Blonde Bombshell (12 page)

It’s the shape, he told himself, it’s the flesh and blood and bone and gristle that’s making you think like that. Sternly he reminded himself of the three commandments of weaponkind:
Thou shalt not doubt; Thou shalt not judge; Thou shalt not choose.
There were rumours, dark and terrible, about bombs that had thought they knew better: bombs that succumbed to pity and refused to explode, bombs misled by righteous indignation and poetic justice into blowing up the very people who’d launched them. In every case, the outcome had been limitless pain, suffering and disaster, because a bomb could never foresee the consequences or understand the true reasoning. A bomb must remain true to its programming; that’s the price it has to pay for its guaranteed entry into the incandescent paradise of Duty Done and Mission Accomplished.

“Hi,” said a chirpy voice beside him. “You’re Mark, right?”

“No, I’m Mark Twain.”

The chirpy voiced laughed. He was beginning to understand laughter. This sort meant he’d made a joke (had he? When?) and although it wasn’t very funny, the voiceholder had decided to regard it as a friendly gesture. He had to admire that. Remarkable, that a species that so far hadn’t managed to invent something as basic as the gravimetric shunt could pack so many subtle shades of meaning into a snorting noise. “I’m Judy. Pleased to meet you.”

Why? The smile, presumably. He therefore switched it on as he swivelled his chair round. “And I’m pleased to meet you, too,” he said. “How beautiful the weather is today! Do you come here often?”

Judy blinked, as if someone had just shone a very bright light in her eyes. “I’m your head of department,” she said. “I thought we might discuss what you’ll be doing for us.”

“Ah, right.” He nodded, four times. His chance to make a good impression. Now would be a good opportunity to say something ingratiating, so she’d know he’d do his very best and all that stuff. Rather than try and think up something, he decided to access the cultural database. Sure enough, he found the very thing. “I shall not cease from mental strife,” he said, “nor shall my sword sleep in my hand—”

The word “sword” made her take a step backwards, for some reason. “I was thinking you might like to work with Jules and Dmitri on compatibility issues,” she said. She was watching him very closely. “Basically, we’re trying to interface the old prePaySoft accounts package with XB, using a simple shell format. Do you think you could handle that?”

“Or die trying,” he replied affably. “Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we’ll keep the old pre-PavSoft accounts package running here. Is that all, or is there anything else I can do?”

“Um.” The look in her eyes reminded him of a
h’jjjyh
caught in the headlights of a
pyff’t
transporter, and he wondered if she was falling in love with him. If so, he’d have to deal with it. Clearly, that sort of thing was going to be an ongoing problem. “No, that’s fine,” she said. “Just see how you get on with that, and then we can assess your role in the team structure going forward.”

“Of course. What about dinner? Or would you rather take in a show?”

Something in her body language gave him the impression that he hadn’t quite got that bit right. It was essential, according to the database, to clarify the situation and avoid offending complex Dirter sensibilities. “Only kidding,” he added quickly. “I don’t really want to go out with you, not at all. Under no circumstances. Right, so you want me working on this interface? No problem. Should take me about ten minutes.”

In the event he managed to spin it out for seven, and then only because he accidentally-on-purpose deleted a large chunk of what the other two had taken a week to do. To his surprise, nobody seemed pleased when he showed them what he’d done. Judy just stared, while Jules and Dmitri retreated to the water-cooler and started muttering.

“That looks …” Judy was having trouble speaking. “Fine,” she said. “I think. Only, some of these components …” She frowned, a sort of faraway baffled look. “Could you just run through it for me? I can’t quite follow this sequence here.”

He cranked up the smile. “Easy peasy,” he said. “All I’ve done is, I’ve taken the—”

Installing updates. Please wait.

Oh no, he thought, with the small part of his mind that wasn’t suddenly paralysed. Not now.
Please
not now.

His central processor managed to interpret that as some kind of request for information. Inside his head, he heard it, curiously enough, in Dirtspeak. Installing update package #34855733009 for OstSoft BBP for Bombs. Time remaining, three Dirt standard minutes. All open programs have been closed. Once installation is complete, you will need to restart your system. Thank you for choosing OstSoft BBP for Bombs from PicoSoft Corporation.

