Status: RO
Message-Id: <199507312011.NAA06250@netcom20.netcom.com>
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Reply-To: quanta@netcom.com
From: quanta@netcom.com (Daniel K. Appelquist)
Sender: owner-quanta-ascii@netcom.com
To: quanta-ascii@netcom.com
Subject: Quanta - July 1995 - Part 3 of 5
Date: Mon, 31 Jul 1995 13:11:05 -0700


Hunter picked up a chunk of swiss cheese on the way back to her
quarters, biting off the rubbery corners and slowly working her
way around the neat, little holes. It was salty, a taste she
liked to think by. All the events of the day passed through her
mind like an angry whirlwind, each somehow connected, but none of
them making any sense as a whole. She finally gulped down the
last of her treat in the shower, and the spray got her nose going
again.

The faint trail of blood blended so well with the water,
however, that by the time it hit the shower floor, there was
nothing much to see even if she had been looking. She finally
opened her mouth, letting the warm mist massage her tongue. The
taste of salt hit her as strange, and she began to feel between
her teeth for a loose sliver of the cheese. A minute later,
blotting her face against a towel, she saw the red stain.

The red spot on the towel seemed to laugh at her and at her
apparent inability to fix so much as a bloody nose. She went back
to her work clothes, still scattered carelessly below the laundry
chute and checked all the pockets for some nose bandages. The
pockets were needlessly cluttered, as her pockets almost always
were, a slide from some chemical analysis, a not-very-neatly-
folded flimsi, a flex-glove, a lightpen, a blood-spotted
handkerchief, a little, metallic cylinder.

A little, metallic cylinder?

It glinted faintly in the dim light, nothing to have a
hysterectomy over, or so it seemed to be saying. She threw on a
robe, the blue mendwear with one of her favorite if more
offensive proverbs embroidered on the back, "Never mess with a
chemist on PMS." Then she bandaged her nose. With the random
segments of a hunch quietly huddling about her consciousness, she
plopped down on her cushi-bag with the strange object, sinking
slowly and deliberately as the warm, gelatinous interior oozed
beneath.

                       *          *          *

Bernie shoved his finger through another donut, the jelly oozing
down into a cherry puddle on his desk. He hated to see it go to
waste, yet he couldn't bear to eat. It was the ultimate dilemma.

"You okay Bern?"

Sandra stood at the door, just popping in to collect another
two-dozen walkie-talkies for security. Without the internal comm
network, they'd have to rely solely on wireless transmission, not
a particularly well-stocked alternative.

"Is this all you got?"

Bernie licked the sugary filling off his finger.

"Hey Bern...you okay?"

He looked up and stared coldly, trying to look callously
reserved, or so he imagined. Then it broke, and he chucked the
donut across the room.

"Bern..."

"I killed 'em. If it wasn't for that damn shouter..."

"Look Bern, don't get morose now. Save it for later."

He sighed, and she nudged him in the ribs.

"Brooks has a little present for you."

"What?"

She took the mask out of her grav-cart, tossing it next to the
red puddle.

"And there are five guards stationed outside."

"Five?"

"Just in case."

"Oh great. To protect the shouter? Why don't we just destroy
the damn thing?!"

"Might need it."

She snatched a donut before leaving and then turned sideways
before the door, looking backward across one shoulder as her hair
flopped over the other.

"It's not your fault, Bern, so stop blaming yourself."

He sighed as she exited, leaving him to quietly monitor the
free lanes for any sign of trespassers. It was a heck of a job,
boring as all hell, and generally unimportant to boot. This time
things were different, however. It was still boring, but with
five guards outside, he had no illusions as to its importance.
The door opened again about a minute later. He looked up,
expecting to see Sandy standing there, donut in hand. Instead, it
was a woman in a blue robe, her short, dark hair combed back,
damp and shiny. He put a napkin over the jelly and scooted his
chair backward several inches.

"Yah?"

"Comm-hardware?"

"You're in the right place."

"I'm Dr. Hunter."

"Oh...what, am I late for a check-up?"

She leaned over the desk, dropping a small, metallic cylinder
to its surface.

