said my name three times.

  “Now look at the instructions again. What do you see at the center?”

  She regarded the sheet for a time. “No more than what stands before us.”

  “Really? What's that next to the robot?”

  “Nothing significant. Only the empty boxes.”

  “The stacked empty boxes.”

  Deal neither moved nor clicked for so long that I wondered if she was hunting for a tactful way of informing me that my idea had already proved worthless. But even a psychiatrist can't read facial expressions on someone without a face. Maybe an expert on sea anemones would've had better luck.

  “So maybe the crates are external DM components of some kind,” I explained unnecessarily. “And they need to be in contact to work. An obvious notion, I guess.”

  “It is obvious now. We Traders perceive incalculable potential in developing a relationship with the Hoouk and have grasped this overture by them with all limbs. So I find it maddening that so many Tsf scientists have scrutinized these instructions and overlooked the possibility you've suggested. Could I offer the excuse that the filled boxes were unwieldy in normal gravity and thus it seemed reasonable to leave each on the floor? No, even I find that unconvincing. Doctor, you are either a being of singular intellect or we Traders are more mentally limited than I had envisioned.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks for the praise, I think. But let's not pat me on the back quite yet.”

  “Experimental verification! Easily done.” Before she'd even finished her sentence, Deal had put the boxes into a neat vertical pile.

  The effect was dramatic, and by God, totally unexpected. The robot just stood there as always, but color-shifting neon streaks danced across its torso and it emitted a hive-buzzing like a gigantic step-up transformer. And those changes were trivial compared to what happened to the boxes. They spun around individually to differing orientations and then merged like hot wax into a single translucent body that glittered from within. Its final overall shape reminded me of my Hoouk patient on the Parent Ship. Only this thing was three times larger, fully inflated, and seemed to crackle with power.