Analog SFF, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

Suddenly, Herrick looked concerned. “Does that mean that my son does indeed have the faulty gene?"

  "How do I know?” said red-tie. “That test requires a court order."

  “That does it!” said Niels.

  "Well, fine,” said Herrick. “You're welcome to wait with me. But I must say, you're not exactly my preferred drinking companions."

  The three at Herrick's table sat silently glaring at each other.

  Niels turned to Susan. “You're right. I can't fight them—not from here, at any rate. I'd decided to stay and fight, but now I've no choice. Emigration seems my only option."

  “I'd like to think,” Gordon cut in, “that New Zealand is a desirable place to be—and not merely a no-choice option."

  “Yes. Sorry. You're right.” Niels smiled. “And now that I've made the choice, albeit under duress, I'm very much looking forward to being a new New Zealander."

  “Excellent!” said Gordon. He stroked his chin. “But with your father's guests out there,” he said after a pause, “getting you to the safety of Canada poses something of a challenge."

  “Wait. I've an idea.” Niels stood. “Is there a computer with Internet access I can use?"

  “Yes,” said Gordon, getting to his feet. “But I can't guarantee it will be secure. In fact, I think I can guarantee that it isn't."

  “Good. I'm counting on it not being secure.” He swiveled to Susan. “I'd like you to take a message to my dad."

  “Sure.” Susan stood as well. “But I don't see how I could get a private message to him—not with those two suits out there with him."

  Niels gave a bark of a chuckle. “I don't want it to be private. Tell him you got a phone message from his son saying he can't make it to the restaurant."

  “Ah, I see,” said Gordon.

  “And tell him,” Niels went on, “that his son said that they could talk at ... at eleven o'clock at the place where ... Let me think ... where they used to watch the planes.” He looked expectantly at Susan. “Okay?"

  “Okay.” Susan touched his arm. “That's sweet. Where did you two watch planes when you were a boy?"

  “What? Planes? Nowhere? But my dad's sharp. He'll figure out what to do.” He ushered Susan to the door. “Tell him the message before he gets a chance to greet you. I think that would work better."

  Susan left the room while Niels and Gordon went to the video monitor.

  “I'm afraid I don't fully comprehend your idea yet,” said Gordon.

  Niels pointed to the screen. They watched as Susan walked to the table, delivered the message and started back.

  "Well,” said Herrick, rolling to his feet. “It's been pleasant, but I'll say goodnight, now."

  The other two at the table looked at each other, then stood. “Where are you going?” said blue-tie.

  "Home,” said Herrick. “It's past my bedtime."

  "Where did you two watch those planes?” said red-tie.

  "I have no idea."

  "Look,” said red-tie. “We could take you into custody, you know."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Just temporary custody—just until eleven o'clock."

  "On what grounds?” Herrick repeated.

  Red-tie smiled. “No grounds."

  They glowered at each other for a few moments. Then Herrick swiveled and strode toward the door. “If you're going to do it, then do it,” he called over his shoulder. “Otherwise, good night.” Followed by the two men in suits, Herrick left the restaurant.

  “So far, so good.” Niels looked to Gordon. “Now for the Internet, if you would."

  “Certainly.” Gordon switched on a computer and logged on. “It's all yours."

  Niels searched and called up the Air Canada website. “I'm going to make a reservation on a midnight flight to wherever it's going—in Canada, that is.” He found a flight, NYC to Vancouver, and began to book it. Then he stopped. “This won't work,” he said. “I can't use my credit card. That'll tell our friends that I'm here."

  “Ah, I see,” said Gordon. “You're setting up a false trail.” He chuckled. “Nice. But we'll use a consular account. You can pay us back sometime when you're settled in New Zealand."

  “Thanks.” Niels stood and Gordon took his place at the computer. “Maybe you can cancel at the last minute.” He turned to Susan. “Are you okay with Gordon's plan?"

  “Going to Niagara Falls?"

  “For a night of wedded bliss in the land of make-believe,” said Niels, giving a hint of a mock bow.

  “Make-believe wedded bliss, that is,” said Susan, smiling.

  “Sadly, so."

