Analog SFF, April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The robe's hood hid the customer's face, which could be a warning sign of bad intent, but this part of town saw all sorts of strange types. Then there was that New Age monastery up in the hills. Twice now he'd sold heaps to monks from the place.

  "Welcome to Blue Sky Motors,” he called. “I'm Kent Green. Can I help you?"

  The hood moved so it was pointed at him. “Perhaps."

  The more specific that first answer, the more serious the buyer tended to be. Perhaps was something a be-back might say.

  But the smile stayed, and Kent came out from behind his desk. “I bet we can help. What's your name?"

  "Moto."

  "So, Moto, are you looking for a good, clean used car? One that's kind to the environment—and the wallet?"

  "We may be able to enter a business relationship. If we can work out certain details regarding trade-in."

  The guy—he was pretty sure it was a guy—had an odd, hard-to-place accent. Usually he could peg accents. He heard a lot of them in this part of the state. This one, no idea.

  "What have you got? I can give better terms on eco-cars for trade.” Not strictly true—there was a substantial government buy-back bounty on certain gas-guzzlers—but no sense bringing up confusing details until he knew what the guy was driving.

  "My trade-in is rather unusual."

  That usually meant a retrofit or a home-brew. Tricky market. Most people wanted pure stock. But there was a certain segment of the car-buying public that cherished the one-off because of the air of individuality it imparted.

  "Is it outside?” He hadn't seen anyone pull into the lot, but playing a few hands of computer solitaire when he should have been stapling himself to some overdue paperwork might have kept him from noticing.

  "Yes, it is."

  Kent peered past the guy in the robe, and out through the plate glass window. Pouring harder now, and a wind had kicked up. Lovely.

  But his smile never faltered as he reached for his jacket and hat, both emblazoned with the Blue Sky Motors logo.

  "Well, let's go take a look."

  * * * *

  A lot of tin merchants fall into the habit of playing mental games because those games could sometimes give an edge. Trying to guess what a customer might be driving, or be inclined to drive away. Picking the decision maker in a couple, spotting hagglers.

  Kent was figuring that the monk would have something practical, maybe a pickup or a sedan. A van. With luck an old Mercedes, but more likely an old gas-sucking station wagon.

  The good news was that the car was parked out under one part of the lot covered with a canopy. The bad news was that the car was a—

  —Corvair. A bright banana-yellow Corvair.

  Kent kept his smile as he walked toward it. A used car dealer has to be able to make lemonade out of lemons. Corvairs were somewhat collectible. At least it wasn't a Yugo or a Gremlin.

  "Don't see many of those anymore,” he said with a bemused chuckle.

  "Not like this one,” Moto agreed. “It is a most exceptional vehicle."

  "What year is it?” He was no expert, but there seemed to be something subtly off about the car. The lines weren't quite right, the overall shape slightly distorted in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

  "2018."

  Kent gave the monk the eye. “Can't be. They quit making these back in the ‘60s or ‘70s. Or is it a reproduction?” He reached the side of the car, and did have to admit that it looked either showroom-new or cherry-rebuilt. That would also explain the sense of oddness about it.

  "Reproduction. Yes, in a sense. Of one of the most beautiful vehicles ever produced."

  "Huh.” You might call it cute, but beautiful? Putting a value on it was going to be a bitch. Usually he had Julio take potential trades out for a drive. Five minutes behind the wheel and his service manager could give chapter and verse about everything from the front end to the tranny to the condition of the batteries or exhaust, and nail down the value to within a hundred bucks.

  "You must take this vehicle for a drive,” Moto said.

  "I'm not sure that's necessary.” It was late. It would take both Julio and net-searching to evaluate it. His driving it would count for little.

  "Please. Only in this way can you understand what an exceptional trade this vehicle would be."

  Kent glanced at his watch. After nine now. No way there was going to be a sale tonight. But maybe if he agreed to a quick spin the guy would come back in the morning. He wanted Julio to see it, if for no reason other than the novelty of the thing.

