21st Century Science Fiction

by D B Hartwell

  “I deserve the pain,” he winced.

  “Same time next . . .” Doctor Flynn began to speak, but the hands took over. They slashed across the room, cutting Doctor Flynn in half. His legs remained standing as his head and shoulders fell to the floor.

  “Hey Buddy Joe, stop tha . . .”

  The female scientist who called out had the top of her head sliced off in one easy motion. Blonde hair spun round and round like a Catherine wheel as it arced across the room. The yellow and orange tentacles were vibrating in sine waves, filling the room with their frantic, snapping energy. Flesh and bone snapped and tore, blood flew, and Buddy Joe was a human head on an alien body that stretched across the room and out into the night. He could feel his hands in the warmth of the room, in the cool of the night, on the metal of the deck, covered in blood, gripping the handrail at the edge of the drop to the dark ocean and pulling him clear of the room. Where were the hands taking him? A group of tentacles reached down to Doctor Flynn’s head and shoulders and picked them up. He felt them thrusting themselves into the warmth of the body, feeling for the spinal cord, seeking out the arteries and veins and wriggling up them.

  And then Buddy Joe was out of the laboratory and his hands were pulling him up to the top of Deck Seven.

  Why wasn’t the Compliance working? thought Buddy Joe as he passed out.

  • • • •

  He woke up spread out to the size of Deck Seven. His new hands were the size and shape of every strand of the metal mesh that made up the decking. His legs stretched down two of the Pillar Towers. His head was hanging, looking down over the gardens and houses of Deck Six.

  Doctor Flynn appeared before him, looking like a glove puppet. Alien tentacles had been thrust into the nerves and joints of his broken body to make him work.

  —Speak to him.

  “Hey, Buddy Joe,” said Doctor Flynn, his eyelids drooping, his eyes moving up and down and left to right, tracing out a slow sine wave.

  “Hey, Doctor Flynn,” said Buddy Joe. His head was trying to be sick, but he had nothing to be sick with.

  —Where’s my head?

  “The body wants to know where the head is.”

  “It’s not quite finished yet, Buddy Joe. I don’t think it ever will be. The hands killed most of the team. I’m not sure the expertise still exists to make a head. Even if it did, it would never get built without me to push through the requisitions.”

  Silence. The body was considering. Doctor Flynn twitched his nose. A single cherry of blood pumped from the side of a tentacle and fell toward the deck below.

  —What do you know of the other alien?

  Buddy Joe relayed the question.

  “Nothing,” said Doctor Flynn. “You were the only suit ever built. There can’t be another alien. Hey. You can’t keep me alive like this forever. Another, what, ten P at most?”

  “It can feel the other aliens,” said Buddy Joe, listening to the voice. “It says there are more of them all the time, somewhere over the ocean. There are ten already. It wants the head so it can join them.”

  “Ten? But that can’t be! Anyway, there is no over-the-ocean. Don’t you see? The only thing that stopped the universe collapsing to nothing was the pressure of life within this bubble. The life force is so strong it caused the decking to grow, just to allow us to live. There is no over-the-ocean anymore, there is just here.”

  “There is an over-the-ocean, now.”

  Then he had the answer. It was obvious. It just popped into his head. “I know what the answer is: I know where the aliens come from,” he said. But it was too late. Doctor Flynn was already dead.

  “But I want to tell you the answer, Doctor Flynn,” he called. The tentacles were disengaging from inside Doctor Flynn’s body, rubbing themselves together as a human would rub their hands to remove something unpleasant. They were letting him go, letting him fall to the deck far below. Buddy Joe watched Doctor Flynn tumble and fall, down and down until his body landed on the roof of someone’s house.

  The tentacles were writhing and thrashing again, spelling out their long orange and yellow scripts in the air around him. This is how they speak, thought Buddy Joe. This is how the aliens speak. I can hear it in my subconscious, read through my peripheral vision.

  —Where do we come from?

