Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 1

by Eric Flint

  "Phew! At least they're alive. Maybe they can get me out of here!"

  "Radio triangulation on your signal confirms that one heat trace is you, Dr. Kaibo. The other traces are 0.4 and 0.52 kilometers away. They have plainly become separated and are proceeding away from you along different vectors. Their current paths will not bring them to the point at which you climbed down before sunup. I assume they are lost without light or radio contact."

  Great. Just great. Not only could the other two not rescue me, but they actually needed rescuing themselves. It was like at the speed-skating trials where we'd all been relying on Yuri Abrinov to get our team in. He sprained his ankle half an hour before the first heats . . .

  I shone my light onto the silveriness below me. We were all dead.

  And then a collection of unrelated data points assembled themselves in my head. The electromagnetic distortion. The blue flash. The list of elements . . .

  "ARI, you listed what these beasties are made up of. Correlate that against superconductor materials."

  There was a moment's silence. That's a long time for ARI. "Four known superconducting combinations of listed materials. The best enlargement of the highly reflective bodies assumed to be your creatures reveals a grid patterning of copper oxide with barium, calcium, thallium and yttrium. The materials appear to occur in surface concentrations, rather than within the deeper structure, although this is difficult to establish from this range."

  "Nerve nets. They find metals with electromag fields."

  "I confirm that there are electromagnetic disturbance patterns, which suggest you are correct," said ARI. "It is also apparent that all the other creatures are moving away from the area that will be sunlit. It seems that they are avoiding the light, and if superconducting substances are an intrinsic part of their physiology, with the increase in temperature, the creature that has trapped you should also be forced to retreat."

  "And how much time is that going to give me, ARI?"

  "Based on the movement of the other creatures, about 16.5 minutes."

  "Too short a time to get out of here and find the others." I took a deep breath. "Start working out the best route for me to get to them, ARI. I'm out of here, just as soon as I've finished stripping these cleats off."

  "How?" asked ARI.

  "I've got a geologist's hammer. That should work."

  "To get past the creature, Dr. Kaibo."

  I levered one of the cleats out, and put it in my sample bag.

  "No time right now to explain, ARI," I said, popping the next cleat. "I'll tell you about if I get out of here. If I don't it won't matter, will it?"

  The truth was I knew that if I did explain ARI's brain-box might just fry. The AI was a computer first and a geological survey tool next. And computers do vectors and probabilities better than I did. What I was going to do involved tossing one magnet at another and hoping the poles would repel . . .

  Rather than do what magnets did best— flip over and stick to each other. If I was wrong about the superconductivity, I was going to be devoured, even if I was later excreted without lights and an aerial. If I was wrong about my ability, I'd probably get devoured too, if I didn't die of shame first.

  "You must tell me, Dr. Kaibo. You are hyperventilating. Monitoring of your heart rate indicates that you are in a state of considerable agitation. Do not panic."

  That wasn't what I would have called it, I thought, as I started to climb down towards the metalovore. I had seven meters of creature to cross. And then . . . I'd need to win some time to get away. Perhaps I could feed it my cleats. It had stopped to digest the metal off Simmo and Lucy, after all.

  "I'm not panicking, ARI." I lowered my boots towards the silvery surface.

  "Your heart rate is over 270. This is not safe."

  Typical AI! "What I'm doing isn't safe."

  My boots and my weight indented the surface of the creature. I started to sink slowly into it, into its —for want of a better word— flesh. The blubbery stuff was nearly over my toes now. I ignored ARI squawking and concentrated. Timing was everything. I had to do it butt first—because I needed to hold onto the rock&mdashand push off.

  I looked at my feet. ARI had better be right about the superconducting material.

  "ARI," I said, "if you lower an electromagnet toward a superconductor . . . You get an equal and opposite magnetic field. Electromagnetic levitation runs the trains of human space. I have E-M units in my boots for hull inspection in zero G."

  "You cannot walk on what will effectively be a frictionless repelling surface."

  "No." I said, grinning in spite of the situation. "But I can skate."

  Now .

  I turned on the hull-inspection electromagnets in my boots, and pushed off. Hard.

  A skater needs have his skate-blade "bite" through the water layer onto the thin indent edge, which he achieves by turning the skate at a slight angle, giving him some resistance to push off. I had the wall&mdashlike a beginner skater had the rail.

  It was a pity to do it butt first. Like the beginner skater I was probably going to land on it.

  An ice-skater slides because ice liquefies under the pressure created by the body's mass concentrated onto a narrow blade. Direction of slide is determined by the shape of blade creating a narrow, linear path. Trains they run on a T-shaped electromag rail, enclosed by equal and opposite e-m units in the carriage. That levitates it and gives it a narrow linear path to slide down.

  If I had the angle of my feet right, I was going skating on a frictionless surface. And if I had the depth and indent right it would be linear. Otherwise I was going to flip and lose my headlight, and radio aerial.

  It all happened then, so fast. I landed a good twenty meters from the beast; and, just like a beginner skater, right on my butt. The only difference was that the landing was just hard, not wet.

