Asimov's Science Fiction: June 2013 (4 page)

Looking at the number was a formality.

The cave would soon be empty and dark.

Yet odd as it seemed, Pamir wasn't particularly surprised to find the simplest number on top, in plain view: As inevitable as every result must be.

Reaching with a nexus, Pamir discovered an elaborate star chart waiting for him. The galaxy was stuffed inside a digital bottle, the nearest million suns translated into human terms and human clocks. At the center was the Kajjas ship—a long dumbbell-shaped body with a severely battered shield at one end, the pulse engine and drained fuel tanks behind. Its hull was slathered with black veneers and stealth poxes and what looked like the remnants of scaffolding. The captains never spotted this relic; too many light-years lay between their telescopes and this cold wisp of nothing. Even the Great Ship was too distant to deserve any size—the core of a jovian world rendered as a simple golden vector. Sixty years had been invested reaching the Kajjas vessel, and home was receding every moment. Hypothetical courses waited to be studied. Pamir gave them enough of a look to understand the timetables, and then he seasoned the quiet with a few rich curses.

A second nexus linked him to this ship's real-time schematics. Blue highlights showed areas of concern. An ocean's worth of blue was spread across the armored, badly splintered prow. High-velocity impacts had done their worst. Judging by ancient patches, smart hands had once competently fixed the troubles. But then those hands stopped working—a million years ago, or twenty million years ago. Since then the machine had faithfully chased a line that began in the deepest, emptiest space, only recently slicing its way across the Milky Way.

Pamir referred back to the star chart, discovering that it was far larger than he assumed. The blackness and the stars encompassed the Local Group of galaxies, and some patches were thoroughly charted.

A quiet, respectful curse seemed in order.

A small streakship was tethered to the dumbbell's middle. Pamir knew the vessel. It arrived at Port Beta in lousy shape, where it was rehabbed but never rechristened. Someone higher ranking than the mechanics decided that nothing would make the vessel safe, which was when the high-end wreck was dragged inside a back berth, waiting for an appropriately desperate buyer.

Tailor.

Pamir warmed the air with blasphemies and moved on to the manifests.

And all along, the Kajjas had been watching him.

"I remember a different boy," the alien said. "You aren't the polite, good-natured infant with whom I drank."

"That boy got strangled and packed up like cargo."

"Each of us flew in hibernation," said Tailor. "There was no extra space, no room for indulgences. I was very much like you."

Pamir cursed a fourth time, invoking Kajjas anatomy.

The alien reacted with silence, every eye fixed on the angry mechanic.

"Your streakship is tiny and spent," Pamir said. "Something half again better than this, and we could have strapped this artifact on its back and used those young engines to carry us home quickly."

"Except our financing was poor," said Tailor.

"No shit."

"We have rich options," said Tailor. "We will use our remaining fuel and then carve up the streakship like a sweet meat, dropping its pieces through the pulse engine."

"With a troop of robots, that's easy work," Pamir said.

Tailor remained silent.

"Only you neglected to bring any robots, didn't you?"

"Worthy reasons are in play."

"I doubt that."

The other humans were watching the conversation from a safe distance.

"So why?" asked Pamir. "Why is this fossil so important?"

Two eyes went pale.

"You're going to tell me," the human said.

"Unless I already have, Jon. I explained, but you chose not to hear me."

Scornful laughter chased away the quiet, and then Pamir turned his attentions elsewhere. The manifest was full of news, good and otherwise. "At least you spent big for tools and fuel."

"They were important," the alien said.

Pamir chewed his tongue, tasting blood.

"I am asking for your expert opinion," said Tailor. "Can we meet our goals and return to the Ship?"

"There is an answer, but I damn well don't know it."

"You aren't the boy with whom I drank."

Pamir said nothing.

"Perhaps I should have cultivated that boy's help at the outset," said Tailor. "He could have plotted my course and devised my methods, too."

"That would have been smart."

