Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  A vanished era, yes. And yet here is Jack Williamson giving us one more three-parter in Analog, seventy-one years after his serial The Legion of Space, seventy-five years after The Green Girl. Like the Great Pyramid of Gizeh rising above the Egyptian sands does Williamson endure. He is the most versatile of our writers, changing and growing with the decades. But, fresh and vigorous as his new novel is, it is, I think, one of the last of its kind, a relic of yesteryear's publishing customs.

  —Robert Silverberg

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  Bank Run by Tom Purdom

  A Novella

  Tom Purdom recently told us “I'm writing a literary memoir that tells how I wrote certain stories—how I got the idea, dealt with literary problems, editors, etc.—along with relevant glimpses of personal things like my marriage, and I'm posting it on my website, philart.net/tompurdom. The first three installments discuss my early stories, the fourth and fifth my Asimov's Casanova tales.” His newest story for us is a fast-paced and exciting look at what the future may mean by a “Bank Run".

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  Sabor was sitting in the passenger shack with his concubine when his personal assistant spotted the other boat. Sabor was devoting half his attention to the concubine and half to the numbers on his information display—a form of multitasking that combined his two major interests.

  Choytang rested his hand on Sabor's shoulder. He pointed toward the rear window and Sabor immediately dimmed the numbers floating in front of his eyes.

  The other boat was fueled by coal and propelled by a screw. It was moving approximately three times faster than the solar-powered paddlewheel transport that was carrying Sabor and his two companions up the lake. Eight soldiers were formed up on the right side. The six soldiers in the front row were lean hardbodies. The two soldiers standing behind them were massives who looked like they could have powered their boat with their own muscles. Their tan uniforms were accented with chocolate helmets and crossbelts—a no-nonsense, low contrast style that had become the trademark of one of the more expensive costumers on the planet.

  Sabor's wristband had been running his banking program, as usual. The display was presenting him with the current status of the twelve-hour loan market. Twelve-hour loans were routine transactions—accounting maneuvers that maintained reserves at an acceptable level—and he usually let his alter run his operations in the twelve-hour market. He always checked it at least twice a day, however, to make sure his competitors hadn't developed an unpleasant surprise.

  Sabor's concubine had already activated her own display. “There's a fishing commune called Galawar about four kilometers from here,” the concubine reported. “You financed a dam and a big breeding operation for them. Their militia setup gets its real-life practice pursuing poachers and running rescue patrols. They can probably have a small force here eight minutes after their watch master initiates assembly."

  Sabor returned the twelve-hour market to his alter and replaced it with the latest figures on the current status of the Galawar loan. “I'll talk to our captain. See if you can exercise your charms on the appropriate officers of the commune."

  The captain had isolated herself in her control shack fifteen minutes after her boat had left the dock. She was sprawling in a recliner with her eyes fixed on the top of a window and her attention focused on the material her personal display was imprinting on her optic nerves.

  "I'm afraid I may be about to cause you some trouble,” Sabor said. “I registered a counterfeit identity when I boarded your boat. My true name is Sabor Haveri. As you probably know, I'm the proprietor of the bank that furnishes your company its primary line of credit."

  The captain had looked tall when she had been stretched across her recliner but she looked even taller when she stood up. She had been operating lake boats for eighteen years, but the information in the public databanks had made it clear her boating work was primarily a money job. Most of the entries Sabor had collected from the databanks had highlighted her exploits as a member of one of the top aquatic hunting clubs on the lake. She would create an awesome vision standing on the back of a riding seal, in hot pursuit of a yellow-feathered swordbeak.

  "I've been having a problem with one of my less reasonable customers,” Sabor said. “He requested a loan I consider unwise. He's trying to force me to make the loan and I decided it might be best if I put some space between us. Unfortunately, he appears to be pursuing me on the steam propelled boat coming up behind us."

  The captain returned her attention to her display. Her uniform had been created by a designer who favored clean, uncluttered lines and she had arranged it with a flair that gave her an air of rangy competence. She jabbed her finger at the air and frowned at the response she received.

  "I think I should ask you your customer's name, Honored Sabor."

  "Possessor Kenzan Khan. The boat appears to have eight soldiers on it. I would appreciate it if you would help me resist if they try to board us."

  "With a crew of one?"

  "I have good reason to believe I'm going to be receiving a little armed assistance from the militia maintained by a fishing commune called Galawar. My personal assistant has some useful skills and I can assure you I'm not totally helpless myself. If you'll give us some help at this end, I believe we can hold off our assailants until our friends at Galawar can ride to our rescue."

  The captain braced her hand on the upper part of the bulkhead and stared out the window. It was a windy morning in the last days of autumn. The surface of the lake looked dark and rippling.

  "I hate to sound melodramatic,” Sabor said, “but the entire financial system of our planet could be at risk. Kenzan tends to be impulsive. If his psych staff gets me under his control ... and I make untenable loans in response to their manipulations..."