  I scrambled to my feet as the metalovore nudged away from the wall. With fumbling fingers I undid the rock sample bag and flung the metal cleats as far onto it as I could, and then turned and ran.

  * * *

  I only got around to answering ARI's squalling when I was out of the gully. "Point me at the others," I panted. "And get the coffee ready to brew. I'm going need it. So are they."

  "Why did you shriek like that, Dr, Kaibo? Are you injured?" asked the AI.

  "Nope." I couldn't stop smiling. "It was a shriek of glee."

  "I understand your relief, Dr. Kaibo. Now . . ."

  "It wasn't relief, ARI," I interrupted. "It was pleasure. You're talking to the only man who has ever skated on the perfect surface. Lord, I just wish the things were bigger. And if we had more time before the sunlight was going to get here, I swear I'd go back and do it again. Talk about the ultimate danger sport!"

  * * *

  Dave Freer is the author of a number of novels and short stories.

  To read more work by Dave Freer, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

  Weredragons of Mars

  Written by Carl Frederick

  Illustrated by Dan Skinner

  In a small, out-of-the-way cabin of the generational ship Trans Global Hope, three students sat around a table planning mayhem. Their clothing, stereotypical of upper-class, fifteenth-century England, included weapons; Jeffrey and Rolf wore broadswords while Claire's attire embraced a rapier. The three weapons had the generic feel of almost anything produced by the Everything Factory. But then again, they only had to last a year.

  "I've had it," said Jeffrey. "Weredragons of Mars! That's the last straw." A jerkin, arrayed seemingly by accident, obscured the cabin comfort-camera and, from a boomvid player, a classic neo-VisiGoth music vid blared loud, the speaker pointing conveniently toward the comfort-cam's microphone.

  "The CAD," said Jeffrey, softly under the music. "He's the real authority on the ship." He put both palms flat on the table and leaned in toward Claire. "I say we kidnap him."

  "I'm with Jeffery," said Rolf, his hand resting on the hilt of his
sword.

  Claire glowered at him, then turned to Jeffrey. " I think we should kidnap the sheriff. Going after the CAD is a stupid idea." Jeffrey raised his head and looked down his nose at her. "Fine," she said after a moment of silence. "It's a stupid idea, my lord." She shook her head. "Will you ever grow up? You get your title in a lottery and then act like you were born to royalty."

  "That," said Jeffrey, pointing a finger, "is the point. We're required to act as they tell us. They decide a trope every year, make the rules, and we have to follow them." He rubbed a hand along his thigh to smooth out a wrinkle in his tights.

  Rolf scowled. "And we can't even do that," he said. "The trope's already a week old and the handbook isn't even out yet."

  "It's all phony," said Claire, her voice raised. She stared down at the hilt of her rapier. "Fiction! Where's the realism? We're all titled. Where are the serfs?"

  "If you want serfs," said Rolf, nodding toward the boomvid, "just keep shouting into the comfort-cam until we all get arrested." He partially withdrew his sword, then slammed it back into its scabbard. "I doubt if the brig, um . . . the dungeon, is any fun at all. But it'll probably be serfy."

  Jeffrey made "down" motions with his hands. "We mustn't lose our focus," he said almost at whisper. "When this ship arrives at Earth Prime— "

  "In another gazillion years, maybe," said Rolf.

  "They say it'll be soon," said Jeffrey.

  "Yeah, sure."

  "The shipquake last month," said Claire. "They said it means we're almost there."

  "Look." Jeffrey hit the table softly with his fist. "When we get to Earth Prime, I don't want to be one of the . . . one of Claire's serfs."

  "If the terraforming ship didn't succeed," said Rolf with a grim smile, "it won't matter. We'll all just die."

  "You're always so cheerful," said Claire.

  "Come on, guys. Cool it." Jeffrey stood and turned to Claire. "Are you in or out?"

  Claire sighed. "In."

  "You know," said Rolf, thoughtfully, "maybe this is wrong. Maybe we should try to find the Oracle and plead our cause to him."

  Jeffrey cocked his head; this was a new aspect of Rolf's personality. "You believe in the Oracle," he said. "Don't you?"

  "Yeah," said Rolf. "Do you a have a problem with that?"

  "Well, maybe I do."

  "I wonder," said Claire, "if there are both Phobos weredragons as well as Deimos weredragons."

  Rolf turned on her. "What?"

  "Were-things change during the full moon. And on Mars there are two moons."

  Jeffrey looked on with admiration. Yet again, Claire had defused a potential quarrel.

  Just then, the door flew open and three men with drawn swords surged into the cabin. Then a fourth sauntered in. He was paunchy, past middle-age, and his sword remained in its scabbard.

  Jeffrey jumped to his feet and started to draw his weapon. But when the intruders made menacing motions with their own cutlery, he changed his mind and extended a hand instead.

  "I'm, ur, Baron Von Jeffrey." He smiled at the middle-aged man. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

  "I am the sheriff." The man ignored Jeffrey's proffered hand and pointed at the boomvid player. "And turn off that damned noise."

  As Claire switched off the player, the sheriff turned to one of his compatriots, a man looking to be in his mid twenties. "Last year," said the sheriff, "I was the sheriff. What am I called now?"

