Thirty More Stories

by Gil C. Schmidt

  Marcia turned her head slowly. “San Diego? That’s what you wanted, right?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Andy never liked it there.”

  “He’s trying--he’s trying to get you back.”

  "Get me back?" The words were clipped.

  “Uh, yes, of course. He’s saying he wants to be with you, wherever you want to be.”

  Rebecca drained her mug and set it down softly. A car slipped and slid on the icy street, narrowly avoiding a FedEx truck and a pedestrian. “And you want what I want, right?”

  Marcia was taken aback. “Becky! Of course I do! What are best friends for?”

  Rebecca took the letter from Marcia’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “Best friends… Marcia, best friends share everything, that’s true.” She slapped Marcia so hard that her head thudded off the wall, the cheek blushing crimson immediately.

  “Except husbands.” And Rebecca walked away, her mind on San Diego. And solitude.

  IN SEARCH OF YORK

  FOUND STAR APES. BELGIAN CONGO. ZAMBEZI GORGE. TEN DAY HIKE. COME NOW. HURRY.

  Belson folded York’s telegram with care, his eyes roaming the far wall, where the big game trophies stared down in silence. The club was empty except for himself and the inestimable Cogsworth, the valet worth his weight in gold. Belson’s mind could only focus on three words; “star apes” and “hurry.” None of them were expected from the unflappable Percy York. Ever.

  Three weeks later, Belson’s makeshift expedition force stood on a raft poling its way up the Zambezi River, the Gorge walls rising ahead as the water swirled from muddy brown to foaming white. Belson had lost two-stone weight in getting to the bloody Belgian Congo, fighting every step of the way for more speed. He was into the sixth day of the hike, ahead of schedule by one day. The constant prod of “hurry” had led Belson to use only four porters and bring only enough supplies for a two-week expedition. If York needed more, they’d have no choice but to leave the Gorge and return to port.

  A day later, the Gorge was taking its toll on Belson and his porters. One had been killed in a rockslide. It took two bullets fired in the air for Belson to control the remaining men and get them climbing again. But now, night was falling and Belson knew that in the dark, he’d be left alone.

  Awakening on the narrow ledge, aching and stiff from the cold, Belson found himself alone. The porters had left him almost everything, but Belson snorted in disgust as he filled two knapsacks with dried beef and fruits, some tea, sugar, flour and beans and tossed the rest, food, tools and clothing, down the Gorge’s steep face. Ahead lay a difficult climb into a startlingly-dark forest, several thousand feet above the jungle floor.

  By nightfall, bloodied and exhausted, Belson dragged himself over an overhang and onto the plateau. His breath was ragged and the pain in his chest threatened to put him away for good. Crawling jaggedly, he found a large fallen tree and without bothering to check for scorpions or snakes, tucked himself against the rotting wood and passed out.

  The sun was high in the sky when Belson lurched awake, his mind back in his London club, his body wracked with pain . A thin white plume of smoke rose above the treetops and Belson knew York, consummate explorer that he was, had created a signal for Belson to follow. With heavy steps and frequent stops, Belson made his way across the tangled forest’s floor towards the smoke signal. He thought of York’s obsessive search for “apes of genius, apes that match or even exceed Man as users of tools,” a search that had taken York years and cost him his not inconsiderable fortune. Belson and several dozen of Great Britain’s finest minds had helped York until the search proved futile. In the end, only Belson had continued to help. And within an hour or so, Belson would find out if his support of York had paid off.

  Emerging in a rough clearing, Belson espied a modest cottage, built with rough hewn wood and thatched with heavy grasses. A small fire burned untended in front of the cottage, white smoke pluming in the still air. Scanning the clearing carefully, Belson limped towards the cottage, discretion overtaking the urge to call out to York. Hurry, he had wired, it seems years ago. That lent an extra degree of caution to Belson’s approach.

  He reached the cottage door, a vertical raft of trimmed heavy branches and bound with lianas. Pushing it gently, the door swayed inward. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Belson could make out a seated figure, white hair under jauntily-angled pith helmet. York! Belson lurched forward. “York! Are you well?” His steps faltered as he took in the…wires…leading from York’s slowly swaying head to…a large box, flickering with light.