  "Most of my ammunition stock consists of non-lethal ammunition. Will non-lethals be sufficient?"

  "I'm just trying to stay out of their hands. Killing them isn't necessary."

  Sabor's concubine was standing in front of the rear window watching the other boat eliminate the last two hundred meters that separated them. “So how did your chat with the commune go?” Sabor asked her. “Are they feeling amenable?"

  Purvali's designers had started with a fleshy woman with a strong sex drive. Then they had stretched out the basic design, added an upper-percentile intelligence, and enhanced the aspects of her genome that influenced coordination and gracefulness. The result was a finely calculated combination of elegance and voluptuousness—a pairing that triggered all the erotic and emotional yearnings the designers had detected when they had given Sabor their standard customer profile tests.

  The designers had also produced an exceptionally competent human being who could satisfy all Sabor's yearnings for good support staff. Purvali doubled as his administrative assistant, in addition to her other functions. Purvali and Choytang constituted his entire permanent staff.

  "I talked to the primary coordinator's executive officer,” Purvali said. “She's talking to the primary coordinator now."

  "Shall I give them a call?"

  "I have a feeling they may want to bargain."

  Sabor stared at the oncoming steamboat. The Galawar commune had bargained down to the last hundredth of a percentage point on both the projects he had financed for them. If he called again, and let them know he was worried...

  "The soldiers you're looking at belong to Colonel Jina,” Purvali said. “I estimate we can hold them off for approximately seven minutes minimum, nine maximum, after they come into range."

  "Even if I bring you in as a surprise?"

  "Yes."

  "It looks like I may have to exercise my talent for stalling. Tell the primary coordinator I want to have a chat. See if you can put me through to our friend the colonel."

  The most prominent feature in Colonel Jina's publicity portraits was the smile that adorned his globular, well nourished face. He was sporting an especially cheerful version of
his trademark when his image popped onto Sabor's optic nerves seconds after Purvali initiated the call.

  "Good morning, Honored Sabor. It's a pleasure to hear from you."

  "I understand I'm being pursued by soldiers who are affiliated with your enterprise, Colonel."

  "I've dispatched eight of my best. They have orders to board your boat and take you prisoner."

  "I've examined your rate schedule. I'm prepared to offer you 50 percent more than you're being paid."

  The colonel frowned. Soulful regret replaced The Smile. “I'm afraid I have to inform you I can't consider your offer. I appreciate your interest but I never entertain counter offers once I've committed my armed staff to an operation. My reputation for dependability is one of my primary business assets."

  "I understand that, Colonel. I should advise you, however, that the situation may not be as one-sided as it appears. I have some capacity for violence, too."

  Choy was bustling around the passenger shack overturning tables and chairs and lining them up in front of the windows. He and Purvali had wrapped themselves in defensive vests and planted hats with defensive units on their heads. Sabor had slipped into a vest but he had laid his hat on a windowsill.

  Purvali pointed at the air in front of her eyes. Sabor nodded and his display split in half. A lean man in a recyclable work suit occupied the left section. A subtitle reminded Sabor he was looking at the primary coordinator of Galawar Commune.

  "Good morning, Honored Sabor,” the primary coordinator said. “My executive officer says you've asked for assistance."

  "My principal advised me you would probably resist,” Colonel Jina said. “I took that into account when I assigned a completely equipped squad. You can surrender now or we can take you prisoner five minutes from now."

  Sabor's attention started multi-tracking the two conversations. His communication implant had automatically initiated a switching program when it bifurcated the display. The implant transmitted a real time image to the appropriate person whenever Sabor spoke and the other person received a temporary simulation. The primary coordinator and Colonel Jina were probably using similar programs.

  The conversation with the primary coordinator was essentially a standard business bargaining session. The coordinator recognized his obligation to resist anyone who attacked honest merchants as they plied their trade on the lake. He was even willing to let Sabor and his party make a short stop on the commune's territory once they eliminated their difficulties with Colonel Jina's representatives. But he also knew an opportunity when he saw one.

  "We have several members who feel we should refinance our primary loan, Honored Sabor. You may have heard about the interesting line of crabs the Renwar Institute unveiled two tendays ago. We're bidding for the exclusive reproduction rights. The numbers indicate we could draft an unbeatable offer if we could decrease the cost of our current debt servicing."

  With Colonel Jina, Sabor concentrated on more lofty matters—and the time-eating speeches that lofty matters tend to generate. “Your principal is endangering the entire financial system of our planet, Colonel. Kenzan Khan is one of the most fiscally irresponsible personalities I've worked with. If he gets my bank under his control, he'll drain my resources until he triggers an uncontrollable financial chain reaction. You wouldn't accept a contract to poison the lake. The collapse of my bank would be just as devastating."

