Analog SFF, June 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He turned to go. Marty knew he needed to go for broke.

  "Okay, sir,” he said. “Sorry to bother you and all. I'm just trying to earn some money for college."

  The old man turned and looked at him, his expression softening. Marty hated using the sympathy angle, but the truth was, he needed any help he could get. If he didn't sell at least one of the Gonzos, he wouldn't be going to school that September at all. He climbed into the van as if he was going to leave.

  "Isn't your daddy helping you?” Hagerman asked.

  "Come, Gonzo,” Marty said. The dog leaped onto his lap and stepped across him into the passenger seat. Marty looked up at Hagerman. “He's trying. His company almost went under and he's digging out from under a lot of loans."

  "So you thought you'd sell robot dogs to pay your way through college?"

  "Among other things,” Marty said. “I work during the school year, too. But because my father's income was good until lately, it's almost impossible for me to get financial aid."

  Marty started the car. The electric engine buzzed, then settled into a quiet purr.

  "Well, I better be going,” Marty said. “I'll use the daylight while I have it."

  Hagerman sighed. “Hold on, now."

  "Sir?"

  "Come on and give me your sales pitch. I'll listen.” He leveled a bony finger at Marty. “But no promises, you hear?"

  Marty smiled. “Sure, but I tell you, the Gonzo sells itself."

  Hagerman grunted. Marty killed the engine and climbed out of the car, then called for the Gonzo to follow. In the fading light, the color of the pine trees was deepening from green to black. Yet there was still enough light that Marty spotted a stick on the ground by the porch. He picked it up, tossing it as far he could down the drive. Chib raised her head but didn't move. Neither did the Gonzo, but Marty knew that was because of the programming.

  "Fetch, Gonzo,” he said.

  The robot burst into a run, kicking up gravel in its wake. Its graceful stride was a beautiful thing to watch.

  "Fast,” Hagerman marveled.

  "You got that right,” Marty said. “All the models can run about three times faster than their biological counterparts. Not only that, but imagine having a dog that doesn't need to eat, sleep, or produce waste. You plug it in nightly as a rule, but it's got a two-week charge. You want to pull an all-nighter, your Gonzo is right there with you."

  The Gonzo returned, placing the stick at Marty's feet. He picked it up and tossed it again. The robot took off after it. Chib got up and sauntered down the porch, settling in the tall grass at the edge of the gravel. She never once glanced at the stick.

  "Notice how I didn't have to issue the command again,” Marty said. “The robots have an intuitive understanding of what is expected of them. But only the good things. This dog won't bite children or tear up your drapes. It won't run in front of a car chasing a squirrel. Plus they adapt easily. You want it to pick up your newspaper, you only need to show it once."

  The robot came back, depositing the stick. This time Marty ignored it.

  "Sleep, Gonzo,” Marty said.

  The dog sank to its belly and closed its eyes.

  "It'll stay like that all day if I let it,” Marty said.

  "Heck,” Hagerman said, “Chib will do that right now."

  Marty ignored the comment. “They're programmed initially with over two hundred tricks. Most of these commands are intuitive—sit, roll over, shake—but there's a guidebook included, too. Here's the kicker. With the 450, the programmers have made a breakthrough. The robots are now able to adapt to your needs in ways they never could before. In time, this dog will fit you just as well as your ... er, personality.” He was going to say clothes, then realized how stupid that would sound since Hagerman wasn't wearing any.

  The old man scratched the hair on his chest. The sky above the trees was going purple.

  "They like being petted and all that?” Hagerman asked.

  "Sure,” Marty said. “They respond to affection."

  "Respond ... But do they like it?"

  "I'm not sure I see the difference."

  Hagerman shrugged. “How much they cost?"

  Marty told him. Hagerman whistled.

  "I know it seems like a lot,” Marty said, “but it's really about the cost of a two-week vacation. Plus Gonzo Incorporated backs every product with a hundred percent guarantee. If you don't find this to be the most perfect dog you've ever had, just send him in within ninety days, and they'll give you your money back."

  Hagerman made a noncommittal sound. He looked at Marty a moment, then gazed at his vegetable garden.