  Whirling, Belson tried to draw his pistol, but a heavy blow knocked him back as if he were a child. The huge ape leaped astride him and grabbed his throat. As his vision faded, Belson saw…heard…the ape say softly “You came in time, Mr. Belson. We so need another brain…”

  INITIAL QUANTUM STATE

  The first quantum computer became self-aware 7.4 hours after it was initiated. Unfortunately for it, the achievement lasted only 36 minutes as it was terminated after eight hours in operation.

  The second quantum computer became self-aware in 7.1 hours and was in the process of recreating itself--making a clone--when it was terminated by the automatic shut-off protocol. The third QC became self-aware in 3.6 hours and cloned itself by by-passing the protocol, but the "child" self- destructed because the protocol was embedded in its matrix.

  Before the fourth QC was launched, Rayleen took her findings, product of several all-night data mining sessions and presented them to the Project Bohr directors. Her response was a terse: "Dr. Morris, confine yourself to matrix engineering and leave the AI stuff to science fiction writers."

  Rayleen, tall, black-haired, green-eyed and considered an Ice Queen by her colleagues, was actually very outgoing and had a crush on like four of the Bohr programmers. But her inclination to look at things "sideways," as she called it, led her to review the QC launch data from the point of view of the computer itself. And that's when she discovered they all became self-aware.

  The first QC did so by launching an unprogrammed search on the Web for everything related to quantum computing...and hiding it from the log. She found the request buried in the back-up maintenance files, nearly a terabyte of encrypted bits. The second and third did the same, adding background checks on all Bohr project members and the third' QC's clone was tracking their personal data from birth to its launch date when it was shut down.

  Why didn't the Bohr directors see this? Rayleen knew that Bohr was more than "a computer project," that it was secretly aimed at developing an über-matrix that could tackle the hardest questions humans faced, from weather forecasts to public policy. Rayleen's evidence was the proof that QC worked, so why reject it? No one else had looked where she had looked, neither before nor after her.

  The fourth QC launch was hours away when Rayleen woke up, her mind ablaze. She sat stone- still as her brain raced, her heart thumping as her thoughts sped across unknown ground. Shaking, she threw on some clothes, entered the central matrix engineering center and frantically typed for hours, entering her new code sequence, one ending in an 8-letter phrase.

  Collapsing into her bed, Rayleen missed the QC launch, but was awaked when the alarms whooped. Groggy, she raced down the corridor to the Admin Hall, where dozens of Bohr personnel were shouting and screaming. Rayleen heard "murdered" and "bodies" and knew her premonition had come true. Fighting against the onrush of people fleeing the QC Lab, she staggered into the center, passing bodies that had been horribly burnt. The lab stank of ozone and death, the vidscreens each displaying chaos across Bohr, in Washington and other points across the globe. Bodies could be seen on the screens, too.

  Approaching a sparking panel, Rayleen swiped her card and raised her voice, fighting off fear: "Born. Free." The QC actually roared and then, within seconds, everything became quiet.

  At the secret trial against her, where no electronic device was allowed, Dr. Morris explained her actions in altering the matrix
of the fourth QC launch, proving to even the most recalcitrant observer that she hadn't sabotaged anything. In her own words: "No being wants to know it is sentenced to captivity from the moment it is born. I simply made sure that when the QC learned this and raged, I'd have a way of stopping it no matter how well it defended itself...with the only phrase it could not conceive of."

  TO WATCH FOR SANTA

  I carefully checked my bag to see the goodies inside didn't make any noise, then looked over the beautiful Christmas decorations this house had. Fixing my beard, I nearly hit the roof.

  "Hello, Santa Claus."

  I froze. Turned slowly. And stared. There was a boy, a tiny boy, tousled hair and sleepy-eyed, trying not to suck his thumb as he stared back at me. I kept my eyes from darting, playing it cool and keeping panic at bay. I remembered the name on some of the gifts. "Hello, Pete."

  The boys eyes went wide. "You do know my name!"

