Crawford had his computer out and was scanning the screen nervously. “No one has ever waived their time. Even people with dying relatives never waive the five days. It's crazy."
“It's in the policy. And you yourself quoted me the cost of $3,300 a day. At four days left, minus $300..."
Crawford nodded. “Twelve thousand nine hundred dollars,” his voice cracked. He rubbed his neck around his collar, then pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his sweating brow. “Claims is not going to like this."
“And I'm entitled to that check by the end of business today,” Gary pointed out. “Give it to my wife. I'll be otherwise occupied."
“Yes, but even so, we don't have to pay for your injuries."
“Absolutely not,” agreed Gary. “I never said you did."
“Then why are you having surgery to fix your broken legs?"
“And repair my lacerations. They say the plastic surgeon guy here is excellent."
“It's not authorized."
“Mr. Crawford, again you are too close to the policy. Step back a moment. I am not your patient now. I am your property. Well, was your property, until you sold the distribution rights to my parts."
“We did no such thing."
“I'm afraid you did. You had to. You only had six hours after I signed the waiver. Since your regular distributor didn't seem interested, another party bought them."
“Another party?"
“Yes."
“Who?"
“Me."
“You?"
“Me. I got them pretty cheap too.” Gary waved Crawford closer and whispered. “Don't let it get around, but I paid a dollar for the whole lot."
“What?"
“It turned out to be the high bid. Imagine that."
“You can't bid on yourself."
“Nothing in the policy says I can't. In fact, the policy assumes that all tissues for distribution will go to your preferred distributor, but by law, you have to include language delineating an open bidding process. Of course, without having to actually notify anyone, it's up to the other parties to sniff out available bodies before the bidding closes."
Once again Crawford scanned his computer. Gary reached for an envelope by his bedside. He handed it to Crawford who took it absently. “What's this?"
“Your certified check for one dollar,” answered Gary.
“I can't accept this,” said Crawford. He placed the envelope back on the bedside table.
“You just did,” pointed out Dr. Wilson. “I'm a witness."
Crawford glanced at the envelope, then returned his stare to the computer screen. He swallow hard. This couldn't be happening. Insured people didn't manipulate wording in the policy. It was the insurer's prerogative to do that. But they still hadn't explained everything.
“Assuming you did waive the five days, and properly bid on the distribution rights, I still don't see how we have to pay for your surgeries and recovery. It will cost us a fortune. It just isn't included in any coverage."
“Again, Mr. Crawford, you're thinking like a weasel trying to steal an egg from under a chicken. You're not paying under the policy. In fact, the policy specifically forbids any further treatment once the five days are waived."
“So you admit that you can't have the surgery."
“Absolutely,” smiled Gary, “However..."
“There are no howevers, Mr. Carter.” Crawford was sure the twisted road through the health insurance policy ended there.
“...However,” continued Gary, “under the organ donation section, it specifically states that Chicago Casualty will do all that it can to insure the organs provided are suitable for use and free from defects or damage prior to distribution. Since my bones and skin are included in the list you provided for me the other day, you have to make sure they are in good condition before I can take possession. As I read the policy, that means the bones must be fixed and the skin repaired."
“That's not the intention of the policy,” argued Crawford.
“It's not the intention of the policy to have otherwise healthy people harvested for organs when they can be fixed. You are the one who is trying to stretch the wording to save your company some money. Now you are stuck with the whole bill and you owe me almost $13,000."
“This is impossible,” said Crawford, his face and mouth twitching with frustration, sweat starting to bead up on his forehead.
“I remember thinking that exact same thing yesterday,” mused Gary. “The hospital billing department has copies of all the appropriate policy sections, my waiver, and my bid for distribution rights. Oh, and since this is not a patient coverage, they're going to want to be paid right away, instead of waiting four to six months like you usually make them do."
There was a knock at the door. “Carter. Three-Oh-Seven. Got a date in OR six,” stated a tall orderly accompanied by a stocky nurse.
Gary raised his arm, IV tube and all. “That's me."