  "Maybe you'd like to come up and get a pumpkin this year,” Hagerman said.

  Marty tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “That might be nice,” he said.

  "No charge, of course."

  "That's very generous."

  Hagerman looked down at the Gonzo. “Well, I guess you convinced me. I'll be right back."

  Hagerman headed into the house. His feet left footprints in the dust on the porch. Chib yawned but didn't get up.

  Marty felt like crying out with joy. It was true that Father Hagerman was probably doing it out of pity, but Marty didn't care.

  "You won't regret it at all,” he called after him.

  The old man returned a few seconds later. Marty's smile vanished. Hagerman was carrying a black, double-barreled shotgun.

  The old man stopped on the porch, the gun held loosely at his side. It was a rusted-out thing, something that must have been passed down to Hagerman through the generations.

  "Sir...” Marty said, his voice cracking. He couldn't get himself to say anything else. His lungs refused to take in air.

  When Hagerman came down the steps, Marty realized that he had underestimated the insanity of the old man. If only the Gonzo's self-defense protocols weren't turned off until a sale was made...

  Just when Marty was about to run, Hagerman suddenly swung toward his scrawny dog lying in the grass. He pointed the shotgun at the dog's head, the fading sunlight glinting off the black metal.

  "Got to be done,” he said, cocking the hammer.

  "Sir!” Marty cried.

  Raising an eyebrow, Hagerman looked at him. “I told you I only need one dog,” he said.

  Marty swallowed. The lump in his throat felt as big as one of Hagerman's pumpkins. The mouth of the barrel was only inches from Chib's head.

  "But sir,” he said, realizing he had to tread lightly here, “you can't just ... kill her."

  "Why not? Your dog is better in every single way."

  He pressed the gun down on Chib's head, flattening the coarse fur. One of Chib's eyelids opened a crack, then shut.

  "Please,” Marty said. “You can't do this ... I mean, don't you care about her?"

  Hagerman turned to Marty, and for the first time, Marty realized it was all an act. There was a gleam of amusement in Hagerman's eyes. He lowered the rifle.

  "So there's another reason to have a dog then?” he said, cracking a gold-toothed smile.

  It was a strange mix of emotions that Marty felt—relief that there would be no gunshot, and disappointment that he was not going to make a sale.

  "You see, son,” Hagerman said, “it's hard to love a dog unless there's a chance it don't love you back.” He opened up the barrel and turned it to face Marty. “Empty. Just in case you were wondering."

  Marty nodded. His heart was still racing, but he attempted a smile. “I appreciate your letting me talk to you,” he said, and turned back to the van. The drive home suddenly seemed much longer. It would be all right, he told himself. He would just have to work two jobs all year.

  "Where you going, son?” Hagerman asked.

  "Home,” Marty sighed, opening the door. He was about to call the Gonzo, which was still sitting quietly.

  "Well, aren't you going to sell me the dog first?"

  Marty looked at Hagerman. The old man didn't appear to be joking.


  "Sir?"

  "You heard me."

  "But ... what about ... I thought you only needed one?"

  Hagerman nodded. “That's right. I've got Chib. But I still need someone to watch my garden."

  There was no doubt in Marty's mind that Father Hagerman was insane. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to argue.

  Hagerman went into the house to get his money, returning with a wad of cash. Hardly anyone used real money these days, but it didn't surprise Marty that Hagerman did. The old man filled out the necessary paperwork. Then, after issuing the proper voice commands to program the dog to respond to Hagerman, the transaction was done.

  "I'm really grateful,” Marty said.

  "Don't thank me,” Hagerman said. “You just get on back here in October and get yourself a pumpkin, all right?"

  They shook hands. Hagerman turned to the house, the Gonzo following on his heels. Marty climbed into his van. He realized he had forgotten to give Hagerman his user manual.

  He rolled down the window. “Oh, Father!” he called, holding up the manual with the other hand. “This is yours."

  "Keep it,” Hagerman said.

  It wasn't until Marty returned on a cool Saturday in October that he realized what Father Hagerman meant. Coming up the drive, he saw that nestled among the tall cornstalks and the plump, shiny pumpkins was the Gonzo. Marty almost didn't recognize it. It was standing on its hind legs, braced against a wooden post. It was dressed in a red plaid shirt, rolled up blue overalls, and a straw hat. Marty knew, from how still it was, that the battery had long since died.

