Virtual Immortality
R.E. Smeraglia
Editor/Technical Director
	Daniel K. Appelquist

Cover Art
	Boris Starosta

Editorial Assistance
	Allison Lambe
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Looking Ahead
Daniel K. Appelquist	2

Virtual Immortality
R.E. Smergalia	3
In The City
Jacqueline Carey	16
RoboTroubles
Ken Kousen	21
The Plains of Meer
Simon Joseph	6
A Sense of Humor
Kevin Walsh	18

The Harrison Chapters (Chapter 17)
Jim Vassilakos	8

 The Queen of the City is dead. The City is an island, surrounded by a River. The City's name is Order. The River's name is Chaos. Of course, these are not their real names. But then again, maybe they are.
(Unbind Me) "No." He turned his head as he passed Animal God, whose looming figure cast terrible black shadows in the shapeshifting blue light of the gasflames. "Karina!" His voice echoed in the empty, vaulted ceilings. The echoes thinned and chased each other like bats, tinkling the crystal, hiding in the shadows of the buttresses. The black and white marble checkerboard of the floor was cold, and the coldness was rising. Degree by degree; it was up to his ankles now. He shivered, skin prickling into gooseflesh. Forbidden words rose to his mind; wool, sheepskin, firewood. (Warmblood. Flesh. Unbind Me) "No!" He broke into a run, feeling Animal God's blind stone eyes boring into his back. Through the dining room, past the long, gleaming onyx table, empty place-settings of china and handblown glass sparkling before each empty seat in the gloaming lowlight of the dying City. Cold carpet. He ran. "Karina!"
Once upon a time there was a Word; no, wait. Once upon a time there was a Pattern, and its symmetry was impeccable. This is the Key to the City. The Queen who is dead carried the Pattern that was a Word that was a Key inside her head. Now the Pattern is broken. Death, however, can be very orderly.
He found her in the old nursery. It was hard to tell, at first, in the low, bloody light that seeped through the tall windows; the dying light of an artificial sun. All the automata, their childhood playmates, lay crumpled on the nursery floor-- Pierrot, Pierrette, Harlequin, their animating magic gone. And there she was, a fetal creature curled between two lifeless heaps of limbs, torsos and heads. He breathed out her name in a desperate mix of relief and terror. "Karina." Her eyes, owl-ringed with dark exhaustion, lifted to meet his. "Evan. We're dying, Evan." "No! Not yet," he said fiercely, hunkering down before her. "We will." He ignored her words determinedly, taking her cold hands between his and chafing them. "Is there anyone left? Anyone alive?" Her low voice was empty of hope. He shook his head. "Only us." "And Him," she spat unexpectedly, eyes glittering to life in their bruised hollows. His hands, still chafing hers, fell motionless. "What happened? Evan, do you understand what happened?" He shook his head again.
Symmetry is not the natural order of mankind. Look in the mirror. The two halves of your face, they are not exactly alike, are they? Sometimes it is best not to look too closely. It has been said that Man has ascended half the distance between animals and angels. This is not a wise thing to forget.
The far wall of the nursery was painted with a fanciful cityscape, all tall spires and towers, stained now with incarnadine light. Evan stared at it, not seeing, encircled from behind by his sister's arms. "I'm losing my mind, Evan," she whispered in his ear. "Why haven't we turned to dust? Why are we still here?" "I don't know. I don't know." He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and shuddered. She held him, stroking his hair and murmuring wordlessly. The unwinking gazes of the automata surrounded them. He shrugged off her arms and rose, pacing the room, stopping at the window and staring out, gripping the frame with both hands. The window silhouetted him in dull crimson. "Did He speak to you?" Karina's voice came from the darkness behind him. He leaned his forehead against the windowpane and nodded. She made her way to his side. He turned his head and looked at her. "No. Oh, no." "We're going to die, Evan." "No." He roused himself with a shake. "Further up. We'll go to the tower. It will be warmer further up." "Only for a little while," she said.
A long time ago--as long ago as once upon a time, yes, but not always so long ago as that--those who ruled the City remembered why they kept the River at bay and built a Wall around the City; brick by brick, Word by Word and Pattern by Pattern. These things were not meant to be. One small forgetting, generation by generation, grows larger. There is a chink in the Wall. The River is trickling into the City.