Tailor showed his plate-like teeth, implying concern. "I cannot help but notice, sir. You have been studying our ships and vectors, but you have barely paid attention to either engine."

"Engines aren't the worst problem."

"But your specialty is the drive machinery," said Tailor. "That should be your first concern. Instinct alone should put your eyes and mind on those elements, not the state of a hull that has survived quite well on its own."

Pamir looked away. The other humans looked confident, relaxed, flashing little smiles when they whispered to one another. Maxx and Rondie did most of the whispering. G'lene floated apart from the others, and she smiled the most.

"Are they supposed to help me?" Pamir asked.

"Each will be useful, yes," said Tailor. "The twins are general starship mechanics, and they have other training too."

"I don't recognize them. They haven't worked near Beta."

Silence.

"So they must be from a different port, different background. Probably military Soldiers love to be strong, even if their bulk gets in the way."

Tailor started to reply.

"Also, I see six thousand kilos that's blue-black on the manifest," Pamir continued. "You're not letting me see this. But since indulgences were left behind, the mass is important. So I'll guess that we're talking about weapons."

"I will admit one truth to you, Jon. About you, sir, I have a feeling."

"Is that feeling cold blue dread?"

Iron clawed against iron. "There never was a boy, it occurs to me. I think that you are somewhat older than your name claims, and maybe, just perhaps, we have met each other in the past."

"Who's the enemy?" Pamir asked.

"If only I knew that answer," the alien began.

Then Tailor said nothing more, turning and leaping far away.

Forty-four thousand years was a sliver of time. The galaxy had moved only in little ways since people dared slip inside Where-Peace-Rains, and nothing inside but the least stubborn, most trivial details had changed within the cave. The same genetics and honored language were in play. Stock beliefs continued to prosper. And there was still a round expanse of cool red granite where the captain had once played one round of chance, the stone dished in at the middle by generations of worshippers and their mortal feet.

Of course there were many more faces, and there was far less peace. Following the terms of the ancient agreement, archaics produced their own power and clean water and rough, edible foodstuffs. Carefully invested funds had allowed them to purchase a scrap star-drive—an ugly-eight reconfigured to generate electricity, not thrust. The drive was set on the cavern floor, not a thousand meters from the holy place where a chunk of diamond determined the world. The machinery was designed to run forever without interruption, provided that it was maintained regularly. And the ugly-eight had run for thousands of years without trouble. But it was being used in an unusual capacity, and not all of its wastes were bottled up. Lead plates and hyperfiber offered shielding, but the occasional neutron and gamma blast found ways to escape, and the childless men working nearby were prone to murderous cancers.

One engineer had worked fifty years in the most critical job in the world. A bachelor named Jon, he was still holding out hope that the tumor in his liver could be cut out of him, and then smarter, friendlier radiations would have a fighting chance to kill the cancers that had broken loose.

Jon lived in a small apartment within walking distance of the reactor.

Everyone in Where-Peace-Rains lived in a small apartment, and everyone lived close to their important places.

Jon arrived home early. The foreman told him that he looked especially tired and needed to sleep, and Jon had agreed with the prognosis. Nothing felt unusual when he arrived. A key worn smooth by his fingers went into the lock, and the lock gave way with a solid click. But as the door swung inward, he smelled a stranger, and a strange voice spoke out of the darkness.

"Just be aware," it said. "You're not alone."

Robberies weren't uncommon in the world, and sometimes thieves turned violent. But this was no robbery. The intruder was sitting in Jon’s best chair, the seat reserved for guests. The human was relaxed enough to appear lazy. That was the first quality Jon noticed as the room’s single light came on. The second detail was the man’s appearance, which was substantial, and the beautiful face, even and cleanshaven. His clothes looked like the garb worn by fancy hikers and novice explorers who occasionally passed through the local caverns. Some of those people asked to come inside the archaic community. A few of the immortal passengers were intrigued by archaics, and the best of the interlopers left behind money and little favors.

But there were bad immortals too. They came for one reason, to coax people out of their home, out into the true world—as if one place was truer than another, and as if a person could simply choose his life.