"Can you tell me what this is?"

                       *          *          *

Saloris shrugged, swigging down another hit, "What does it
matter, man? It's not cheap."

"Anything on it?"

"I dunno."

Zak rubbed his overgrown moustache with the back of his hand,
eyeing its reflection for any traces of foam against the
holocrystal's shiny white surface. It did look expensive, the
sort of durability you could crap on and still invoke a clean
image.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Look man...you gonna value it or fold?"

"Hey...I'm just curious. Five."

"What?!" spraying half his brew over the table.

"Okay, eight."

"Fuck you!"

"Ten. Ten tops, and don't say a word. You want me to report
this?"

Saloris scowled, "It's worth way more than ten."

"Maybe, but it's probably stolen, or maybe you'd like me to go
find out."

"Don't threaten me, man."

"It's all part of the game, Saloris. Ten?"

Shaking his head, "Like I really have a choice."

Zak ended up winning it with a pair of starbursts, the sort of
hand that made him wonder why he wasn't folding, but Saloris had
a reputation for drawing shit, and his luck while drinking was
about as flavorful as a goblet of warm, slog piss. Zak spent the
next hour or so searching for a viewer. Most of those on board
were four centimeter standard. This was two, built for
concealment more than convenience. It was just another aspect
which intrigued him.

Just when he was about to give up and chuck it, he happened
across comm-hardware, an office he'd walked past maybe a hundred
times without once going inside. Five guards stood at intervals
up and down the corridor, one stopping him as he made for the
entrance.

"Need some I.D."

He dug it out, going inside only after the guard had a chance
to run it through her portable magnetic scanner. The ship's
doctor was inside, wearing a blue robe and sweat pants. She was
talking with a plump guy at the desk, her voice low and serious,
like it had been after "the incident".

The incident had been a minor brawl in the enlisted mess, and
he'd been pretty defensive about anyone, particularly a woman,
trying to help him. She responded by drawing a laser scalpel and
threatening to cut off his head. It may have been crude, but the
prospect of further bodily injury shook him up enough to make him
succumb to reason. After he let her bandage his face and stop the
bleeding she became somewhat more congenial.

"Well well...if it isn't crewman Dagler."

"Hi Doc...uh...doctor...uh, sir."

She smiled, "You're going to have to wait your turn."

"I'm just looking for a two centimeter holo-player."

Bernie pointed a jellied finger toward the cabinet on the
left.

"Second shelf."

"Thanks."

"So you're sure it's a bug?"

"Uh-huh."

He inserted the crystal and flipped it forward to somewhere in
the middle. The image promptly materialized in a half-meter
diameter sphere, a man and a woman standing upon a mauve carpet.
At first he smiled, thinking it was a sick joke. Saloris
collected his fair share of pornography, some of it far from the
mainstream, and on more than one occasion Zak had found himself
exposed to yet another fetish he'd never dreamed existed. But
instead of sex, they just talked, her strange, silvery-white mane
shifting as she turned her head to speak. She'd ask some
question, and he'd reply, his voice quiet and stubbornly accented
by numerous stops. He looked dazed, as though he'd been drinking
to the point of vomit-readiness, but his answers, the words in
particular, came out more like a lecture in astrophysics, many of
the phrases as technically alien as to be virtually
incomprehensible.

"What have you got, crewman?"

It was the doctor, probably attracted by the convoluted lingo.
He took a half step to the side, giving her some viewing room.
Her eyes seemed to focus in on the man, perhaps since he was
doing most of the talking, but there was more than that, and as
she adjusted the contrast, her eyes widened even further.

"Erestyl."

"You know him, sir?"

"In a manner of speaking. Where did you get this?"

"Umm...it was a present."

"From who?"

"A friend."

"Can the run-around, mister. Who gave it to you?"

"Crewman Saloris, sir."

"Saloris...same Saloris that was on the away team to the
Louise?"

Zak gulped, trying to remember whether or not anything like
that came up.

"You'd have to ask him yourself, sir."

"He was. He was with the gunship medic when Harrison came
aboard."

"Sir?"