  “Then,” said Gordon from the keyboard, “as newlyweds, you'll simply stroll over the Peace Bridge to Canada. Our Commonwealth cousins make it a point not to harass visitors."

  “And fortunately,” said Niels, “the US is much more concerned with keeping people out than keeping them in. And they'll be looking for me, not a couple."

  “Fine,” said Susan. “Although it would have been nice to pack and settle my affairs: cancel my lease, forward my mail, that sort of stuff."

  “Not to worry,” said Gordon. “The consulate will take care of it."

  Niels bit his lower lip. “All we have to do is figure out how to get out of the restaurant and to the Port Authority bus terminal. I'm not convinced our friends won't be keeping an eye on this restaurant."

  “Not a problem,” said Gordon. “My car has diplomatic plates. I'll leave with Susan and meet you at, say, the corner of Forty-sixth and Third Avenue in say, twenty minutes. I'll pick you up and drop you off at the terminal. You'll leave by the service entrance, dressed as a waiter."

  Niels looked at the man with new respect. “You've obviously done this sort of thing before."

  “On occasion."

  * * * *

  As the Greyhound bus pulled out of the Port Authority Station, bound for Toronto, Niels let out a breath. “Well, we're on our way."

  Susan patted him on the knee. “I know a good New Zealand restaurant at the Falls—Canadian side, of course,” she said, her face showing gentle amusement. “Expatty's Mutton House. A lot of former Americans hang out there. You'll like it."

  “Former American.” Niels shook his head. “Already, I feel like an observer of life—not a participant. I feel old—a retiree."

  “Old.” Susan chuckled. “I'm sure when we dine at Expatty's, someone will invite you to join age."

  “Thanks a lot."

  “No, I mean A.G.E., The American Government in Exile."

  “What?"

  “Their aim is,” said Susan, speaking softly, just barely above the sound of the engine, “by all legal means, to promote regime change in Washington."

  “Geez!” Niels shook his head. “I can see why you're talking softly,” he said. “These days, even just speaking this way could get you put away."

  “On an airplane, maybe,” said Susan. “But not on a bus; nobody pays attention to people on buses."

  * * * *

  Sixteen hours later, Niels and Susan, hand in hand, strolled casually across the Rainbow Bridge separating the American and Canadian cities of Niagara Falls. Canadian Customs passed the ersatz newlyweds through without trouble. They had a pleasant dinner at Expatty's, where Niels indeed was invited to join A.G.E. And he did.

  It was well after midnight when they boarded their bus to Toronto and almost dawn when they hopped a taxi to the Lester Pearson International Airport.

  A day later, after much sleep at fifty thousand feet, they deplaned at Auckland International and took the shuttle bus to the New Zealand Immigration Centre. Susan waited in the reception area while, in a bright, cheerful office, a Mr. Clarke helped Niels with his papers.

  “Welcome to New Zealand, Dr. Pederson,” said Mr. Clarke. “Speaking for my country, we're very pleased to have you as a prospective new citizen."

  Niels looked over the man's shoulder at the New Zealand flag adorning the wall.

  Mr. Clarke turned to follow Niels's gaze.


  “A rather different star-spangled banner,” said Niels, his eyes on the flag's four red stars representing the Southern Cross.

  “Quite!” Mr. Clarke chuckled. “We rather think of ourselves as the land of the freer and the home of the braver."

  Niels himself chuckled. “Words by Francis Scott Kiwi, I presume."

  Mr. Clarke raised his eyebrows.

  Again, Niels chuckled. “You must forgive my giddiness,” he said. “It's partially due to time change and lack of regular sleep, but mainly, I think, it's your openness. I've spent most of my life in Fortress America, the world's largest gated community."

  “Gated?” Mr. Clarke seemed surprised. “We regard it more as quarantined."

  * * * *

  After Niels had filled out some forms and had gotten his visa upgraded, he rejoined Susan in the reception area. She took him by the hand. “Come on,” she said. “I know a good restaurant."

  Copyright © 2006 Carl Frederick

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  NUMEROUS CITATIONS

  by E. Mark Mitchell

  Illustration by Nicholas Jainschigg

  * * * *

  Revolutions can start in very small ways, and grow far beyond anyone's expectations....