“We just wheel the whole bed,” said the nurse. “Just relax, Mr. Carter."
“So long, Mr. Crawford, nice doing business with you,” said Gary as he lay back smiling.
“Wait,” interrupted Crawford, “I'll get the total loss waived. We'll pay for the standard coverage,” he suggested. He was thinking of all the extra money that Chicago Casualty was going to have to pay. The Carters had outlined their case as well as any insurance adjustor.
“Hmm,” thought Gary for a moment. “Naw, I'll go with what I've got now. Sorry, Mr. Crawford."
Crawford watched the bed as it was wheeled to the elevators. He returned to his tablet PC, tapping and scratching at the screen in a panic. It couldn't be right. This was preposterous. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Dr. Wilson started to leave as well, but noticed the envelope on the bedside table. He picked it up and handed it back to Bernard Crawford. The confused adjustor looked at the doctor with wide eyes, his mouth partway open. “You don't want to forget this,” Wilson said, handing the one-dollar check into Crawford's trembling fingers. “We wouldn't want the whole thing to be a total loss now, would we?"
Copyright 2006 James Hosek
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
THE KEEPER'S MAZE
by JOE SCHEMBRIE
* * * *
If something can't be what it seems to be, you're overlooking something.
Dressed in a rented monk's robe, Joshua Wang emerged from the forest trail. Ahead, beneath the revolving canopy of stars and a two-kilometer arch, torch lights flickered upon the stone walls of a castle. On the field beside the walls, a pair of armored knights faced on mounted chargers, raised lances, and clashed. The throng of tourists gasped as one of the knights tilted off his horse.
At the castle drawbridge, guards crossed their pikes.
“Joshua Wang of Raven Space Salvage and Recovery, to see Emil Hamilton."
“I'll see if his Lordship is available,” said a guard.
After waiting within the castle courtyard, Joshua was greeted by a young woman bearing a quill, parchments, and a tightly strung bodice.
“Lord Hamilton will receive you,” she said, her English accent as deep as the cut of her period dress. “Prithee come."
He was escorted to a high-raftered chamber adorned with tapestries of knights slaying dragons and one another with equal enthusiasm. It was the only room he'd seen since the docking port that had an undisguised computer.
“Joshua, so grand to meet you!” the lone occupant by the stuffed boar's head bellowed with a cavernous smile. He was costumed as a dead ringer for Henry VIII. “I'm Emil Hamilton.” Shaking hands vigorously, he gestured toward the balcony. “What do you think of my little spinning world?"
Joshua took a moment to parse the words. Coming from the forest, he had lapsed into thinking he was on an actual planet. In reality, they were over a quarter-billion kilometers from Earth, and the forest, field, and castle were all inside an artificial space habitat—an “asterie,” a rotating ring two kilometers in
diameter floating in an independent orbit within the Asteroid Belt.
“Scarborough?” Joshua nodded. “Nice."
“A man of few words.” Hamilton took a cigar from a jeweled humidor. “Your references mentioned that."
They sank into fur-lined chairs before the fireplace and exchanged the small talk typical for the high-context business culture of the Belt. It wasn't long, however, until Hamilton's features lost their joviality.
Hamilton tossed a file folder. “Tell me what you see."
Joshua opened the cover to a photograph of a snow-white horse in rampant pose. From the horse's head protruded a horn, about a meter long, slender and sharp as a rapier.
“A unicorn,” Joshua said. If his crew had traveled a megaklick from New Seattle for a joke....
“Plantagenet Line.” Hamilton held his cigar to the fireplace and puffed. “Finest breed of unicorn ever to be genetically engineered. It would be a tremendous draw for this resort. It was to be delivered weeks ago, and I want you to pick it up."
“Where is it?"
“Next item."
Joshua flipped to the next sheet in the folder, a photo of an undistinguished crescent among stars.
“An asterie?"
“Daedalus, the zoological development asterie of Daedalus Genetics Limited. It's currently passing within two million kilometers of Scarborough.” Hamilton smacked an armrest. “May as well be beyond Jupiter, for all the cooperation I've received!"