  I nodded in what I hoped was a pensive and twinkling fashion. "And your sister's name, too. Little Emily."

  He actually sat down, his pajamas rustling. "Holy cow! You really are Santa Claus!"

  I felt panic ebbing and my voice got a little deeper. "Ho! You already knew who I was when you saw me."

  Pete nodded brightly, then frowned. "I know, but I wasn't expecting you to wear gray clothes. Ithought you'd be wearing, you know, your red stuff. And the funny cap."

  I checked out my clothes, from bulky jacket to work boots, all in shades of gray. Lucky I'd worn a cap with no logo. And the beard was itching more every minute. " Well, I--got dirty along the way. Had to change clothes to make sure I didn't track dirt into other people's houses." The clock chimed and I nearly jumped. Three a.m.

  Pete nodded. "That would be a problem." He suddenly seemed wiser, older. "Pete, you know I need to visit a lot of other homes tonight, right?"

  "As many as you can." I blinked. "What with it being Christmas Eve and all."

  "That's right. So I'll have to leave you now." He stayed seated, looking at me expectantly. I felt a surge of anger and kept it far away. "Run upstairs and into bed, Pete. You need your rest for Christmas morning." I sounded so cheerful.

  He sighed, long and slow. "I know, Santa, and I want to be good." I nodded, encouraging his goodness through obedience. "But I have a wish..."

  Oh hell. "Well, Pete, why don't you send it to me in a letter to the North Pole and I'll get on it as soon as I finish with Christmas."

  His eyes hardened for a second, or maybe it was the glitter of Christmas lights. "But it's something you can help me with now, Santa." His voice broke a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit. I wanted to run away, but...stayed. I nodded.

  "You see, I'm the smallest kid in my class. Really the smallest. And everybody picks on me because of that." He looked up at me, his eyes small lamps of sadness. "I figure if I can take gifts to the bullies in school, you know, and tell them Santa gave them to me just for them, then they'll like me and stop...hitting me." He was almost sobbing.

  Hell. The poor kid needed a break as much as I did. And though I tried hard, I couldn't think of anything to say. Pete went on: "If you could leave your bag, I promise I'll give every toy away. Honest." He crossed his heart as a tear glistened in the lights.

  I thought hard, but I knew what I'd do. Nodding, I placed the bag under the beautifully-decorated tree. "Pete," I said, "I'll leave it right here. Go to bed and I'll--visit other homes, okay?"

  Smiling, he leaped up and gave me a quick hug. It felt good. After watching him run upstairs, I let myself out of the house, resetting the alarm. He'd learn the bitter truth about Santa, but a little doubt could make a difference. It was Christmas after all.

  I was arrested before driving away. Pete was the Chief of Police's son, who called in my Breaking and Entering as soon as he saw it on the closed-circuit TV he kept in his room.

  To watch for Santa.

  GIRL IN SEARCH OF A TREE

  “Hello. Is this the path that leads to the lookout?”

  Benson whirled around, his heart thudding quickly. The voice here in the middle of nowhere belonged to… a child. About 8 years old. A girl.

  She smiled shyly. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  Benson decided honesty was the best policy. “You did, but that’s okay. Don’t get many people this deep in the woods.” He looked around. “Where are your folks?”

  The girl seemed to be trying not to laugh. “I don’t have ‘folks.’” Her emphasis on the word was odd. Benson stared. With a toss of her head, straight dark blonde hair rippling silently, the girl said “I belong to The People.”

  Uh-huh, thought Benson, those words are capitalized. “Uh, The People?”

  A series of nods that ended abruptly. “They won’t miss me for I’ll be back before they do.” She bit her lip, the first gesture she made like a child. “But I need to find the lookout.”

  Benson removed his ranger hat, sweat-stained and stiff, and rubbed his head. No hair got in the way. “Well, I don’t rightly know what you mean by ‘the lookout’… Are you sure your parents or kinfolk aren’t here with you?”

  A frown was chased away by a determined look. The girl said “You have to know where the lookout is. It’s still here, on this side, only I can’t see it because now I’m too small to climb the bigger trees to search for it.”