He stared at the dying sun. "It's not real, you know," she said. "Not any more." "You want me to unbind Him." Karina drew a fingertip through the faint smear of oil his forehead had left on the glass of the windowpane. "Look. We're still real, Evan. Mother is gone. The City is dead. We aren't." "He doesn't belong here," he said, wearily. "He ruined everything. It's all gone now, except us. He can't destroy us. So let Him die too, cold and stone. He doesn't belong here." "Neither do we." She shivered. "Not any more. I'm afraid, Evan. I'm afraid of the cold and the dark." "Karina." He bowed his head. "Karina." Through closed lids, he could see the darkness encroaching on the City. The cold was already here, knee-high and climbing. It would be simple, so simple, to do nothing, to let it come; but no, his heart beat still, warm and willful, his nerves quivering in tune with Karina's fear. He did not want to die. "Now!" she said. "Let's do it now." Evan released his grip on the window-frame and looked at his sister. Her face, half-shadowed, was a pallid mask hanging in the darkness. "He killed our mother." "No." "What, then?" "Not Him, but what He is..." Karina shivered again and wrapped her arms about herself. "That's what did it. Mother, the City. I understand that much. There's a word for it. Anathema." "All right," he said, unaware that he was crying. "All right. Let's do it."
Life is worth dying for. Chaos is necessary for belief in a god. The absence of belief--belief in a higher power, belief in a force, any force, beyond comprehension--is inimical to human nature. No island stands forever. This is something children do not need to be told. Do you?
Animal God loomed larger. His head was lost in shadow halfway to the high, vaulted ceiling. Blue gasflames still burned on the fluted floor-torches, throwing twisted shadows on the checkerboard floor, giving the hall the look of an abandoned temple. (Unbind Me) "What happens then?" Evan asked, staring upward, hands fisted at his sides. "What then?" (Unbind Me) "What are you? Where did you come from? Who summoned you here?" (Unbind Me) "I don't think He can tell you," Karina said. "I don't think He knows. Nobody remembers." "You know." He looked at his sister. "He comes from the River." "What river?" "The River." She coughed in the cold. "Where we swam before we were born." He stared up again into darkness. Eagle's head, the fierce, hooked beak terrifyingly noble, terrifyingly animal. No animals in the City. Collared ruff of feathers giving way to stone waves of lion's mane on an arching horse's neck. The forelegs were equine, giving way to leonine sides against which massive wings lay folded; enormous granite pinions, delicate and imperishable. Mighty lion haunches, caught mid-ripple, bulged with muscle, ready to launch this impossible beast. The tail, something serpentine, stone- scaled and lost in shadow. All things from picture-books, every picture-book ever written in the City. Cold was rising. Above his knees now and reaching higher, icy tendrils creeping up his thighs; Karina was shivering beside him. "How?" (Warmblood) They looked at each other. "The kitchen." Karina coughed again, then stopped with an effort. "Get a knife." He ran, the heels of his boots striking staccato reverberations from the marble, leaving an echoing trail behind him until he reached carpet. The lights were down now and he had to grope his way toward the kitchen, where a line of ghost-blue flame danced above the pit. It took a moment to find a knife; then he had it, and returned, slowly now, fear and reluctance dragging at every step. "I'm scared." "I know." Her arms came around him and she turned her face to his shoulder, asking muffled; "Do you want me to?" "No." He stepped carefully away from her and raised the knife in his right hand, holding his left out level, palm open. His skin looked suddenly immaculate to him; smooth, pale, flawless. Whole. The point of the knife glittered wickedly, barbaric, hungry for blood. Warmblood. Warm, red blood. He placed the point, drew it across a few centimeters of skin, pushing down. A pallid seam opened in the center of his palm. It held for an instant, then it filled, welling, ruby-red and rich, a crimson drop of life cupped in his hand. Trembling, he lifted the hand; it seemed to rise of its own volition, floating in the darkling air. The rising cold wreathed his loins, caressed his ribs. Fingers splayed, he laid his hand flat on Animal God's cold stone shoulder.