  “From the life force that fills the universe,” said Buddy Joe. “If flowers can bloom on the moon just because humans live there, then surely you could have come into existence when the idea of you took root in Doctor Flynn’s laboratory. New life walks the earth and a new environment opens up to support it. Opens up across the ocean.”

  —What a strange idea. This is how the universe works. It’s not what we suspected, Buddy Joe.

  “Not what anyone thought,” said Buddy Joe, 30 miles long, 20 miles wide and two miles tall, his legs and arms stretching to fill the decks around him. He was growing all the time. “A universe that exists just to nurture life. New life bursting out all the time. And here we are trapped in this little bubble of the universe. I wonder when we’ll get out?”

  —Soon, Buddy Joe, soon. But not like this. Now we can see what is holding us back.

  “What is it?”

  —You.

  The tentacles lashed around, seized hold of Buddy Joe’s head and pulled it clean off. It wasn’t needed anymore. The alien was complete and reasoning without a brain. Doctor Flynn and his team had designed it to be that different.

  Tentacles began to pull themselves free of the metal of Deck Seven as Buddy Joe’s head tumbled down to join Doctor Flynn’s body. The body stretched itself out thinner and thinner; ready to glide its way over the ocean toward its own race . . .

  . . . and then it paused. Tainted a little by Buddy Joe and his humanity, tainted a little by its origins. It had been built by humans, and just a little of the sin that it was to be human was woven into the fabric of its body. It was not yet quite free of that human curiosity that the universe moved to protect itself from. That need to explain how things worked. Curiosity. It was a most alien feeling. Without it, one could not wonder at its existence. It was a dizzying thought.

  All around, the alien looked, tasted, felt the remains of the human world, the decking and the polluted seas, the last feeble stirrings of that doomed impulse that defined the inhabitants: the urge to try and understand the basic mechanism of their world. That human persistence in violating the cardinal rule, written at the quantum level and warned of in one of the humans’ oldest texts.

  Don’t look at the system, or you will change it. The universe fights against being known.

  Curiosity: forget it, the alien told itself, and it did so immediately.

  Far below, there was a bump as Buddy Joe’s head hit the deck.

  DAVID D. LEVINE Born in Minneapolis, David D. Levine lives in Portland, Oregon, where he and his wife, Kate Yule, are active in science fiction fandom, annually producing the quirky and excellent fanzine Bento. He began selling fiction regularly in 2001, shortly after attending the Clarion West workshop, and in 2006 won the Hugo Award for the story presented here.

  It is possible that this tale of a desperate human software salesman, getting nowhere with his wares on a planet of impenenetrably humble sentient insects, was in some way informed by the author’s many years working in the IT industry.

  TK’TK’TK

  Walker’s voice recorder was a beautiful thing of aluminum and plastic, hard and crisp and rectangular. It sat on the waxy countertop, surrounded by the lumpy excreted-looking products of the local technology. Unique selling proposition, he thought, and clutched the leather handle of his grandfather’s briefcase as though it were a talisman.

  Shkthh pth kstphst, the shopkeeper said, and Walker’s hypno-implanted vocabulary provided a translation: “What a delightful object.” Chitinous fingers picked up the recorder, scrabbling against the aluminum case with a sound that Walker found deeply disturbing. “What does it do?”

  It took him a moment to formulate a
reply. Even with hypno, Thfshpfth was a formidably complex language. “It listens and repeats,” he said. “You talk all day, it remembers all. Earth technology. Nothing like it for light-years.” The word for “light-year” was hkshkhthskht, difficult to pronounce. He hoped he’d gotten it right.

  “Indeed yes, most unusual.” The pink frills, or gills, at the sides of the alien’s head throbbed. It did not look down—its faceted eyes and neckless head made that impossible—but Walker judged its attention was on the recorder and not on himself. Still, he kept smiling and kept looking the alien in the eyes with what he hoped would be interpreted as a sincere expression.

  “Such a unique object must surely be beyond the means of such a humble one as myself,” the proprietor said at last. Sthshsk, such-a-humble-one-as-myself—Walker could die a happy man if he never heard those syllables again.