"I let myself in," the stranger said.

Jon took off the daily dosage badge. "You want something," he guessed.

"Yes, I do."

"From me."

"Absolutely, yes."

Nuclear engineers earned respectable salaries, but nobody in this world was wealthy. Jon's fanciest possession was an old ceramic teapot, precious to him because it had been in his family for three thousand years.

The stranger was surely older than the pot.

Stories came back to Jon, unlikely and probably crazy stories. He had never believed such things could involve him, but when he met the man's blue eyes, something passed between them. Suddenly they had an understanding, the beginnings of a relationship. Jon found himself nodding. He knew what this was. "You think that I am dying," he said.

"You are dying."

"But how could you know?"

The immortal shifted his weight, perhaps a little uncomfortable with the subject. Or maybe quite a lot was balanced on the next moments, and he was making his rump ready for whatever Fate saw fit to throw at them.

"I've seen your doctor's files," the man said. "She tells you that you might survive to the end of the year, but I know she's being generous."

Jon had sensed as much. Yet it hurt to hear the news. A new burden, massive and acidic, was burning through his frail, middle-aged body.

He dropped into his own chair.

"I'm sorry," said the man.

Maybe he was sorry, because he sounded earnest.

"You want my life," Jon said.

The pretty face watched him, and after a moment he said, "Maybe."

"Why maybe?"

"Or if you'd rather, I'll pay for your treatments elsewhere."

"I can't abandon Peace," said Jon. "And even if I did, your doctors and your autodocs can't legally cure me."

"Cancer is not the problem," the man said. "I am talking about full treatments. I'm ready to give you that gift, if you want it. Leave your realm and live forever anywhere you want inside the Great Ship, inside the endless universe... except for here...."

"No."

Did Jon think before answering? He wasn't sure.

But giving the offer serious consideration, he said, "Never, no."

"Good," the stranger said.

Jon leaned forward. The room was small and the chairs were close together, and now they were close enough to kiss. "Are you wearing a mask?"

"Not much of one, if you can see it," said the man, laughing.

"You want my life," Jon repeated.

"Apparently you don't want to hold onto it. Why shouldn't I ask the question?"

They sat and stared at one another. Next door, a newborn was starting to feel her empty stomach, and her cry quickly built until there was no other sound in the world.

Suddenly she fell silent, her mouth full of nipple.

Jon thought about that mother's fine brown nipple. Then he wasn't thinking about anything, waiting for whatever happened next.

Out from a hiker's pocket came a weapon—a sleek gun designed by alien hands. "Except it's not a gun," the man explained. "In my realm, this is a camper's torch and portable grill. For me, the worst burns would heal inside an hour. But the torch can transform ninety kilos of your flesh and bone into a fine white ash, and I can place your remains in whatever garden or sewage plant you want on my way out of town."

Jon stared at the alien machine.

The man dropped it into Jon's lap, and then he sat back.

Its weight was a surprise. The machine was more like a sketch of a weapon, lightweight to the brink of unreality.

"I won't use the tool on you," the stranger promised. "You'll have to use it on yourself."

"No."

Did he think that time?

Jon hadn't, and after hard deliberation, he said, "Maybe."

"And for your trouble," the man began.

He stopped talking.

"I would want something," Jon said.

Not only did his companion have an offer waiting, he knew everything about Jon's living family. Nuclear technicians didn't dare make babies, what with mutations and cancers and the genuine fear that their sons and sons-in-law would follow them into this grim business. But he had siblings and cousins and a dozen nephews, plus even more nieces. Accepting this illegal arrangement meant that each limb of his family would receive enough extra money, dressed up in various excuses, and their lives would noticeably improve.

Jon passed the fierce machine from one hand to the other.

What looked like a trigger was begging to be tugged.

"No, not like that," the man said, patiently but not patiently. Something in this business was bothering him. "And when you do it, if you do it," he said, "stand in the middle of the room. We don't want to set a wall on fire."