Analog Science Fiction and Fact - July-Agust 2014

by Penny Publications

  Dangerous talk. Mama was right. "No, don't say such things. My dear friend, you have the Black Sphere wrong. They are not our enemy."

  Holding aloft her hand, Asha activated a little tech-trickery to make sure she had everyone's attention. Her fingernails fuzzed into space one moment, and then a flock of big pouty cartoon lips flew across them blowing kisses to one and all. "They want us all to live in beautiful peace."

  Intrigued by the magic hand the children in the corner started whispering. Undoubtedly force fed notions of the evils of "extreme technology," Asha knew how such tales only sweetened forbidden fruits. However, most of the hall shot scowls her way. Some even spat on the dirt floor. I'm losing them already.

  Vulnerable and exposed, Asha felt unarmed despite her upgrades. "And they offer healing. Look." Crouching low in front of Swifty, she placed a finger on his dead foot. For an instant it colored a healthy tan, tendons pinched sharp and strong, Swifty stood tall and proud. When she slowly withdrew her hand he almost tumbled, but Asha caught and steadied him with a gentle hug.

  She turned back to the one-eyed man. "You see, Little Chick?"

  Little Chick's eyes narrowed, his brow creased. "Your father didn't give his permission for you to go to the cities and come back as living propaganda. So this is our hero?"

  "No, not propaganda. I bring progress to all of us."

  "Did you never listen to him? Black Sphere's a terror to our souls and traditions. Millimeter by millimeter they claim the forest with their glue. Instead of real trees they give imitation tress. Imitation life, imitation everything."

  "No," Asha said, squeaking in frustrating. Pointing to a young man on a bench, his short hair stricken with bald patches, Asha said, "You, I remember you. Simon. You had long brown hair, you used to let me tie it in pig tails." Then she pointed to another, a young woman with stumpy brown teeth lining the gums of her gawking mouth. "Lesley, how would you like to smile brightly again like you did all those years ago? See, my crooked teeth are fixed." Asha showed off her own perfect-white smile.

  Around the hall, chatter took hold. Asha's New Model Optic blinked; the image of a mini log cabin birthed from the floor, the insides glowing with light and warmth. Just a projection, but Asha thought it would clinch her argument once and for all. "You could still live in the forest. But instead of freezing-dark nights you'd have everlasting heat and light. And fresh water. Everything you'll ever need all synthesized with Black Sphere tech."

  The ramble of chatter continued. Asha offered Little Chick what she hoped was a conciliatory smile. Something shadowy flickered over his face for a moment. Strange, Asha thought. Her upgrades read him as merely "harmless." Black Sphere overconfidence?

  He chugged back a glass of alcohol, coughed, then looked at Asha with his one bright blue eye. All of a sudden Little Chick clapped, then again, and then three times, battling the chatter into submission until finally silence prevailed.

  "Ask yourself, Squirrel, who is the real enemy? Not long ago Black Sphere needed us, needed our skills to use beyond the periphery where their tech couldn't function. Now our way of life is to become a commodity, to become currency in their economy of lifestyles and ideals. All because they fear our ability to survive without them. I want my thoughts to be my own. I want to get fat after the harvest, and when I am old I want to go bald and grey so all know my life has been full. I will always wear my life."

  Unable to control her exasperation, Asha screamed. "You are blind in one eye." Sucking in a breath, she tried to compose herself. "It's not their fault that you missed your adventure, missed going to war. Black Sphere will fix you, Little Chick. I promise. I too wear my life with pride. Except it doesn't have to be a life of struggle anymore."

  "No. Nobody in the cities wears their life. You don't wear your life. Black Sphere wears it, and changes it when it goes out of fashion. I don't talk to the Asha I once knew anymore, just her skin-as-clothes over a Black Sphere center."

  It happened slowly at first, a trickle, but it grew and became a torrent. More and more people stood up from their benches and made their way to Little Chick's side. Asha looked on, helpless and abandoned.

  "Go back to the cities and tell them we fight only for ourselves from now on."