  "I appreciate your concern,” Colonel Jina said. “But it's my understanding there are three other banks with assets that are as extensive as yours."

  The steamboat had pulled abreast of the starboard windows. The soldiers were still grouped in their parade formation.

  "And they're all interlinked,” Sabor said. “If one of us fails, the others will all be affected. The relationships and interactions in a financial system can be just as complex as the relationships and interactions in an ecological system."

  The six hardbodies on the other boat trained their weapons.

  "I appreciate your willingness to help us,” the coordinator said. “Our rescue force should reach you in about seven minutes."

  A crack slithered across the window directly in front of Sabor. More cracks appeared in the windows on either side. Clouds of particles replaced all three windows. Chilly autumn air flooded the passenger shack.

  Sabor had thrown himself flat as soon as he had seen the first crack. He stretched out his right arm and started crawling toward the barricade Choy had assembled in front of the window.

  Choy had assembled three guns. He and Purvali were lying on their backs with their weapons raised above the barricade and their eyes fixed on the aiming screen mounted on the rear of each barrel. Sabor picked up the third gun and tapped a symbol on the control screen built into the stock. The screen clicked off a ten second count. A line of boldface announced that the gun had linked with the short-range interface built into his wristband.

  "They're firing at the barricade,” Choy said. “They'll have it dissolved in about two minutes."

  "What are you aiming at?"

  "We're concentrating on the hardbody on the left of the line. I'm assuming we should try to completely eliminate one gun."

  Sabor had already raised his gun above the barricade. He marked the hardbody on the left with a mental command and the barrel swiveled on its mount. The gun was an elegant piece of smoothly functioning machinery, emitting a well-mannered slap ... slap ... slap as its internal computer calculated the range, checked the position of the barrel, and transmitted a fire command once every four seconds. The anti-personnel loads contained molecular devices that temporarily disrupted the central nervous system. The defensive system built into the soldiers’ uniforms deployed defensive molecules that could neutralize the incoming moles. A concentrated attack could overwhelm the defensive moles and remove a hardbody from the firing line for several minutes. The gun wasn't programmed to compensate for the rocking of the waves, but Sabor's own brain could handle that aspect of the situation.

  He rotated the gun to his right, to keep his target on the aiming screen, and realized the other boat was turning.

  "They're turning onto a possible interception course,” Choy said.

  "I've checked the databanks for information on their jumping capacity,” Purvali said. “There's nothing explicit but I estimate the hardbodies can probably hop across a two meter separation without making an extraordinary effort."

  "Can you do me a favor?” Sabor said. “Can you find out what kind of cargo this floating palace is carrying? Perhaps we can find something our captain will be willing to part with. And gain a small increment in our forward progress."

  Sabor's cool, chinup élan was one of his trademarks. His mother had included it in his specifications and he considered it one of her better decisions. He had even ordered a biochemical reinforcement when he had reached legal maturity. He could put several million yuris in play and cheerfully sleep, eat, and dally with a concubine while he waited for the results. There were times, however, when he suspected some hidden segment of his personality was trembling in terror while it watched the rest of him treat major calamities as if they were trivial disruptions.

  A list popped onto Sabor's display—a complete catalog of the boat's cargo, assembled from the contracts that had been posted in the databanks. Public posting couldn't be enforced by law, but people who ignored the custom enjoyed short business careers. There was no central government on Fernheim. The business community enforced its rules by monitoring deals and invoking the ancient human customs of shunning and ostracism.

  The bulkiest item on the list was a crate containing ten ceramic microwave receptors. The last starship to orbit Fernheim had included a passenger who had brought the program for producing the most advanced model available in the solar system. The receptors would capture 15 percent more energy than the most competitive model available on the planet—a big increase for a world on which fossil fuels were still under-exploited and only five microwave generators had been placed in orbit.<
br />
  The receptors took up most of the cargo space. The rest of the cargo consisted of small orders of luxuries. Meat taken from real animals. Organically grown wine. Nine golden swans.

  "We could use the swans as harassers,” Choy said. “All I need is the activation codes."

  Sabor pipped the captain. “I would like to buy your cargo. My figure for the total retail value is three hundred and sixty thousand. I'll add 10 percent to cover delays and aggravation."

  "To lighten ship?"

  "Yes."

  "It won't add more than a kilometer per hour to our speed. Given their current position..."

  "We're in an every-second-counts situation."

  "It's yours."

  "I'll need the activation and control codes for the ornamental swans. Please transmit them to my assistant, Choytang."

  The overturned table Sabor was using for cover metamorphosed into dust and fragments. Sabor rolled backward and huddled beside the hatch in the middle of the shack.

  Lights turned on as soon as he dropped through the hatch. The crate containing the ceramic receptors took up almost half the floor space. The nine swans had been arranged on a pallet with a low guard rail. The rest of the cargo had been packed in neatly stacked boxes.