  Focus on value, not price. “Think how useful,” he hissed in reply. “Never forget things again.” He wasn’t sure you could use htpthtk, “things,” in that way, but he hoped it got the point across.

  “Perhaps the honored visitor might wish to partake of a cup of thshsh?”

  Walker’s smile became rigid. Thshsh was a beverage nearly indistinguishable from warm piss. But he’d learned that to turn down an offer of food or drink would bring negotiations to an abrupt close. “This-humble-one-accepts-your-most-generous-offer,” he said, letting the memorized syllables flow over his tongue.

  He examined the shopkeeper’s stock as it prepared the drink. It all looked like the products of a sixth-grade pottery class, irregular clots of brown and gray. But the aliens’ biotech was far beyond Earth’s—some of these lumps would be worth thousands back home. Too bad he had no idea which ones. His expertise lay elsewhere, and he was here to sell, not buy.

  The shopkeeper itself was a little smaller than most of its kind, about a hundred forty centimeters tall, mostly black, with yellow spine-tips and green eyes. Despite its insectile appearance, it was warm-blooded—under its chitin it had bones and muscle and organs not unlike Walker’s own. But its mind and culture were even stranger than its disturbing mouth-parts.

  “The cup of friendship,” the alien said, offering a steaming cup of thshsh. Walker suppressed a shudder as his fingers touched the alien’s—warm, covered with fine hairs, and slightly sticky—but he nodded politely and raised the cup to his lips.

  He sipped as little as he felt he could politely get away with. It was still vile.

  “Very good,” he said.

  Forty-five minutes later the conversation finally returned to the voice recorder. “Ownership of this most wondrous object is surely beyond price. Perhaps the honored guest would be willing to lend it for a short period?”

  “No trial period necessary. Satisfaction is guaranteed.” He was taking a risk with that, he knew, but the recorder had never failed him in all the years he’d owned it.

  Tk’tk’tk, the alien said, tapping its mouthparts together. There was no translation for that in Walker’s vocabulary. He wanted to throttle the thing—couldn’t it even stick to its own language?—but he struggled not to show his impatience.

  After a pause, the alien spread a hand—a gesture that meant nothing to Walker. “Perhaps the honored owner could be compensated for the temporary use of the property.”

  “Humbly requesting more details.”

  “A loan of this type is generally for an indefinite period. The compensation is, of course, subject to negotiation. . . .”

  “You make offer?” he interrupted. He realized that he was not being as polite as he could be. But it was already late afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast—and if he didn’t conclude this deal successfully he might not have enough money for lunch.

  Tk’tk’tk again. “Forty-three,” it said at last.

  Walker seethed at the offer. He had hoped to sell the recorder for enough to live on for at least a week, and his hotel alone—barely worthy of the name—cost twenty-seven a night. But he had already spent most of a day trying to raise some cash, and this was the only concrete offer he’d gotten.

  “Seventy?”

  The alien’s gills, normally in constant slight motion, stopped. Walker knew he had offended it somehow, and his heart sank. But his smile never wavered.

  “Seventy is a very inopportune number. To offer seventy to one of your exalted status would be a great insult.”

  Damn these aliens and their obscure numerology! Walker began to sputter an apology.

  “Seventy-three, on the other hand,” the shopkeeper continued, “is a number with an impeccable lineage. Would the honored guest accept compensation in this amount?”

  He was so busy trying to apologize that he almost didn’t recognize the counter-offer for what it was. But some salesman’s instinct, some fragment of his father’s and his grandfather’s DNA, noticed it, and he managed to hiss out “This-humble-one-accepts-your-most-generous-offer” before he got in any more trouble.

  It took another hour before the shopkeeper actually counted the money—soft brown lumps like rabbit droppings, each looking exactly like the others—into Walker’s hand. He passed his reader over them; it smelled the lumps and told him they were three seventeens, two nines, and a four, totaling seventy-three as promised. He sorted them into different pockets so he wouldn’t accidentally give the luggage-carrier a week’s salary as a tip again. It angered him to be dependent on the Chokasti-made reader, but he would rather use alien technology than try to read the aliens’ acrid pheromonal “writing” with his own nose.