Through eyes that couldn’t move he saw Judy staring at him, but there was nothing he could do. With a tremendous effort, using which systems he had no idea, he managed to upload This is not a good time. Can’t it wait?

Installing urgent upgrades to OstSoft BBP for Bombs. Updates comprise new improved fonts package for OstWord, exciting new cursor options, updated versions of popular games including Bouncing Ball 3.1 and Termites, and new revised user licence agreement. Attempting to interrupt upgrade process while installation is in progress may lead to loss of personality components and damage to your sanity subroutines. Time remaining 2.67 minutes. Your patience is appreciated. Please wait.

It had turned off his hearing. He could see Judy’s mouth moving, but he didn’t have enough active processor capacity to lip-read what she was saying. It occurred to him that it might help if he could switch off the smile, or at least tone it down a little, but he couldn’t; his face and lower jaw were paralysed. Meanwhile, his mind was full of fonts and cursors, little red bouncy balls and boxes that said “I Agree”. They comprised the entire universe, apart from the thin blue line gradually creeping across the bottom edge of his field of vision. It still had a long way to go, and from time to time it just stopped and sat there.

Judy had stopped mouthing at him; she turned and walked away, and everybody in the room had stopped working and was staring at him. His optimism routines were offline. All in all, he couldn’t help thinking, he’d had better moments.

A man he didn’t know, a man in a suit, walked up to him and started talking. He couldn’t hear a word, of course, but the lip movements suggested he was shouting. OstSoft is reconfiguring your entertainment and media preferences, home shopping options and moral imperatives. One minute and fifty-one seconds remaining.

The main shook his head in disbelief, made a rather florid head-and-arms gesture and stalked away. Forty-six seconds later, two different men appeared. They were wearing light brown Security uniforms. They started talking at him, while OstSoft deleted a batch of his temporary files and recalibrated his ability to metabolise caffeine. Just as the two men grabbed hold of his arms, he rebooted and the world went blank.

18

Novisibirsk

A young ginger-bearded giant in a skin-tight white polo-neck and white jeans opened the door to him. “Hi,” George said, “I’m George Stetchkin, I’m expected. Lucy sent a car.”

The giant frowned, as his mental enzymes broke down the information. “George Stetchkin?”

“That’s me.”

“You’re expected. This way.”

The floor was white marble; likewise the walls. The ceiling, by some bizarre coincidence, was white. So were the very few pieces of furniture. You needed welding goggles just to cross the room without bumping into things. Through the white room and into another, equally white. “Sit down,” the giant said. On what? George wondered; then, as his eyes recalibrated to cut out the glare, he made out the faint outline of a couch. He sat down. There was a furious yowling noise, and a white cat shot past him.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” George said. “Great colour scheme.”

The giant didn’t see fit to comment. He took a step back and folded his arms, motionless as a volcano that hasn’t erupted for decades but could go up at any moment. George sat well forward —difficult to do, since the couch cushions were soft as custard — and tried not to dwell on the fact that he stank of stale booze and had recently puked on his shoes.

An intercom buzzed. The giant crossed to the wall, whispered softly into a panel. “She’ll be down any minute,” he said. “You want coffee?”

George nodded, a trifle too eagerly. “Black,” he said.

The giant looked at him as though he’d used a bad word, and went away. When the door closed behind him, it was practically impossible to see where it had been.

White, he thought. Nice and cheerful. Bright. No it wasn’t: it was the colour of fridges and morgues, which was where he belonged. The glare hurt his eyes, and the rolling softness of the couch was making him feel seasick. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t get enough purchase. They were going to have to lift him out with a crane.

Three minutes later the door opened, but it was only the giant. He had a white tray, on which rested a white cup. George gobbled it down, and felt the liquid sentience soak into him. He looked up into the giant’s cold blue eyes. “More?”

The giant nodded and left. Inside his head, George could feel the coffee stumbling about in the dark, fumbling for the light switch. White, he thought. Like a— The door opened again, and Lucy Pavlov came in, holding the white tray. He struggled to get up, but she shook her head just a little and held the tray where he could reach it. The hell with it, George decided. He grabbed the cup and glugged.

“Better?” she said.