I never promised you that the story would make sense. If the story made sense, you would have no questions. If you had no questions, there would be no mysteries. Only imagine how dull life would be then. Even Plato had second thoughts about letting poets into the Republic. Think about that for a while.
 Warmth blossomed beneath his hand; living warmth, powerful animal heat. Unyielding stone gave way to sleek, hide-sheathed muscle. He cried out and leapt back, Karina's hands dragging at him. There was a patch of chestnut-red on the grey granite, growing, licking at the stone like flames. It crept up the arch of neck, flickering into tawny-gold at the mane, chestnut graduating into paler gold along the flanks. The wings burst into a symphony of variegated browns, speckled umber and sienna, echoed in the ruff that melded into the mane. The neck bowed, the arch forming a feathered crest as the head lowered. Living color lapped up the last bit of stone. Speckled feathers, the beak a dull yellow, powerful enough to snap an iron bar in half. Terrible majesty; the hooked beak opened. Fierce eagle eyes burned amber, outblazing the gaslights and Animal God lived. The hall had gone dark, but for dying blue flames and living amber eyes. We are going to die, Evan thought, watching the open beak descend. With his last vestige of will he thrust Karina behind him. "I THANK YOU." His voice filled the hall, leaving no room for echoes. Beneath the gleaming hide, muscles flexed. "AND NOW..." He raised his awesome head. Muscle rippled. Slowly His wings opened, stretching, pinions spread to span the width of the hall. His body reared up on leonine haunches, towering above them. His hoofed forelegs raked the gloaming air and His serpentine tail thrashed. His wings beat once, with a clap like thunder. Cracks ran up the walls, and beyond, rending the fabric of the world, cracking it like an egg. Light, bright beyond belief, poured through the cracks, and a warm wind swept through, bearing moisture and strange, rich odors. The cracks widened, blinding; the world shattered and the shards broke away, falling into nothingness, disappearing like black vapor. The light was revealed. Blueness, of infinite depth, unfurled overhead. The checkerboard of marble on which they stood dwindled to an island in a grass sea of eye-straining green.
 Falling. The Wall is falling. The River has flooded the city. People are dancing in the streets. People are mumbling in the alleys. An ocean of blood laps at the piers. An army of cocks plows a field of wombs. Did you really expect a happy ending? Did you really expect an ending at all?
Having received B.A. degrees in Psych and English Lit from Lake Forest College in 1986, Jacqueline now studies anything from Godel's theorem to Egyptian astrology. Her work has appeared in a handful of small press publications, and she supports the habit by working as the coordinator of the DePree Art Center & Gallery in Michigan. 
carey@hope.edu
asey stared into the abyss of the Grand Canyon. Far below, the black caped figure swooped and dived like a giant hawk, a beautiful blonde woman dangling loosely from his arms. Casey leaned over the edge of the precipice and let the fall take him. He spread his arms wide in a swan dive. A buffeting wind swept across his face as he reached terminal velocity and he dipped his left arm while fully extending his right over his head. The maneuver had the desired effect. He went spinning upward and to the right, climbing now and approaching the masked super-villain from behind. In a moment he would catch his foe and the battle would be joined. Casey hoped he was in time to save the President's kidnapped daughter.
 He swore when he saw the red light ahead of him. It hung like a crimson fireball hovering in the center of his line-of-sight. The air around his head vibrated with amplified sound as a chime reverberated and he heard his own voice say, "Three o'clock appointment, Case. Time to come out."
 Casey put his arms down and slipped his hands out of the gloves. With a deft movement he stripped off the lightweight headset and set it aside, gently coiling the dangling wires and putting the Grand Canyon and the black-caped villain Destructo on hold. With a little more fine tuning, Casey decided, the Superhero Adventure could be a big seller in the virtual reality game market. But he still had to address the problem of "flying" while sitting down. The sensory inputs from the visor and his own nerve endings were in conflict on this one and made it harder to suspend disbelief, a necessity for any VR experience. 
 As he had many times in the years since he'd first heard of virtual reality at NASA Ames Research Center, Casey reflected that virtual reality was very much like being inside a movie you're directing yourself.
 He checked his watch and pulled a small stack of program chips out of his desk. He slipped them into his coat pocket.