  Walker pressed through the labia of the shop entrance into the heat and noise and stink of the street. Hard orange shafts of dusty late-afternoon sun glinted dully on the scuttling carapaces of the populace: little merchants and bureaucrats, big laborers and warriors, hulking mindless transporters. No cars, no autoplanes . . . just a rustling mass of aliens, chuttering endlessly in their harsh sibilant language, scraping their hard spiny limbs and bodies against each other and the rounded, gourd-like walls. Here and there a knot of two or three in conversation blocked traffic, which simply clambered over them. The aliens had no concept of personal space.

  Once a swarm of juveniles had crawled right over him—a nightmare of jointed legs and chitinous bodies, and a bitter smell like rusty swamp water. They had knocked his briefcase from his hand, and he had scrambled after it under the scrabbling press of their bodies. He shuddered at the memory—not only did the briefcase contain his most important papers, it had belonged to his grandfather. His father had given it to him when he graduated from college.

  He clutched his jacket tight at his throat, gripped his briefcase firmly under his arm, and shouldered through the crowd.

  • • • •

  Walker sat in the waiting room of his most promising prospect—to be blunt, his only prospect—a manufacturer of building supplies whose name translated as Amber Stone. Five days in transit, eight weeks in this bug-infested hellhole of a city, a fifteen-megabyte database of contacts from five different species, and all he had to show for it was one lousy stinking customer. Potential customer at that . . . it hadn’t signed anything yet. But Walker had been meeting with it every couple of days for two weeks, and he was sure he was right on the edge of a very substantial sale. All he had to do was keep himself on site and on message.

  The light in the palm-sized windows shaded from orange to red before Amber Stone finally appeared from its inner office. “Ah, human! So very pleased that you honor such a humble one as myself with your delightful presence.” The aliens couldn’t manage the name “Walker,” and even “human” came out more like hsshp’k.

  “Honor is mine, Amber Stone. You read information I give you, three days?”

  “Most intriguing, yes. Surely no finer literature has ever been produced.”

  “You have questions?”

  Questions it did have, yes indeed, no end of questions—who performed the translation, where did you have it reproduced, is it really as cold there as they
say, did you come through Pthshksthpt or by way of Sthktpth . . . but no questions about the product. I’m building rapport with the customer, Walker thought grimly, and kept up his end of the conversation as best he could.

  Finally Walker tried to regain control. “Your business, it goes well?”

  Tk’tk’tk, the customer said, and placed its hands on its shoulders. “As the most excellent guest must surely have noticed, the days are growing longer.”

  Walker had no idea what that might mean. “Good business or bad, always need for greater efficiency.”

  “The honored visitor graces this humble one with the benefits of a unique perspective.”

  Though the sweat ran down behind his tie, Walker felt as though he were sliding on ice—his words refusing to gain traction. “My company’s software will improve inventory management efficiency and throughput by three hundred percent or more,” he said, pulling out one of his best memorized phrases.

  “Alas, your most marvelous software is surely so far superior to our humble computers that no accommodation could be made.”

  “We offer complete solution. Hardware, software, support. Fully compatible. Satisfaction guaranteed.” Walker smiled, trying to project confidence—no, not just confidence, love, for the product.

  Tk’tk’tk. Was that an expression of interest? “Most intriguing, yes. Most unique. Alas, sun is setting.” It gestured to the windows, which had faded from red to nearly black. “This most humble one must beg the honored visitor’s forgiveness for consuming so much valuable time.”

  “Is no problem. . . .”

  “This one would not dream of insulting an honored guest in such a way. Please take your rest now, and honor this unworthy establishment with your esteemed presence again tomorrow.” The alien turned and vanished into the inner office.

  Walker sat and seethed. Dismissed by a bug, he thought, how much lower can you sink? He stared into the scuffed leather surface of his briefcase as though he’d find the answer there. But it just sat on his lap, pressing down with the hard-edged weight of two generations of successful salesmen.