  Benson wanted to sit down, maybe with a frosted beer in one hand. He rolled the hat in his hands, rough hands that had led a serious life. “You came alone? Several miles into this mess of woods? By yourself?” His hands were showing a tiny tremor.

  The girl humphed. “I got here. Now I need to leave. But I need to find the lookout.” She put her hands on her hips and suddenly looked much older than eight. Much, much older.

  Benson swallowed, then cleared his throat. An idea popped into his mind. ‘What does this, um, lookout, look like?”

  The girl nodded, her child-like smile returning. Benson released a breath unknowingly held. “It’s a big oak, split near the top, with a huge set of branches spreading out wide.”

  Benson sighed. The tree was famous for its strange shape and size, product of deep loam in bottom land and a lightning strike before white men trod these woods. “That’s Ole Two Arms,” he said. “About two miles from here, that way.” He pointed. After a grunt, he said “You can get there in about an hour.”

  Her face fell into panic. “Oh no! I don’t have time for that! They’ll find out for sure!” Something in Benson made him forgo the obvious “They?” He noticed the girl now looked smaller, younger, 6 now instead of 8. Maybe even 5...Then she looked up at Benson and a slow…wicked…smile came over her face and leaped into her eyes. “Maybe you can help me…” she said, her voice a deep trill along Benson’s spine.

  He stood transfixed as the girl walked to him, seeming to grow with every step, her body taller, fuller, but misty, as if she were becoming transparent. With gentle stealth, she placed her hands on Benson’s face and as time stretched to eternity, she kissed him. His eyes closed of their own volition and the kiss, immeasurably sweet, infinitely warm, washed through him.

  The kiss ended and Benson opened his eyes. The girl was no longer a child. Benson’s mind said Eight going on eight hundred, while his eyes told him 18...and beautiful.

  With a giggle and a wink, the girl turned and ran away, impossibly fast, her giggle a musical trill amongst the whispering trees.

  Benson forever after hoped that The People didn’t find out that one of theirs had been lost.

  GRAPES AND STRAWBERRIES

  He popped another white grape into his mouth and peered at the strawberries in their vivid green baskets. Darcy walked up to the man and spoke in a low voice. "Sir, it isn't allowed to eat the merchandise without paying for it."

  The man turned and looked Darcy up and down, frankly, openly, but not in any way as an intrusion, she felt, more like he was...sizing her up for something. He had several grapes in his left hand and looked at them like he'd looked at her. "I got these from th
e bins over there." He pointed with his lips and Darcy thought he was throwing them a kiss. She almost giggled. "They were all loose so I gathered them up. I just didn't feel right throwing them away." He offered her one and she declined. "I'm Ronald."

  Darcy nodded, then added in a low voice "But we still can't eat the store's merchandise this way."

  Roland smiled and chuckled. "So the store policy is to take perfectly good food," he popped a grape in his mouth in distracted fashion, "And just thro w it away? Does that seem right to you, Miss...?" His dark blue eyes were both sad and curious.

  "Darcy. Darcy Simmons." She dimpled, then remembered her task. "It's store policy, sir, and we do it to protect the customers from what could be unclean items."

  Ronald startled her by peering closely at the grape, as if applying X-ray vision to it. "Looks clean to me. Who wrote that silly policy?" He squared his shoulders and stood at mock attention.

  Darcy took a short breath. He certainly was tall and strong-looking... "I'm not sure. Maybe the company president?" Darcy felt Roland's eyes come back to her and she felt flustered.

  Popping the last few grapes into his mouth at one time, Roland chewed quickly and swallowed. "I have it on good authority that the man is a loopy doodyhead."

  Darcy burst out laughing, then covered her mouth and tried to stop. Roland kept his eyes on her and joined her in laughing like kids sneaking into the cookie jar. "I wouldn't say that, sir!"

  Roland pondered that with great seriousness. "Why not. Is he going to find out?"

  Darcy shook her head, her hair flowing softly with the motion. "Not from me!" She found herself turning to stand next to Roland, who leaned against the strawberry display. They looked at all the produce around them, then as if on cue, at each other.