"You're dismissed, crewman. I'll hold onto your present for
you."

"Yes sir..."

Zak left, a mixture of anger and relief crowding his mind, and
all he could mutter was, "What is this shit?"

                       *          *          *

Mike sat, stiff backed, his innards gasping and wheezing with
every push. Cecil's voice curled from beneath the door.

"All fair in there?"

"I'm fine."

He pushed again, gritting his teeth, as a bloody fecal
specimen forced its way from his bowels.

"You sure this regen is working?!"

"We took you off it."

"What?!"

<em>Beep</em>

"Attention all hands and passengers. This is Lieutenant
Commander Brooks. As many of you have already heard through the
grapevine, Commodore Reece, Captain Dunham, Commander Simms, and
Lieutenant Torin were assassinated as of seven hundred and forty
hours via a canister of hydrogen cyanide. Under R.F. protocols, I
have assumed command of the ship. We believe that the culprit is
a Tizarian gatherer by the name of Michael Harrison. If you have
any information concerning his whereabouts, please contact
security immediately. He is to be considered armed and dangerous.
All passengers are requested to return to their cabins and to
submit themselves and their accommodations for inspection. All
off duty crew are to report to the main auditorium for security
duty instructions."

Mike let the automatic flush take down his offering, hunching
back to his feet as he appreciated the tumbling rudiments of
terror.

"Cecil...we need to talk!"

                       *          *          *

"Hey Jo...can't we at least discuss this?"

"What's there to discuss?"

"Well, our lives for one thing."

Spokes stood still, rubbing his hands together in the chill
air. Trying to wash off the blood, Johanes figured. Good luck,
kid.

"I mean...this is crazy and stupid. We can just...you
know...dump Mike out an airlock. We don't have to die."

Johanes smiled, fishing into the hyperfield controller's
circuitry. Each of the cords were labeled by color and number, a
different set of generator grids associated with each cord.

"What's the matter Spokes? Afraid of dying?"

"Yes. Very much so."

"Good. Fear is a sensible trait. Hand me the canister."

Spokes reluctantly complied, and Johanes tugged several loose
cords through one end, painstakingly deliberate and all too
mindful of the consequences of even the most minor fumble. The
short blades lining the shutter were mono-molecular quality, the
sort of technology that made cermelicon minisaws look like the
little, plastic knives that came free with Siryn take-out. Cut a
wire, and the ship's hyperfield would cave in, taking part of the
ship with it. Cut several, and it would be worse, a lot worse.

Johanes wasn't an expert on the subject. He couldn't even
begin to estimate over how many millions of kilometers the
wreckage would be dispersed. He only knew it would be a very warm
day in space. And Spokes seemed to know it too, absorbing the
implications as though by osmosis.

"Look Jo...just tell me, because I'm confused," he backed a
step, almost tripping over the body of the engineer who had been
on duty. "I don't see why you're doing this."

"You ever gamble, Spokes?"

"Uh...yeah, sure."

"What do you do when you got a lousy hand? I mean, it stinks."

"Uh...you fold."

"But you can't fold. The stakes are already too high."

Spokes shifted to the side, unsure where he was leading.

"Okay, you bluff."

"But you tried that, and it didn't work. What do you do then?"

"I dunno."

Johanes closed the circuitry compartment, turning around with
a spin of his heels.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"No."

"You kick over the table. Chips scatter everywhere. Game's
over. You lose, they lose, everybody loses. But at least nobody
wins."

"You're crazy."

"You see this?"

He held up a pocket, holocrystal recorder, no bigger than his
fist. Spokes had to get a good look before he realized what it
was, and even then, it only increased his sense of confusion.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Back at the starport. Our friend Sule left it behind with
some burnt scraps of quagga liver. The liver was great. This...
this, my friend, is bad."

"I don't get it."

"They've got a good hand, and we don't, but that canister is
the boot that's gonna send the table flying, and if we're
lucky...very lucky, we may just live through it. Now get a hold
of Cecil; tell him we're set to link him to the interweave
governor."

Spokes shifted, "I still don't like this."