  Fearful that it would undermine her to the Board of Director, Asha tried to quell the full realization of the thoughts brimming in her mind. But she couldn't help it. This place is no longer my home. I should have never come back.

  "Carte blanche. Remove the obstacle. Now." The words rolled across her New Model Optic disturbing a night of fitful sleep. But Asha lay for a while longer, snug on the feathered mattress in the main room of her family's cabin.

  She dreamily marveled at the hanging charms, their gentle wooden clatter in the breeze, never noticing before how many mini-animals Mama had carved. Birds dangled with spread wings, or wolves about to pounce. One was a bear raised to full height. Was I the bird, flying away when my people needed me? Little Chick had the loudest voice now; perhaps he was the bear leading a pack of wolves. But his actions would lead everyone to their deaths. Just for his pride? Stupid man. A little town in a forest stood no chance. Thankfully the people of the cities would never support the notion of Black Sphere forcing itself on such a small place, would they? It wasn't like "child's play" anymore. Eventually she roused herself into action.

  Taking one last look at Papa in his chair, his eyes open but staring blankly at the front door, Asha understood his stubbornness. As Black Sphere was now part of her she knew Papa had Luddite in his core. "What I do I do to make our lives better. Things change, Papa," she whispered in the darkness of night. The old man, of course, just stared at the front door. With great care, Asha closed it silently behind her.

  Even in the dark she found "The Hideout" easily enough; her New Model Optic filtering night into bright-lit day. Data-streams assured that everyone inside was fast asleep. Just in case though, Asha surged black fuzz through her silhouette, the Black Sphere tech blending her to shadow. Creeping with long silent strides, she entered the hall, stepping over snoozing bodies until she found where Little Chick lay.

  The call of Black Sphere, so deep inside it felt as if it came from her soul, spoke. You have saved your people. Do what you must. Remove the chaos, bring everlasting peace.

  But now that she stood on the precipice could she really bloody her hands like this? Her heart told her not too, her conscience told her to slice off her new arm and pluck out her new eye. Maybe Papa was right all along?

  One minute her emotions pulled her back from the task, but then her feelings dissipated into the ether. The sheer will of the Board of Directors pierced into nerves, DNA, and thought; no remorse, just efficient action.

  When her hand morphed into a black, razor-sharp blade, she cut it across Little Chick's throat with deadly calm. First she felt the give of flesh as expected. Afterward the blade passed right through as if he was made of air. Too smoothly.

  A shimmer overtook Little Chick's form, he fuzzed blacker than the night, reforming into a pile of shapes in seconds, into a thing of geometry dark and hidden from the other sleepers. Through her optic Asha could see a brain stem glowing inside; the ultimate sacrifice to company loyalty. A Geo-man.

  Another message whispered from her soul, Asha, the Board of Directors is all knowing. I have served for many years since I lost my eye. I am an extension of their will. Just think—your death will galvanize the Luddites to strike out, giving Black Sphere the excuse it needs to apply force. Giving them "carte blanche."

  Stumbling back, breath catching in her chest, Asha wanted to throw-up. Little Chick's boy face appeared on the Geo-man, smiling so sweetly and softly. Even when the black noose whipped out from his body, tangling around Asha's neck, he continued to smile.

  The room ebbed and flowed like when Asha had severed her hand, but there was no pain. It is all going to plan. Polygons pulsed across the Geo-man, morphing him back into Little Chick, body and all. The noose broke away, knotting ti
ghter around Asha's throat until it cut into her skin.

  Stirred by the sound of movement other people rustled awake. "I'm okay," said Little Chick, "She tried to kill me. Do you all see now? We must fight back."

  Wet, warm liquid dribbled down Asha's chest, the cord around her neck sawing in ever more. She slumped to the floor so tired, wanting to sleep forever. Death wasn't true black, not like the Black Sphere tech. If anything death was hazy like sunshine, warm against her skin. It felt good.

  In an all-black room the floor rippled, pushing a variety of geometric shapes into existence. A voice rung through the shapes. "Miss Asha Kass, you have given your all. You are Black Sphere incarnate. Energy and information incarnate. Our will incarnate."