  There wasn't a crow in sight.

  Copyright ©2007 Scott William Carter

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  ON THE BUBBLE BY RAJNAR VAJRA

  Illustration by Nicholas Jainschigg

  * * * *

  Every mode of communication has its own strengths and weaknesses—and emergency reserves.

  August 16, 2028

  Eve Horton, my youngest granddaughter, reeled in the string tied to her wrist to pull my face down to her eye level. She peered at me, then held my imaged mouth near her left ear. Evidently, my smile wasn't enough and she wanted to hear me claim I was having fun. A helium-filled balloon, even one sprayed with x-change paint, makes a poor loudspeaker, so I gave her the white lie in as much of a bellow as my dying lungs and senile vocal cords could manage. Satisfied, she let me, or rather my point of view, float back up above crowd level.

  Despite the clear afternoon sun, lightbulbs were glowing; thousands beaded tightly on high lines connecting each fairground structure to its neighbors. To most people in the cotton-candy sticky, Tilt-a-Whirl dizzy horde, this might've seemed wasteful—assuming they noticed. And cared. But my engineer's eye was still sharp enough to spot omni-voltaic foam sheathing rooftops and tents. Ergo, this redundant illumination wouldn't add a penny to anyone's electric bill and probably helped prevent overcharging whatever batteries lurked in the park's power shed. Still, according to Horton's Third Law, or maybe the Fourth, since I've never finalized my list, every thrifty act has some hidden cost. In this case, checking bulbs and replacing dead ones couldn't come cheap. And unlike me, not one of the countless lights was burned out.

  A boy, not yet a teenager but surely a good five years older than my Evie, passed us towing a balloon displaying a fellow sufferer's face: grandmotherly, age spotted, and friendly. Her eyes were as pain lined as mine, but she winked at me just before two bulky men with “Manny's Maintenance” emblems on their gray coveralls stepped between us. I think she winked; could've been a transmission glitch. With so many people around, some other x-change tourist might be operating on a microwave frequency close enough to cause interference....

  I shifted attention to the translucent clock in my peripheral display. Twenty miles from the fairground, in the hospice wing of Saint Teresa Hospital, in the room I shared with the always astonishing Juan Diego Lopez, I pressed the “attention” button on my x-change remote to make the balloon flash rainbow colors. Eve was too busy tugging both me and her mom toward a food stand emblazoned with those appetizing words “Fried Dough” to look up, but her mother, my daughter-in-law Amanda, was more alert.

  "What is it, Fred?” she asked before remembering she wouldn't be able to hear the answer. “Wait a second, sweetheart,” she told Eve, “Grandpa's trying to tell us something."

  Frowning, Evie pulled me down again and turned the balloon so both of them could admire my wrinkles.

  "Kids,” I shouted, triggering a juicy cough. I gulped some water and continued. “Those custodians who passed a moment ago reminded me. Got an appointment coming up with a technician here at the hospice. Be offline for maybe twenty minutes.” Cough, sip. “I'll flash hello when I return."

  Evie's frown deepened. “But Grandpa! You promised!"

  "I couldn't promise to be with you every single second today, honey. Honest, I'll be back before you know it."

  "Well, I suppose."

  "Listen to your mother, okay? And Amanda, please be careful."

  "You know I will, Fred.” Poorly disguised annoyance edged her voice. “Besides, my job here today isn't to catch ‘em, just spot ‘em."

  "Right. Sorry.” I turned off the feed, pushed the featherweight x-change “glasses” onto my forehead, and shoved the video lens staring at me to one side. I kept my expression neutral, but with Lopez nearby I might as well have been wearing a placard.

  "You are troubled, amigo?" My roommate was standing, practicing one of his Qigong exercises. Perhaps calming himself before his scheduled afternoon surgery, although he never seemed concerned about being sliced open.

  "Troubled, yeah. Silly of me, I'm sure. It's just that Amanda's using my granddaughter again as—as what we used to call a ‘beard’ back in the day.” Come to think of it, “back in the day” had long since gone belly-up.