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?"

  As he opened the driver's side door and slid into the seat, the monk went around and got in the passenger seat.

  The first thing he had to do was fumble for the lever under the seat so he could shove it back, not surprising since he was a foot taller than Moto. He left the door open so the dome light stayed on, helping him see what he was doing.

  The dash wasn't like any he'd ever seen before, blank black plates where the gauges should have been. Maybe it had looked like that on the original, but he doubted it. No seat belt. But the shift lever was easily enough located, as were the steering wheel, brake, and gas pedal. After a bit of searching he found the key, turned it.

  "Sure runs quiet,” he observed. The car only made a soft hum. That suggested some form of electric or hybrid drive system. The original Corvairs had, if he recalled correctly, a noisy rear engine.

  "Yes, this vehicle is very quiet. If you would please pick a destination for the test drive."

  "I was just going to take a quick ride around the lot. My service manager would be the one to take it for a real test drive."

  The hood moved from side to side. “That is not sufficient. Please pick a destination. A place five miles away would serve our purposes."

  "Really, I don't need to drive it that far.” Nor did he want to go out on the highway without seat belts.

  "Please, I must insist. Pick a destination."

  Kent was too much of a pro to sigh. “Okay, there's a truck stop at the intersection of this highway and Route 215. Mack's.” That was a drive-to spot he and his sales force gave test drivers fairly often.

  "Excellent. Please put the car in drive so we may commence the test drive."

  Kent did as he was asked. The car rolled forward, out from under the canopy. Rain immediately lashed the windshield. Before he could ask where the switch for the wipers were, they came on automatically.

  "Nice touch. The lights came on by themselves, too."

  "This is, as you will see, an exceptional vehicle. Now please put your foot more robustly on the accelerator pedal so we may proceed."

  "Sure.” He fed it only a little gas. Corvairs were reputedly one of the least safe, least road-worthy vehicles Detroit had ever churned out. He didn't know if they—or this reproduction—would live up to that reputation, but he was willing to bet it wouldn't handle like a Porsche.

  "What the—” he shouted as the car shot not forward, but straight up, acceleration shoving him into the seat. In a second the lot was a small bright square far below him, and the car was still blasting skyward like there were rocket engines bolted to all four wheels.

  Actually they weren't going straight up, but following the sort of curve made by a mortar shell, a curve that was already topping out, and sending the car plummeting down as only a couple thousand pounds of wingless steel can plummet from a height of over a mile, the ground rushing up in a blur—

  There was a slight jarring sensation, and they were parked in a slot in the back corner of Mack's Truck Stop.

  "—hell?" Kent whispered, looking around and surprised to still be alive.

  "Ten seconds,” Moto said. “Greater performance is available, certainly for longer trips, but it is always prudent to exercise caution when in control of an unfamiliar vehicle."

  Kent pried his fingers loose from the steering wheel. Turned to stare at the monk. “What,” he whispered hoarsely, "is this thing?” In the ba
ck of his head numbers were running. Car sales run on numbers: book and trade values, APR, payments; a good salesman can reflexively crunch numbers quickly. He was thinking five miles—okay, call it three miles as the Corvair flies—in ten seconds comes out to somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand miles per hour.

  "We call it the Turble."

  Which sounded like a supercharged turtle. Detroit had done worse, though not lately. At least in the name game.

  "And you want to trade this car for one of mine?"

  "That is the desired arrangement."

  "Any one in particular?"

  "Let us return to your place of business so that I may determine which vehicle would be desired. Is that acceptable?"

  "Sure.” He gingerly took hold of the steering wheel. “So what do I do?"

  "Simply step on the gas."

  * * * *

  Ten seconds later they were back at Blue Sky Motors. Kent cautiously guided the Turble back under the canopy, then with a peculiar mixture of relief and regret, turned off the key.