“Marginally,” he replied. “Look, I’m sorry—”

She grinned. “I’ve never drunk alcohol,” she said. “Is it nice?”

He took a moment to answer. “Yes and no,” he said.

She put the tray down on a table he hadn’t realised was there, and sat down on the floor, her legs folded neatly under her. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I hope I haven’t dragged you away from anything important.”

“Not as such,” George said. “Um, what can I do for you?”

Her eyes, he thought. Something odd about them. Also, she had perfect teeth. “I read your paper,” she said. “The one you wrote for the Oslo Institute of Technology, about six years ago. About why there couldn’t be life on other planets.”

“Ah,” George said.

“It was fascinating,” Lucy said; and she had a way of saying it that made you think she’d just had the word specially designed and precision-engineered, to mean exactly what she had in mind. “Quite brilliant, I thought, the way you demolished Rostovseff. The bit about gamma-wave diffraction differentials was sheer genius.”

“You liked that?”

“Amazing. You made it seem so obvious. I was convinced.”

“You were.”

“Absolutely.” She paused, and George made a mental note that if ever the opportunity arose, it would be to his advantage to play poker with this woman, for money. “Only—”

“It’s wrong,” George said.

Her eyes opened wide. “Excuse me?”

“Garbage,” George said. “The whole thing’s a load of drivel.”

“Ah,” she said.

“You know it is. So do I,” he added cheerfully. “I knew it when I wrote it.”

Pause. Then Lucy said, “So you think there really are …”

“People on other planets? You betcha. I know there are.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “They stole my dog,” he said.

He played that last exchange back in his head, and added quickly, “Also, the maths doesn’t work. In the article, I mean. I’m amazed nobody ever spotted it.”

From nowhere that he could see, Lucy produced a snow-white pad. Its screen glowed green when she pressed a white button. “Show me,” she said.

He scrolled down and found the place. “Here,” he said, and hesitated. Then he remembered who he was talking to. “See, right here.”

His fingernail against the white plastic was probably the most revolting thing he’d ever seen. But Lucy wriggled across the floor so she could see.

“You mean this sequence here?”

He nodded. “Try it for yourself,” he said.

She prodded keys for a moment, then looked up at him. “Oh,” she said.

“It doesn’t work,” George said. “And if you knock out that bit, the whole thing falls to bits.”

She was frowning. “But you published it all the same.”

“Yup.” George closed his eyes for a moment. “The fact is, I was trying to convince myself. That’s what it was all about. I thought, if I could prove it, scientifically, then maybe what I saw when I was a kid never happened after all. But I couldn’t prove it. So, being me, I cheated.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes said “Does not compute,” but she nodded slowly. “You wanted to believe it, so you bent the figures.”

He sighed. “And then I tried to kid myself I hadn’t. The way I argued it, if everybody else thought it was OK, all those doctors and professors, then who was I to argue? And nobody ever saw it. And that’s guys with whole alphabets after their names. So, maybe I was right after all and just too dumb to realise.”

She smiled at him. “It’s garbage,” she said.

He sighed, a long exhalation of breath that was both sad and deeply relieved. “It’s the base shift,” he said. “Human nature. We’re a base-ten species, we find it so hard to get our heads around base four. And the eye sees what it wants to.” He stopped for a moment, and when he said, “You’re
good,”
it didn’t come out sounding unreservedly complimentary.

“I only saw it because you pointed it out,” she said. “But anyway, you’ve answered my question. No, in spite of what you wrote, there isn’t any conclusive proof that aliens don’t exist.”

He studied her for a moment. “That was why you wanted to see me.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You see, I rather think they do. And then I read your paper.” She put her head slightly on one side. “Did they really steal your dog?”

Oh well, he thought. It was nice while it lasted. “Be honest,” he said. “If I said yes, would you believe me?”

“Depends.”

“Excuse me. Depends on what?”

“On whether you’re telling the truth or not.”

Picky,
he thought. He took a deep breath and told her all about it. When he’d finished, he looked at her. “Well?”

She had this way of frowning when she was thinking. It was part Michelangelo, part Botticelli and part sweetcorn-husk-lodged-between-front-teeth. “You think someone stole your dog.”

He didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “Yes.”