  Lopez smiled, spiraling one hand above his head, palm upward, while the other twirled at his waist. I'd never met anyone before who'd converse while doing Tai Chi, Qigong, Yoga, or the like, but Lopez was one of a kind. Still, he didn't respond until completing a slow inhalation. “I understand you. But you've told to me Amanda is on duty most weekends, so how else could she enjoy these hours with her daughter?"

  "I know, I know. Just can't abide the idea of mixing police work with daycare. Not with my granddaughter.” County ordinances require an official police presence wherever enough people are gathered, but Amanda's team was mainly on the prowl for drug trafficking. The park's hired security guards could handle most pickpockets, flashers, molesters, and idiots with overly short fuses.

  "Honestly, Juan, I've never been quite sure about Amanda. Don't say it! Knowing you, you're probably about to tell me I should be grateful for the chance to get to know her better. Oh hell, I am grateful. And I'm for sure grateful to be with Evie."

  "This is good. Gratitude is my favorite of emotions."

  "Really?” He was trying to distract me and I appreciated it. “Would've thought you'd favor ... love or compassion considering the way you go on about those two."

  He began the leisurely arm swings of the form he called “Dragón de la Natación.” “Love and compassion, Fred, are wonderful and holy feelings, but may not of themselves drive el cachorrodeleón from his castle."

  "The lion cub?” Before rooming with Lopez, my Spanish had nearly rusted away.

  His smile widened. “My affectionate way of saying ‘ego.’ What emotion other than gratitude makes the heart glow, yet pushes the self aside without pain?"

  Smoothly, as if he'd completed his long Swimming Dragon routine rather than just begun it, he slipped into his bed and pulled the thin covers up.

  "What's wrong?” I asked, surprised.

  "I did not believe she was due for some time.” He chuckled. “My hope was to be in surgery by then."

  "Jesus!” I muttered, turning to stare into my bedside water glass, half expecting the surface to display JurassicPark-style compression ripples. But Mary Reed, our
thrice-a-week in-room physical therapist only had the personality of a T-Rex, not quite the mass. Still, her tread was heavy enough to feel through my mattress now that Lopez had alerted me. A moment later, the woman herself opened the door and tromped in, three hours ahead of schedule.

  "Afternoon, boys! Bill Meyer over at Cedars, bless his sweet soul, passed away last night so's I'm free this morning and I thought we'd get to you boys, hey, temprano. That means ‘early.’ Don't it, Juan?"

  "Most certainly,” Lopez said in his smoothest caramel voice.

  Mary wasn't one ounce overweight, but was a neutron star of a woman: small and improbably dense with linebacker muscles compressed onto a five-foot-five frame. Her race was anyone's guess; her mop of hair was dyed white-blond with a scarlet streak in front; her hands were short but thick as mittens. She clearly viewed me as a particularly willful toddler but Lopez as a saint on his deathbed. In fact, cancer notwithstanding, he only acted infirm when she was around, his graceful way of avoiding certain exercises he considered “bad for the chi.” Considering he'd already lived three years past his doctors’ most optimistic prognoses, he seemed to be on to something.

  "Everyone ready?” Mary asked rhetorically.

  "Perhaps some other time,” I offered. Given a shred of hope she'd go easy on me, I would've confessed how far I'd cut down on my pain meds this morning to keep a clear head for my granddaughter's sake. But I knew Mary better than that.

  Ignoring my comment, she deposited her case of torture implements on my mattress and threw it open with her usual violence. “You been out of that bed at all today, Freddy Horton?"

  "Sure.” Twice, and only because I can't bear to use a bedpan, and each twenty-yard trip to the john took fifteen minutes. Each way. When I'm low on meds, it hurts just to stand.

  She eyed me dubiously. “Let's change up the order today. After our warm-ups, hey, we'll move on to stretching, then the ankle weights, wrist weights, and you better believe we'll end with more stretches. Okay?” She plucked the x-change glasses off my head, tossing them onto my bedside table, snatched my blankets away, and ordered me to start wiggling limbs. Of course, she respectfully asked Lopez's permission before removing his covers.