  They had barely stopped when Moto hopped out of the car and started toward the nearest line of cars. He watched in growing bewilderment as the monk opened the driver's side door of each car, leaned inside, and sniffed the seats.

  Moto lingered over an ‘08 Escape hybrid, finally closing the door carefully, almost reverentially.

  Kent couldn't see Moto's face, but didn't need to.

  He knew he'd just made a sale.

  * * * *

  It was only when they were back inside that Kent realized that, in spite of his time in the lot seat-sniffing, Moto wasn't wet. That wasn't true for him, when he hung up his soggy coat and hat both began to drip.

  Kent went back behind his desk and sat down, ready to do some serious business. “So what kind of deal are you looking for?” He had to work at keeping any trace of eagerness out of his voice and off his face. Having had some time to think about it, he knew he wanted that Turble, and wanted it badly. If only for himself.

  "I seek a direct trade, vehicle for vehicle,” Moto answered. “There would be some minor restrictions, but none that should preclude agreeable commerce."

  "We can probably work something out, sure. You have a title for the Turble?"

  "I have the creator's certificate."

  "So who built it?"

  "We did."

  "Who's we?"

  "Us."

  Kent decided to let that detail remain unresolved for the moment, knowing he'd circle back to it later. “So what does your Turble run on?"

  "Water."

  "Fuel cell?"

  "Not precisely.” The monk sat slightly forward. “There are deeper implications to this deal than I have yet mentioned. I am proposing an ongoing business relationship. More Turbles in trade for selected vehicles from your lot."

  It hurt to keep a poker face, hurt like biting back any reaction to being offered a Rolls Royce in trade for a tricycle.

  "That . . . might be possible,” Kent allowed, sounding reluctant to move too fast on such an idea.

  "We would hope so. For each vehicle we select we would provide a Turble, subject to contractual limitations pursuant to our forged agreement."

  Warning flags went up in Kent's head. The monk was talking like a lawyer, and it was a truism that selling a car to a lawyer was riskier than buying ones whose paperwork was done in crayon or riding a gassed-up Pinto through a car crusher.

  He steepled his fingers, face solemn. “What kind of limitations are we talking here?"

  Moto was silent a moment, as if considering which cards to lay on the table.

  "I am what you would call a sales representative,” he said at last. “The interests I speak for have an appetite for certain vehicles. As a medium of exchange we have created a vehicle of our own, the Turble. If over time transactions prove satisfactory, we may provide other models—other vehicles—to widen the base of exchange. Our contacting you is a means of testing the market since we have reason to believe we could not successfully enter into direct commerce with potential customers for the Turble."

  "So who do you represent?” Moto's confession that he was a sales rep meant that the gloves could come off. Customers had to be treated carefully. Sales reps were made to be squeezed and abused. “Is it some place like North Korea? Libya? Some place we would normally refuse to do business with?"

  "I represent the Koomban Empire."

  "The who?"

  "The Koomban Empire.” Moto stood up and took off his robe.

  "Whoa,” Kent said. He didn't shove his chair back in shock, but his eyebrows did go up almost to his hairline.

  Moto was, under the robe, a five-foot-tall red devil straight from a ‘50s tattoo. Red skin, potbelly, forked beard, pointy tail, horns, and all.

  "Please do not jump to conclusions,” Moto said.

  "Such as?” Kent asked in a voice that hardly shook at all.

  "I am not a demon or devil, imp, or other manifestation of evil."

  "You are a sales rep,” Kent pointed out.

  Moto sat down. “Point taken.” He crossed his legs, showing off bristly goat feet. “I am an alien. A Koomban. Marketing studies quickly apprehended our unfortunate resemblance to supernatural beings held in ill favor. We concluded that we would not be judged kindly, or be particularly successful, were we to enter direct trade with your kind."

  "Probably not,” Kent said agreeably, though he had a feeling that some people would gladly trade their souls for Turble. And the difference between some bottom-feeder car dealers and the forces of Hades wasn't that great, mostly coming down to less brimstone and more deceptive contracts.