 Twenty minutes later he was in Tobias Anderson's hospital room. Anderson looked weak, but alert, and he smiled when Casey came in the door.
 "How are you, Toby?" Casey asked. He still felt a little strange calling the great Tobias Anderson by his first name, but over the last two years they'd become close despite a sixty year gap in their ages.
 "Fool doctors can't figure out what's wrong with me this time," Anderson said with a chuckle. "All they can think of is to give me more tests. Hell, I know what's wrong with me. I'm eighty-nine and my body has just plumb given up. Thank god for you and this little jewel." 
 Anderson reached out a frail hand and patted the virtual reality interface by the bed. Casey and Anderson had finally convinced the hospital staff to allow the VR machinery to remain in the room, after Casey had redesigned the hookups so they wouldn't interfere with the hospital equipment. 
 They couldn't argue too much. Anderson's money had built the hospital and the wing they were in was named for him.
 "What have you got for me?" Anderson asked. 
 "Another module," Casey said. "Churchill Downs, 1948."
 Anderson's eyes went soft as he remembered. "The year Citation won that Derby. That was grand. I'm glad you did that one. Helen and I had a wonderful time that day."
 The two men chatted about Eddie Arcaro's winning ride at the Derby while Casey lifted the access cover on the VR interface. The tiny program chips fit neatly into the specially designed state-of-the-art setup. Casey was proud of the work he'd done and a bit saddened thatmodules he'd worked so hard on had no commercial application. Anderson's modules were different than the game and travel experiences Casey's company usually developed. Virtual reality entertainment often meant zooming through the asteroid belt in a spaceship, or trekking through the African veldt on safari. But Tobias Anderson had wanted something different. He wanted Casey to re-create special places out of his own past. Places he could go back to in VR, fully interactive experiences he could relive. 
 Casey was dubious at first. The number of variables required to fool memory was staggering, especially with real people and dialogue figured in. Even with programs designed to fill-in variables from algorithmic patterns the programming task was enormous, representing thousands of man-hours. The first depiction was primitive, but Anderson was delighted. With each completed tableau, Casey achieved a closer and closer representation of what Anderson wanted. Every VR scenario was a self-contained module representing a place Anderson wanted to go back to. Lower Manhattan in 1928. Havana in 1955. School days at Princeton 1924. 
 Casey created more than scenery and background figures. Working from Anderson's memory, old photographs, references and biographies, Casey created the people Anderson had known too. The biggest challenge was Helen, Anderson's long dead wife. In each module she had to be the appropriate age, with the right level of maturity and sophistication. Each VR module had millions of variables, despite the relatively limited scope. Once fitted into the virtual reality visor, audio inputs and gloves, Anderson could revisit his youth. From his computer enhanced perspective he was no longer old. His virtual reality body did not tire as he walked endless miles, his handshake was firm and he could jitterbug with short-skirted flappers all night long. Anderson was thrilled with the early modules and spent many hours in an elaborately furnished entertainment room with treadmill floors and climate control to enhance the VR experience.
 When Anderson's health had deteriorated, Casey faced new challenges. How to adapt the VR sensory input so it overwhelmed the "real" world input. How to convince a bedridden man his legs were moving, that he wasn't flat on his back and being fed through intravenous tubes. How to design lighter, less obtrusive VR gear that would not interfere with medical hook-ups.
 But Anderson was footing the bill for all the research and all the equipment, as well as subsidizing most of Casey's other programs. Besides, he liked the man. They'd spent hundreds of hours together and he felt toward Tobias Anderson as he did his own grandfather. And with all the research he'd done on the man and his family in order to recreate his experiences, Casey knew Tobias Anderson and his history better than the elder's own children. 
 Casey replaced the access cover and keyed the input data.
 "Almost ready?" Anderson asked.
 "Just need to add it to the map."
 Each of Anderson's memory modules was linked by a hypercard "doorway". Once in the VR universe, Anderson could walk through a doorway in Manhattan and exit onto a rocky beach on the Riviera. When Casey linked the new module in he also added it to the "reference map" Anderson had access to while in VR.