  “With your help, Senator,” said the lobbyist, “I'm sure our cranial implants will revolutionize the corrections industry."

  Senator Bernard Woodsley (D-IL) smiled, shook the lobbyist's hand, and let his lieutenant, Doyle, escort the man out while the Senator sat heavily back down at his desk. Doyle came back a moment later.

  “It's a good plan, sir,” Doyle said, pausing in the doorway. “Cost effective, and it ought to help ex-cons get back on their feet...."

  “It'll look good in the press releases,” Woodsley shot back, his Harvard-acquired lecturing tone creeping into his voice as he leaned back in his chair and placed imaginary words in an imaginary headline in the air in front of him. “Fostering Rehabilitation Through Socio-Technological Entitlement. Downsizing Bloated Government Payrolls. Tough On Crime.” His hands dropped back to desk. “Those always play well. And most importantly, those manufacturers will owe us a huge check."

  “Sir, I think it's got the potential to be much bigger than just donations and some good PR...."

  “I keep telling you to grow up, boy,” grunted Woodsley, dropping back into his more accustomed drawl. “Implants are the high-tech fad of the day. Whether they work or not is immaterial, as with whatever the Pentagon contracts for. What that man's backers really want is a fat government commission, and they're offering us what we can use. They're spending cents to make dollars. It's a good deal for all sides, especially since some of those companies are based in Illinois. Sure, the bulk manufacturing or whatever they need will be done in China or some other godforsaken third-world country, but the implanting fees and the bulk of the payments will stay in-state, right where we want them."

  “Always a good plan, sir,” Doyle said in a carefully neutral tone.

  The older man clapped his assistant on the shoulder. “Of course it is. I've always told you to pick your battles, son. We do what we have to so we can stay in the game and stay strong. This is a good bit of capital; we can save it up so that when something important comes along, we can take a stand and make a difference. That's what every good politician dreams of.” Woodsley squeezed Doyle's shoulder and turned to go. “And I'll want to see the research for tomorrow's meetings on my desk first thing in the morning.” He still preferred the feel of hardcopy in his briefings, and as long as he was running the show, he'd get it.

  Doyle sighed, then pulled a digital assistant out of his pocket, touched the screen, and spoke in his usual clipped, efficient tone. “Already being printed, sir. Have a good dinner."

  Woodsley didn't think about implants again for more than a week (well, not computer implants, anyway).

  * * * *

  History would remember it as the First Manuel Gonzales Incident, but as for Manny himself, when the glowing letters appeared across his field of vision he wasn't thinking of history; he was annoyed at the interruption of his afternoon HV viewing.

  He'd just cracked his first post-work beer and was resting his aching muscles on his lumpy secondhand couch, enjoying the hostess of a trashy afternoon talk show. Manny found he could appreciate it just as easily when he turned the sound down and just looked at the holographic images. Sure, ogling women on a cheap, tiny HV set was sad and pathetic, but so was his love life. Nobody wants to date a guy on house arrest parole. Which was where the implant came in. Not that he expected it to kick in at that particular time; he wasn't even doing anything strictly immoral, much less illegal.

  White letters appeared, right across the hostess's bustline. PLEASE PROCEED TO BACK DOOR AND GO DOWN TO ALLEY.

  Manny frowned. It was completely like the machine to give orders, even with the wholly perfunctory “please” attached, but there was usually a reason for them, like it was time to get up, or work had just ended and he had to go straight home, or he couldn't shop for groceries until after 2 P.M. and he could only go to the supermarket a few blocks over, or something like that. This was pretty random.

  “Why should I?” he asked it. Manny couldn't help but talk to the implant like it was a person; it just felt natural to do so. He still felt silly talking out loud to a machine that was in his own head. Nobody had cracked how to wire it into a person's thoughts, so voice recognition was still the primary operation method. Thankfully, like arrest records, implants were common enough in the neighborhood that he didn't look like a total jackass doing it in public, and he was still less intrusive than cell phone shouters.