  News data streams titillated through her, showing streets bordering the Black Sphere cessation line. Where bodies lay under the care of medics, bleeding from gunshot wounds. Behind a cordon of black spiked barriers civilians raged, yelling at the black membrane under their feet. "What could have riled the Luddites up? They are a menace. We must defend ourselves," a spokesman said.

  Bleeding hearts turned hawkish overnight. Asha knew she should feel something else, but satisfaction swelled prominent, an understandable thrill at fulfillment of company policy. I should be proud of myself. Shouldn't I? She never noticed the myriad twinges and aches that plagued her young body until their absence. Now everything felt... perfectly efficient.

  "You will go into the forests with a squad of soldiers and end the Luddite threat. Now that you are a Geo-woman, it will be easy. You have carte blanche. Do you understand?"

  Asha could see the full panorama around her, the wall with its sixty-four twitching eyes waiting in expectation, everything else just darkness. "I understand. It'll be child's play."

  * * *

  Sadness

  Timons Esaias | 3052 words

  I hadn't seen one of the New People in years, and this wasn't the best time for one to drop by. I'd planned to go out to the Wall and think about killing my lover.

  Isabel would not appreciate finding "one of Them" in "her" house, so before the visitor had even arrived I was trying to imagine strategies for getting it out of there. I urged her program to delay her morning ritual, and flash-queried our mayor as to just why this visitor would be coming.

  "Who ever knows why they come? I wasn't told," he sent back. But to keep me from thinking he was giving me the usual dumb-bureaucrat-without-a-clue routine he attached a copy of the message they had sent him. "Visitor for Morgantown Sector, 9 A.M., this day, Occupant Evor Bookbinder."

  Nervous, I made tea by hand, and reviewed the latest discussions on how the New People think, and how best to handle them. Most of the postings were rather old, indicating that the question wasn't much on anyone's mind these days. From what I could gather, today's visit would be just the third in the last twelve months. There had been none, zero, the year before. They had cameras to watch us, of course, including all the ones we use to watch ourselves, but their part of Humankind seemed to be giving our part only brief glances down an extremely disdainful upturned nose.

  I reviewed the basics. Never move closer than four meters, and set your minder to keep track of the distance. Try not to use slang that you can't easily define when asked. Compound sentences are good, complex sentences are best. They love it when we switch verb tenses, but it also confuses the daylights out of them. Commit no crimes in their presence, because they always rat. Do not express frustration when you fail to make sense of what they are saying. Use your minder to replay their sentences until you feel ready to respond, but do not ask them to repeat anything. This seems to be deeply offensive. If you are befuddled, ask a clarifying question.

  Yes, of course. I had forgotten the music of their voices, the layers.

  I heard the music in the east garden, the little one off the lower den. My visitor was in the garden, and the clock specifically and clearly read 8:17.

  They have no sense of time, these New People. No sense of civil promptness.

  I loaded my tea onto a tray and added a second service. In the center I put an antique stemmed dish, on which lay the ceremonial bread and saltpeter. The visitor wouldn't take any of these, of course, but they seem to appreciate being included. I selected a kefiya of no political significance, covered my head, made the lesser prayer, and went down through the den to my guest.

  I should have made the greater prayer. The guest had neglected to clothe itself properly, leaving its head uncovered to the insult of all Above and below, and one arm was fully exposed, and covered with those suppurating gray-purple scales that move. That seethe, is what I should say.

  My gorge rising, I made obeisance and placed the tray on the small granite table Isabel had ordered from a quarry in New Hampshire, just weeks before New Hampshire was closed off. "It reminds me of Beyond," she would say. "It is my flotsam from the wreck of History."

  It is also a beautiful table.

  My visitor had been interrogating, in English, one of the chipmunks who feed on our offering plants. Perhaps he had tried Chipmunk unsuccessfully. I heard the interlaced threads of "How many kilograms do you eat in one lifetime?" "What is your lineage?" "Do you find the weather conducive to health?" and something about sports that I didn't quite follow. One thread was soprano, two were alto, but one of those a flat monotone, and the last was a falsetto. Just the tones that get on my nerves.