“You want Raven to go there and bring you a unicorn."
“Thirty thousand Ceresian credits."
Joshua calmed his heartbeat. “That's a bit much for a short cargo run."
“There's somewhat of a complication. The asterie personnel evacuated and left no forwarding address. You'll board on your own initiative."
“You mean, board without permission. There's a seven-year waiting—"
“Look, I don't want you to salvage the asterie. I just want my unicorn!"
“Still, there are laws—"
“Joshua, you've been in the Belt long enough to know that every asterie is a sovereign entity. My legal point is that they're illegally holding property I've paid for."
“I see."
“I was told you have the requisite skills for cracking abandoned eggs such as this, which is why I'm engaging a salvager rather than a freighter skipper. So is there an insurmountable objection?"
Hamilton billowed smoke within inches of Joshua's face. Joshua buried his frown as he studied the photo of the unicorn.
“I can't see us lassoing this thing."
“Let me make it easy. Just go to the main lab and get me the genetic materials that I ordered, so that I can grow my own. A few embryo packs, and you're done."
“What about the keeper? Won't it repel unauthorized boarders?"
“The asterie's sole defense was a sentinel ship. The personnel departed aboard it. The asterie is now toothless. And the keeper is one of those doddering traditional types that can't hurt a fly. Plus, it's daft."
“Daft?"
Hamilton chuckled. “Issuing threats about a maze or some such nonsense."
“A maze?"
“I don't know anything beyond that. Contact it yourself."
Outside and below, metal crashed with metal. A thousand voices gasped. Joshua riffled the folder's pages. And he thought: thirty thousand credits.
“We'll need ten percent up front. For fuel and mission consumables."
“You're accepting?"
“I'll have to consult my crew."
* * * *
At the mooring position fifty kilometers from Scarborough, the control room camera swiveled to greet Raven's returning captain and the voice of the ship's computer emanated from a speaker grid: “Welcome home, Joshua."
“Thank you, Hermes.” Garbed once more in twenty-first-century tee shirt and slacks, Joshua slipped into the navigator-pilot's chair. “All's well, I trust."
“All ship's systems are well,” Hermes replied. “However, Lucas has stated that he is not well."
Both Ann Striker and Lucas Chulaski, Joshua's fellow crewmates aboard Raven, were present in the control room. Ann was pressing a cold compress to Lucas’ head. Lucas half-opened an eye and moaned.
“My anti-addiction implant,” Lucas said. “It's too sensitive. We go to a tavern, I pour a flagon of mead and toast the green, green, lice-infested hills of Earth—and pow! A hangover with just one sip!"
“See what I got?” Ann said. “Reena will love this!"
She unribboned a box and unwrapped a crystalline figurine of a unicorn.
“Gift shop was bursting with unicorns,” Lucas said. “Glass, gold, chocolate. It's unicorn mania over there."
“Yes,” Joshua said. “There's a reason."
He briefed them.
Lucas massaged his temples. “Joshua, is there an honest asterie developer in the Belt? Especially this guy. The rumor over there is that he strong-armed the creator of Scarborough to sell."
“I know it's only a themeworld,” Ann said. “But I wonder about a person who has flunkies calling him ‘lord.’”
Lucas nodded. “Or baron or whatever. That whole serfdom scene."
“On the other hand,” Ann continued, “I'd love to see a live unicorn!"
“What we need to see,” Joshua said, “is the mythical, black-bottomed income statement. Which is why we're even considering a job like this."
While Joshua concocted their ritual bull-session espressos, a subdued Lucas linked to Asternet and contacted Ceres Legal, whose AI counsel sifted through the interlocking maze of treaties and concordats that served the Asteroid Belt in lieu of a central government.
“Ninety-five percent precedent that arbitrage courts will find in our favor should we board without permission,” Lucas read from the screen.
“Forced entry still bothers me,” Ann said.
“This operation will be nonviolent and nondestructive,” Joshua replied. “If we have to do more than drill a lock, we'll withdraw."