  "Our requirements for assaying trade vehicles are, by your habits, somewhat unusual."

  "You mean telling what you want by sniffing the seats?"

  Moto shrugged. “Ownership and use of a vehicle imbues it with traces that we can sense. For my kind, sitting in such a vehicle is similar to your sitting in a theater seat and watching a play or movie. We are choosy. Some movies have greater depth and interest than others. Still, we understand how the root of our desire for your vehicles might be misunderstood."

  "I believe you're right.” Actually most people wouldn't care if they ate the seats and screwed the airbags if it meant getting a car that went a thousand miles per hour. But this wasn't the time to disagree with the man . . . or whatever.

  "There is one point in our contractual agreement that may present some difficulty."

  "And that is?"

  "Buyers must swear loyalty to the Koomban Empire."

  Kent sat up straight and scowled, as if just hearing about a delinquent lien or an admission that the car spent a few days at the bottom of a river.

  "Now wait one minute, Moto. What do you mean by loyalty?"

  The Koomban held up his hands. “It is nothing, really. Verbal boilerplate."

  "Swearing loyalty to an alien empire is hardly nothing."

  "Really, it is. The oath is strictly pro forma, not that dissimilar to the EULAs you agree to when commencing to use software."

  "But you're an empire. You want us to swear loyalty. Are you guys at war or something? You want us to agree to pay tribute, or provide troops, or something like that?"

  "Most certainly not!” Moto said, sounding offended.

  "Then what does it mean?"

  "Were we to become part of some conflict, and I assure you that is most unlikely, then your loyalty oath would bind you to being on our side. The best comparison I can make would be to the manner in which you are on the side of various sports teams."

  "So . . . we'd have to root for you?"

  "Yes. We would even issue you pennants and noisemakers. But we have not required such contracted enthusiasm in centuries."

  "So . . . I'd have to swear this oath? Or would it be sworn by the buyer?"

  "The buyer."

  "Would a written declaration count?"

  Moto's faint smile was devilish. “Am I correct in understanding a propos
al to hide the declaration in the fine print of the sales contract?"

  Kent looked him in the eyes. Yellow, slit-pupilled eyes. “You have a problem with that?"

  After a moment Moto shook his head. “No, that would suffice."

  Kent sat back, staring at the creature across from him and thinking hard. “So how many units are we talking about?"

  "As many as you want. You provide suitable vehicles for us, we can provide Turbles—or at some point other models—in trade."

  "How much should I sell the things for?"

  Moto showed pointed teeth. “For what the market will bear, of course."

  "What about the dangers of flying cars?"

  "There are none. Our vehicles will automatically avoid other objects. Their inertial damping systems allow for evasive maneuvers that would destroy anything you can build and kill anyone riding inside. That system is robust enough that, were you to somehow fly one into the side of a mountain, the vehicle would be undamaged and the passengers would feel no more than a mild bump. There is no safer vehicle to be had anywhere."

  "And they run on water."

  A nod. “About one gallon for every ten thousand miles."

  "How about repairs?"

  "They are largely self-repairing. Only tires and wiper blades would need to be replaced. We are not certain that the eight-track will be viewed positively by many, and it may have to be replaced."

  "Warranty?"

  "Ten years, bumper to bumper, with generous terms for trade-backs."

  There had to be other questions—important questions—but Kent couldn't think of them. Only one left: “So how would we seal a deal?"

  "A simple handshake for now, followed by a one page contract. So you find our offer interesting?"

  "I guess.” Kent sounded unsure, still slightly reluctant. Pure salesmanship.

  Moto peered at him for several seconds, stroking his forked beard, then said, “Did I mention that you would get to keep the Turble you just tested? A second one would be provided as payment for any vehicle you might take."

  "Like that Escape? You seemed to take a shine to it."

  Moto ducked his head. “It too is an exceptional vehicle."