“It doesn’t actually sound like that to me,” she said, far away in some higher realm. “More like, your dog just
left.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. Polite disbelief, maybe, the glazed look. Or a short flight through the air, ending in a forced landing on the drive. But not that. “Excuse me?”

“Of its own accord,” she said. “Have you considered that?”

“It went flying through the air.” He hadn’t intended to raise his voice, but the idea was so — well,
offensive.
“Dogs don’t fly.”

“Yours did.”

“Pardon me, but it didn’t. It was the stick doing the flying. He just held on.”

“Or hitched a ride.”

“On a conveniently passing flying stick.”

She shrugged. “That’s how it sounds to me,” she said. “But of course, I wasn’t there.”

“No, you weren’t.” Abruptly, he remembered who he was talking to. More accurately, he remembered what, and how much of it, he was talking to. It had been remarkably easy to forget, just for a moment or so. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—” He couldn’t think of the right words for what he hadn’t meant to do. He waited for her to summon the giant and have him thrown out, but remarkably, that didn’t happen. Instead, she said, “Anyway, it’s not important, I guess. What matters is, you saw it, so it must be true. And since sticks don’t fly — not on Earth, at any rate — it does sound like—” Suddenly she smiled, and it was like drowning in a milkshake. “Aliens,” she said.

He nodded. “That’s how I figured it.”

She breathed out slowly, like someone doing yoga. “And I suppose that’s why you gave up science and became an alcoholic,” she said. “That’s really sad.”

“Sad” was indeed a word he’d used to describe himself many times, but not in the sense she was using it. “You believe me,” he heard himself say.

“Well, of course. I don’t suppose you’d make a thing like that up. And it must’ve been something of the sort, because look what it’s done to you.”

He felt as though he’d just passed an exam and been released from Death Row. “So you believe in aliens,” he said.

“Yes. Now, my turn. Do you believe in unicorns?”

The laugh was in his throat and well on its way to his mouth before he managed to catch up with it. “Well, no,” he said.

“Neither did I. But I saw one.”

“Ah.”

“Quite. I thought that, too. But I saw it, so it must be true. That or I’m going crazy. Also, I woke up early this morning and I found out I’d had a message while I was asleep. In a language I don’t know, but I think I could understand it. Oh, and I think someone’s trying to poison me with aposiderium.”

There was a three-second pause. Then George said, “Well, thanks for the coffee and the ride. I think I’ll be going now.”

She gave him a sort of schoolteacher look. “Now come on,” she said. “I believed you. Be fair.”

“Yes, but—” She had a point. She might be a frothing-at-the-mouth kook, but he’d just been fired for burbling drunken drivel at his boss. Let’s all be nuts together (although it had to be borne in mind that too many kooks spoil the broth). “Amplify,” he said.

She smiled at him. “That’s what I like,” she said. “An open mind.”

“Wide open. Like Wyoming. Go on.”

So she had her turn at explaining, and George was just thinking, This woman is seriously disturbed, what planet is she from?, when she got to the bit about aposiderium, and suddenly she had his complete and undivided attention.

“Just a moment,” he said. “You do know that’s the stuff they use in banknotes.”

“For the security strip, yes.”

His turn again. He explained his theory: about how the aposiderium was somehow extracted, and the waste plastic was added to the remaining notes. He noticed that her mouth had fallen open, and her lower jaw was wobbling feebly, as though she was trying to say something but lacked the strength.

“Yes,” he said. “Or it could just be a coincidence.”

She shook her head so furiously that you could’ve used her hair as a strimmer. “Not a coincidence,” she said, as though with her mouth full of toffee. “No way.”

“A bit far-fetched,” he agreed. “No, I think we may have stumbled on the answer to Why. Which only leaves How and Who. And I reckon that if we can figure out one of those, the other won’t be hard to crack. What do you think?”

She was staring at him; then she must’ve realised that, because she pulled herself together so briskly he was sure he heard a click. “Teleportation,” she said. “You could do it with a teleport, if you were really, really clever.”

He smiled. “But nobody on Earth knows how to do it,” he said. The smile widened into a grin that threatened to unzip his scalp. “And if nobody on
Earth
. . .”

She nodded triumphantly. “Quite,” she said.