  "You still are the sheriff, sir . . . I mean sire."

  "Damn." The sheriff let out a breath. "What's holding up that handbook?" Returning his attention to Jeffrey, he said, "These gentlemen are my duly authorized deputies."

  "Constables," said the younger man.

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. "I must inform you that you are all under arrest." He spoke in a tired voice. "Please come with us."

  "Arrested on what charges?" said Claire.

  "Crimes against the ship. Undermining the ship of state." He took a parchment held out to him by a constable. "In particular," said the sheriff, his eyes on the document, "Vandalism. Willful destruction of a comfort-cam."

  "So the surveillance cameras found us," said Jeffrey.

  "The comfort-cams?" said the sheriff "You know better than that. You went to school."

  Jeffrey folded his arms over his chest. "You don't really expect us to believe that nonsense they teach us in school?"

  "Nonsense?" The sheriff shook his head. "What's wrong with kids these days?"

  "Is it a crime to want lives with meaning?" said Jeffrey, talking not so much to the sheriff as to the constables. "How can there be meaning when nothing's real? Nothing's solid. Nothing's important." He made eye contact with the nearest constable. "Our education is useless. All we have are these stupid yearly tropes." He returned his gaze to the sheriff. "And this one's more stupid than most."

  The sheriff scowled. "This education of yours." He gave a grunt of disdain. "Didn't they teach you how important it is to keep Earth's culture —our culture— alive?"

  "Culture?" said Claire, her eyes bright with revolutionary zeal. "You call Weredragons of Mars, culture?"

  "Horror, fantasy, science fiction. We get it all out of the way in just a single year." The sheriff shrugged. "Then we can get back to real literature."

  "What?" Jeffrey turned on the man. "I like science fiction. I was looking forward to a year of it. But this isn't SF. This is junk!"

  "SF would have been great," said Rolf, "especially after last year. Forbidden Love in the Saddle."

  " 'The Old West,' if you don't mind," said the sheriff, "But before that, we had Caesar's Rome, the Russian Revolution, the Year of the Pharaohs, the Wizard of Oz. Good stuff."

  "But all phony!" Jeffrey shouted.

  "Tell it to the judge." The sheriff glanced over to his closest constable. "Are judges still called judges?"

  "I don't know, sir— sire."

  "Thank you." The sheriff pointed toward the door. "Okay, let's go." He threw a glance to a constable. "Victor. You take the lead." He gestured at the students. "And you three next. We'll bring up the rear."

  The constables lowered their swords out of the way as Jeffrey, Rolf, and Claire moved to the door. "God, but swords are awkward in confined spaces," said a constable.

  "Give me six-shooters any time," said another.

  Just as they'd all passed through the cabin door, an announcement rang through the corridors. "Red weredragon alert." The voice was loud and crisp. "Weredragon alert status, red." Then a siren sounded.

  "What the hell does that mean?" a constable bellowed over the noise.

  "Run," shouted Jeffrey, seizing the opportunity. He sprinted down the corridor. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Claire and Rolf running close behind. And farther back, he saw the constables running clumsily with swords brandished.

  They ran down corridors where the walls and ceilings, holo-active displays, showed the reds of the Martian desert landscape. Scattered on occasional rocky promontories, medieval castles stood replete with turrets, ramparts with crenulations, and drawbridges over waterless moats. In the deepening twilight, Phobos and Deimos blazed full near one horizon, while at the other, the small disk of the sun sank to its setting.

  "Very convenient," Rolf called out between heavy breaths, "this sudden weredragon alert."

  Jeffrey took a few more steps, then stopped, his fists clenched, his mood dark and defiant.

  "What?" said Rolf, almost running into him.

  " Too convenient," said Jeffrey. "They're playing with us. I don't like being manipulated." He turned to watch as the constables closed on them. "Anyway, it's a long time to the end of the trope-year. We can't hide out that long."

  When the sheriff had sidled up, Jeffrey said, "Go ahead. Lock us up." He held his hands together, pretending to be handcuffed like a movie bad-guy. Then, conscious that his gesture was out of trope, quickly separated them. Not that it mattered; in the transition period, he couldn't be fined for a maltropism.


  "Drop the melodrama," said the sheriff. "Just hand over your swords— slowly, please."

  "At least," said Jeffrey, as he presented his sword, hilt first, "we'll get good coverage in the Herald."

  "The what?" said the sheriff.

  "The former Dodge City Gazette," said a constable.

  "I wouldn't count on it," said the sheriff with a malevolent smile. "The CAD wants to see the three of you."

  Claire gasped.

  * * *

  Through e-snooping, Jeffrey had long ago discovered the address of the CAD's Council. But he'd never been inside that unmarked cabin. He knew of no one who had. Now, he and his two friends stood facing a table in that very place. Sitting, were three middle-aged men, one of whom wore something resembling a hearing aid. They were flanked by two younger men who were standing— obviously guards since they carried, not swords, but nasty-looking Z-bec stunners. The cabin, barely large enough to hold everyone, was typically nondescript and, like all cabins Jeffrey knew of, had a ceiling-mounted comfort-cam.