  The chipmunk did not, in my view, take these questions very seriously.

  I followed the ritual of "garden tea in the morning after a long voyage," but was not acknowledged until after I had withdrawn to the bench and sat down. There was quiet for a time, and because I should have been busy preparing my mind to deal with the stranger, I instead busied my mind preparing to kill Isabel, and if possible before she heard anything of this visitor in the garden she claimed as hers even though it belonged to the people.

  Isabel had never adapted to the concept of sharing, finding it "just too inconvenient." Her attitude would have given me ample excuse to kill her, if we were living during one of the many Revolutions that enlivened history before the New People put a stop to all that. Now her attitude was merely stupid and selfish, neither of which warranted death, or even a sound whipping.

  I still would have to kill her, however. That seemed certain.

  I missed the first syllables of my visitor's introductory comment, but my minder replayed them, making footnote remarks as it went. The visitor wished me to know that its name would be of no use to me, so I should merely use the second honorific; it wondered how I felt about the hairstyle of Blake's Visionary Head of Friar Bacon; it asserted that it found the asymmetry of the hydrogen sulfite molecule "troubling;" and it wished to know if my testicles had always been so tiny.

  My minder observed that it could not extract a theme from the four remarks, but mentioned that each had been set to a passage from Vivaldi's Four Seasons, one passage from each Season, then transposed into D-sharp, and pitched down a fifth.

  "In the winter of my life, Hermikiti Talu and Highness, this man's fruit shrivels; not as it was in the spring when I might have studied the pencil drawings of Blake, but instead learned only the architecture of his predecessor, Inigo Jones, whose partial reincarnation Blake might have been, I suppose, and it would not do to fall into the trap of remarking on what I so ill understand; and not as the molecule you cite, which is ever the same from century to century, from summer to autumn to winter and is perhaps symmetrical in time, which is a form of beauty, is it not?" I said.

  The visitor sat, uncovered and arrogant, its arm seething as though maggots teemed beneath, and did not respond. It withdrew its right foot from its sandal, cut off a toe, and carefully lifted a stone out of the garden wall and dropped the toe into the hole. It rotated the stone and dropped it back into the wall, askew.

  This unnerved me, and my brain went completely blank. My minder could make nothing of it, either, and asked for permission to consult the net. I authorized the consultation, bu
t nothing useful came in. I had twenty minutes to contemplate my sickening guest before it made any further remark.

  There is no point in relating the bizarre elements of that exchange. Simply, it asked me to come with it, and I did. We walked out of the garden, across the deserted parade ground, and up the terraces to the section of Wall that runs along Toothpick Ridge. It sang to itself as it walked, setting my teeth on edge repeatedly. My knees throbbed with the unexpected climbing, but I would have died rather than complain.

  It had pulled considerably ahead of me by the time we came to the Wall. Instead of stopping, as I had expected, it climbed the closest stair to the top and waited for me there.

  I had wanted to get my visitor away from the house, and had wanted to go to the Wall, and here we were, away from the house and on the Wall. Instead of being pleased, I chose this opportunity to throw away everything. I succumbed to peevish resentment.

  The Hermikiti Talu and Highness, may it burn both in this life and another, had taken position on the battlement about one meter from the top of the stairs, which did not leave room for me to pass. Rather than walk thirty meters along the path to the next stairway and then thirty meters back, I chose to bow into the pose of "patient obeisance and humiliation," three meters from the top of the stairs, until this New Person bothered to notice.

  I spent some six minutes in that uncomfortable position, my knees throbbing and my right heel feeling like a hot needle was being driven into it. Too much time to think, and to build resentment. Not enough time, alas, to work through this to calmness.

  Finally the visitor made its music, indicating that I should come up the stairs, into its space, and stand beside it. My minder indicated that this was an insincere, merely formal invitation, so I remained still. The minder had been misinformed, however, for the visitor shortly spoke again, indicating in three of its threads that I should get up on the Wall immediately.