"Just do it. I have to find a place to stuff Mr. Corpse."

                       *          *          *

"Corpses?"

"Yes sir."

Brooks leaned back at the master security console, still shy
of approaching the captain's seat. The bridge lights were dim,
the noises rare and quiet, leaving the chamber in a muted,
melancholy slumber. With only Tabor and Lish to keep him company,
and both of them keeping well aside, he'd finally had a chance to
peruse Torin's papers. The subject matter was sketchy at best,
most of the papers referring to others which weren't contained in
the folder. There had to be more in the lieutenant's little safe,
locked away with all the relentless intractability of this
troublesome gatherer who seemed to attack one moment and
disappear the next.

Lieutenant Anders stood quietly, probably waiting for some
sort of response while Brooks punched up a visual of the main
auditorium. Crew members were still filing in, each one searched,
their ID's checked as they entered. It was a slow process, but
with the potential for another attack, the precautions were
necessary.

"Sir...the corpses..."

"Yes, what do you want me to do about it?"

"People are gawking at them, sir."

"Gawking?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, must be getting everybody pretty pissed off, eh
Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"To see four officers dead, Dunham and the Commodore included.
I bet there's gonna be some shooting first and asking of
questions later when we catch this punk."

Anders blinked, "Sir...displaying their dead bodies without
even the barest modicum of decency..."

"Modicum of decency? They're dead, Lieutenant. They don't need
decency; they need revenge."

"Yes sir."

"I want a camera set up in front of the bodies, and I want the
picture transmitted to this frequency." He pointed at the
console. "I want everyone to see it."

He turned his head to the beeping of the comm console. Tabor
and Lish were watching it as little blips of light danced from
one channel to another.

"They're at it again, sir."

"See if you can predict their switching."

"Aye aye."

Lieutenant Anders just stood there, confused as usual.

"You're not going to jam them?"

"It works both ways, Lieutenant. We jam them, they jam us.
Look, after we're done showing the crew what this Mr. Harrison
did, take the bodies to a shuttle. There's no point in keeping
them in sickbay."

"Aye sir."

"And tell Archie that I want that safe open yesterday!"

He looked back at the visual. Alongside the picture were
displayed the names, sections, and ranks of everyone reporting,
enough people to scroll off the screen and then some. It would be
one hell of a pep rally, crammed full enough with vengeful
intents to make Satan himself jealous. And then, with a terrible,
bloodthirsty cry, the search would begin, and the gatherer's
paper would have one more obituary to report come its next
edition.
___________________________________________________________________________

jimv@cs.ucr.edu
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

RoboTroubles                           The conflict really came down 
                                       to the whirrer-droids and the 
by Ken Kousen                          screw-tights.                 
___________________________________________________________________________

Hart Mirrimar marched through the glass double doors marking the
entrance to Widgets Unlimited, breezed past the two security guards
with a cheery wave and a smile, and strode confidently onto the
factory floor.

A hail of projectiles drove him back into the lobby. He fell into the
arms of the two security guards, who pulled him out of the line of
fire.

"What in the world was that?" he demanded of one of the
guards, whose tattered uniform bore a nametag identifying him as
Officer Friendly.

Friendly scratched his head, revealing a bright tuft of white hair
under his cap. "Probably whirrer-droids," he said. "Or
maybe screw-tights. I think they took the entrance on the last shift,
didn't they, Joe?"

The other guard had a nametag that said Officer Thursday. He was a
burly man with a brush moustache. "Sounds right. The
ratchet-pawls fell back this morning, and took the whirrer-droids with
them. Last I heard, they were allies."

Mirrimar felt like his head was whirring with this new
information. Obviously, something had gone terribly wrong with the
RoboNet in Widgets Unlimited. Worse, someone at headquarters had
maneuvered him into taking full responsibility for this
operation. Well, by gum, he wasn't going to go down without a
fight.