“Aye, Captain,” Lucas said. “About this maze business—"
“It's time we went to the source."
Joshua held the coordinates sheet to the control room camera. Hermes traded protocols over the standard one-hundred-gigahertz tightbeam communications link, establishing plain-text as the baseline message format.
CALLING ASTERIE DAEDALUS, Lucas typed. THIS IS SPACESHIP Raven. REQUEST CONTACT WITH YOUR MASTER.
Lucas's screen flashed the response, thirteen seconds of lightlag later: SPACESHIP Raven, THIS IS THE KEEPER OF DAEDALUS. ASTERIE PERSONEL ARE NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.
“Ask what happened to them,” Joshua said.
Lucas typed. The keeper responded: PERSONEL ARE NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.
“Request permission to board and lend assistance."
PERMISSION TO BOARD IS DENIED.
“If we attempt to board, do you threaten harm?"
I HAVE NO WEAPONS. I AM PROGRAMMED NOT TO HARM. HOWEVER, THOSE WHO ENTER THE MAZE WILL NEVER ESCAPE.
“Tell us about the maze."
NO FURTHER INFORMATION WILL BE PROVIDED. THOSE WHO ENTER THE MAZE WILL NEVER ESCAPE.
“Lucas,” Joshua said. “You think the keeper's on the level?"
“Keeper artificial intelligences are programmed to maintain the stability of asterie environments,” Lucas replied. “Usually, they're specifically programmed not to practice deception. And if it could lie, why not threaten to shoot us?"
“So what is this maze?” Ann asked.
“Well,” Lucas said, “the thought processes of keeper-type AIs are concrete, not metaphorical. So, presumably, it's a physical maze."
“It's actually rearranged its interior?"
“Unusual, but conceivable. The maintenance robots could do the remodeling."
“Lucas, it makes no sense! Aren't computers supposed to be logical?"
“Ann, being logical is different than making sense. Here's how I think it works. To start, it's an older
, tradition-minded keeper, with inviolable ethical parameters—"
“Asimov's Three Laws,” said Joshua, who liked to read historical science fiction.
“Uh, yes,” Lucas said. “At any rate, its ethics are carved, so to speak, into the bedrock of its operating system. So it can't harm us, by action or inaction."
“And the maze?” Ann asked.
“Perhaps, while they were evacuating, the asterie personnel ordered the keeper to protect the asterie from intruders at all costs. So the keeper had to develop a non-lethal way to comply."
“A maze,” Ann said. “I'll bet it's really a trap."
“Getting trapped aboard a deserted asterie could be lethal,” Joshua said. “Which violates its ethical programming. Let's point that out."
The delay was longer than thirteen seconds.
TO ANSWER YOUR OBJECTION, THE MAZE IS NOT A TRAP. A WAY OF EXCAPE IS ALWAYS AVAILABLE. HOWEVER, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO ESCAPE FROM THE MAZE. Pause. NO FURTHER INFORMATION WILL BE PROVIDED.
“If it was human,” Ann said, “it would know it's only making us curious."
“I realize this is the Belt and anything can happen,” Lucas said. “But who's afraid of a maze?"
They discussed a few minutes more, then drained their espressos and voted.
* * * *
Two weeks and two million kilometers later, the ship collapsed its plasma bubble and, with milligee deceleration, parked fifty kilometers from the asterie.
Daedalus was an unburnished ball with no major protrusions or cuts save a hangar at one end of the spin axis and a rocket exhaust nozzle at the other. The rim rotation calculated to half a gee simulated gravity on the five-hundred-meter equatorial radius.
They observed the telescopic view on the control room's main screen.
“We call asteries ‘eggs,'” Ann said. “But this actually looks like one."
“A common design for a space habitat,” Joshua said. “Use a solar mirror to heat a ball of metal to molten, inflate like a balloon, cool to solid. Very simple, very cheap."
“Very claustrophobic,” Ann said.
Analog SFF, July-August 2006 Page 10