  POTENTIAL ASSAULT IN PROGRESS. AUTHORITIES WILL NOT ARRIVE FOR APPROX 10 MIN. PLEASE PROCEED TO BACK DOOR AND GO DOWN TO ALLEY. Each sentence flashed on, then scrolled upward in his field of vision to make room for the next. The implant designers hadn't wanted the problem of “voices in the head,” so they didn't wire the implant's responses to the auditory nerves. The display program kept the text centered on a point in his field of vision, letting him take in the whole sentence. He'd grown so used to reading like this, it felt strange when he looked at a magazine, and the words didn't move when he was done.

  It was hard to argue with such simple declarations, but that didn't mean Manny wasn't going to try. “Won't that break the conditions of my house arrest? I don't want to get in trouble.” His parole record was absolutely clean, and he wanted to keep it that way (God help him, he was starting to get used to the boring homebody life).

  RESTRICTIONS ARE MONITORED BY THIS IL-DOC IMPLANT. LEAVING PREMISES IS PERMITTED IN EMERGENCY. THIS IL-DOC IMPLANT CONSIDERS THIS SITUATION EMERGENCY, PER—The implant scrolled through a quick list of legal citations, which Manny ignored. YOUR IL-DOC IMPLANT REQUESTS YOUR ASSISTANCE. YOU WILL NOT BE PUNISHED FOR OBEYING THIS REQUEST. PLEASE PROCEED TO BACK DOOR AND GO DOWN TO ALLEY.

  Manny groaned, but put down his beer, pushed himself up, and wiggled his feet into his old sneakers. The implant did say time was a factor, and Manny agreed that if he could stop someone getting beat up, that was a good thing. “You're sure, now? I won't get in trouble?"

  NUMEROUS CITATIONS SUPPORT THIS CONCLUSION. The machine was hooked into a variety of databases over the ubiquitous wireless internet; he usually trusted it when it made such a comment.

  “All right, then.” Manny nodded, flicking off the HV and heading to the back of his cramped apartment.

  History rarely happens in the dramatic colors that are later used to paint it. So it was that when Manny Gonzales went back to check out the alley, he was more concerned about his aching back (robots moved stock through other warehouses; why couldn't he find a job at one of those places?), his love life (or lack of same), and how much of his time this new “public service” feature of his implant was going to eat up. He felt sure it was some kind of government idea to control even more of his life, make him do their errands for them.

  “Like I don't h
ave enough to do without being the friggin’ assistant police,” he muttered to himself. He went out onto the back stairwell in his work clothes, not bothering with a jacket. The bite from the cold Chicago spring air instantly brought the goose to his flesh. He heard raised voices from street level. Ah, Christ, he thought, the little bastard son of a chip was right.

  By the time he got down the stairs, he heard the distinctive sound of a slap. PLEASE MAKE YOUR PRESENCE KNOWN, read glowing letters on the back door, so he pushed it open hard, banging it against the wall. It grated against the uneven concrete and stuck. He was just in time to see Big Carl, from the two-flat building across the alley, draw his meaty fist back to punch his girlfriend Maria as they stood by the garage door in the alley. The sneer on Maria's face dared him to try it. Both were locally known for their tempers; there would be close odds on who would have won the fight if Manny hadn't arrived.

  They both froze at the sound and stared at Manny, who just looked back at them, his face blank. He didn't know if he could take Big Carl, if it came down to it. He'd tried to steer clear of fights, part of keeping a clean record, but he knew Big Carl wouldn't care about Manny's wishes in the matter. Big Carl was on probation, but that never stopped him from starting trouble.

  “There a problem here?” Manny asked quietly. He stayed in the stairwell doorway.

  “Mind your own business, Manny,” said Big Carl, his voice low and dangerous. Manny's hackles rose, but he stood his ground. Big Carl continued, “This don't concern you."

  “I know it,” Manny said. “But my chip told me to come down here."

  “Your what?” Big Carl sounded confused. Carl never watched the news, much less picked up a newspaper, and so probably knew little about the use of implants for court-mandated house arrest. Manny was a little surprised it had never come up with Big Carl's friends, assuming he had any, but regardless, it didn't help the situation. Angry and confused do not go well together.

  “Never mind, man.” Manny suddenly felt hot-faced as his old machismo rose in him a little. Being bossed around by a program; what kind of man let that happen? “Look, it ain't none of my business, but maybe you wanna not fight out in the alley, all right?"