He stood up abruptly to one side, to avoid being detected by
RoboNet. With a tug on his suit jacket, he assumed command of the
situation. "Men," he said, dropping his voice into its
authoritative octave, "my name is Hart Mirrimar, Senior Executive
Assistant to the Vice President of Massively Parallel Robot Technology
at the home office of Mechanized Solutions, Incorporated. I-"

A small, propeller-driven, round metal object interrupted his speech
by flying through the door. Pipe turrets on its surface spun crazily
about as it hovered. Then it suddenly dashed forward and crashed
through the glass entrance. The three men hit the deck as the glass
shattered with a cacophony of cymbals. When Mirrimar lifted his head,
the flying object was gone.

"Looks like the whirrer-droids have mounted a
counter-offensive," Friendly said, to no one in particular.

"Maybe," Thursday replied. "That one looked more
spooked than anything else, like it didn't know what it was
doing." He turned to Mirrimar. "Of course, you might know
more about that. Your company designed the critters, didn't
they?"

Mirrimar sat up and backed against the wall. "Well, not me
personally," he said.

"Hell, Joe," Friendly said, "he don't know
nothing. He's just an executive."

"And as an executive," Mirrimar said, "I demand to know
who is in charge here." He adopted what he believed to be his
best stern posture; a look that sent his own underlings into
spasms.

Friendly scratched behind his right ear. "Most of the Widgets
people left hours ago. The tech people from your outfit set up a
bunker near RoboNet Command. If anybody here has any authority, that's
where they are."

"Then I need to get in there, immediately."

The two guards exchanged glances. Thursday shrugged. "It's your
neck," he said. He peered out into the factory floor. "See
that room over there?" he said, indicating a corrugated metal
structure about a hundred yards inside. "That holds a stairwell
six flights down to the bunker. Safest way to it is probably to weave
back behind the spoon- and fork-lifts to your right, circle around the
hangers-on, and then flat out run."

"Why not head directly for it?" Mirrimar said. "The
path there seems straight enough."

"That's a trap, set by the ratchet-pawls. You couldn't make it
ten paces before you'd be strung up and filletted, one link at a
time."

Mirrimar shuddered. "I see. All right, I'll do it your
way."

Friendly held out a restraining hand. "Just a sec," he
said. "You need a diversion." He inched over to his desk,
opened the bottom drawer, and removed a can of 30-weight
oil. "Watch out," he said, then lofted the can into the
room, well to their left. It burst open when it hit the
floor. Immediately it was surrounded by a swarm of mechanicals, large
and small, who busily set about devouring it.

"Now's your chance," Joe said. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Mirrimar said, and ran.

The bunker consisted of a low-ceilinged, acoustically tiled room, with
the recessed fluorescent lighting and overactive air conditioning
characteristic of hypercomputer rooms everywhere. After being waved
through the entrance by a nervous Mechanized Solutions employee,
Mirrimar joined a huddle of people surrounding a graphical display
terminal mounted on the central desk.

"Excuse me," he said, and was hastily shushed. Leaning in,
he saw a mechanical head displayed on the screen. It spoke in low
tones, and wavered as it talked.

"Sectors 3EF47 to 42591 report moderate damage. No viruses
detected. Sectors 2FFA2 to 31604 declare neutrality, which the
screw-tights are refusing to honor. No viruses
detected. Drill-throughs in Sectors A022B to A5311 formally protest
the persecution of minorities in Sectors 77792 to 836B3. No viruses
detected. Sectors -"

The report continued in the same droning voice for some time. Mirrimar
watched the head wobble back and forth with an annoying flicker. To
avoid getting a headache, he studied the other people surrounding the
screen.

Janet MacDougall, the chief on-site engineer, leaned over the table to
her left, immersed in computer reports. Her brow was deeply
furrowed. Harvey Tok, her young assistant, sat in front of an
unintelligible map, hastily scrawling every time the head on the
screen finished a sentence. The others Mirrimar didn't know, but
seemed to defer to MacDougall and Tok.

MacDougall shook her head. "Not a virus in the bunch," she
said. Her Scottish brogue had softened considerably since she took
this job, but tended to get stronger when she was under
stress. "Not a one."

"That's not too surprising," Tok said. "I told
you. It's just a nonlinear dynamic system. The individual components
are all operating within spec."