 A few moments later Casey watched as Anderson "entered" the new module. He felt a warm flush of pride as he saw the smile on the elderly man's face. Casey wondered where he was in the module. He flipped on the monitor that sat beside the VR interface. The monitor was rarely used as it was not necessary for Anderson to experience VR. The visor provided the visual input. But the two had added a monitor in the early stages of the experiment so Anderson could point out on the 3-D monitor areas he especially liked or areas that needed more detail or improvement. Casey rarely used it when Anderson was "inside" because it felt to him like eavesdropping on a dream.
 He could see what brought on the smile. Anderson was in the pre-race paddock, shaking hands with young jockey Eddie Arcaro and admiring Citation up close, something he'd not been able to do in real life. But in virtual reality, anything was possible.
 Casey pulled out the input keypad and typed a quick phrase. He knew that in the VR Anderson's line of sight, a sky writing biplane had just drawn the words, "How do you like it, Toby?" 
 On the monitor screen, Casey watched Tobias Anderson extend his right hand and give the thumbs up sign. Casey smiled, turned the monitor off and gathered his tools.
 "I want to talk to you," came a gruff voice behind him. Casey's smile faded as he recognized Gavin Anderson, Tobias' sixty year-old son. Gavin ran Anderson Industries, even though as board chairman Tobias held ultimate decision making authority for the corporation.
 "Hello, Gavin."
 "I see you've put him back into your fantasy world," Gavin snorted.
 "He's exploring the new module," Casey said. "And it's not my fantasy. If anything, it's his."
 "I can never get in to see him," Gavin complained. "He spends every waking hour undergoing medical tests or playing with your computer games. He's still head of a company, you know."
 Casey nodded. "Have you tried the interrupt button?" He indicated the red button on the VR console. Having a VR experience abruptly terminated was a disconcerting experience many times more traumatic than being woken out of a dream. People outside the VR world were encouraged to use the interrupt button, which displayed the intrusion in VR context, like Casey's own red light and chime.
 "I've tried it," Gavin said. "He comes back, takes off the visor and roars like a dragon when he sees it's me. This has got to stop. This obsession with that fantasy world you've created."
 "It's an alternative, Gavin, not a fantasy. Your father wants things recreated in detail so he can relive his youth, not battle monsters or zap aliens. He doesn't want fantasy, just to relive memories of people and places long gone."
 "But why does he spend so much time in there?"
 "In there," Casey said, "he's young and vigorous. Out here, he's old and frail and in pain. Which would you prefer?"
 Casey's next visit was brief. Anderson had suffered a mild stroke the day before and while there was no major damage he looked weak.
 "It was close," Anderson said. "I think pretty soon we'll be glad we took precautions. Casey, what happens to them when the machine is turned off?"
 "Them?"
 "Helen and the others. When I arrive they are going about their business. When I leave they seem to be doing so. What do they do while I'm gone?"
 Casey stirred uneasily in his seat. Perhaps Gavin was right. Perhaps Anderson was losing touch with the "real" world.
 "They don't do anything, Toby. It's only your actions they react to. Without you, nothing happens."
 Anderson nodded, but his eyes looked dreamy. "Sometimes they seem so real. I wouldn't want them to be hurt. How many more modules do we have planned?"
 "There are eight more specific modules, then the fill-ins. Then we can discuss ideas for more."
 Anderson smiled. "I don't have that much time, son. No, don't kid a kidder. I just hope I get to see a few more."
 "You'll see them all."
 Anderson's eyes misted. "Casey, I want you to do something for me. Finish the modules. Install them, even if I'm gone, no matter how long it takes."
 Casey barely hesitated. "Sure, Toby. I promise."
Tobias Anderson fell into a coma three days later. After some discussion Casey was admitted to the ward by Anderson's personal physician, Ray Charlton.
 "The nurse noticed the fluctuation in vital signs. He was hooked up to your computer gadgets. The nurse disconnected him and when she couldn't wake him, she summoned the doctor on duty."
 "Did she try to wake him using the interrupt button before she broke the VR connection?" Casey asked. 
 The doctor frowned. "She's aware of the procedure, of course. Mr. Anderson insisted on it. Didn't want to be "yanked out" as he called it. I'm sure she followed instructions, but if it was a crisis situation ..."
 "Can we talk to her about it?" Casey asked.
 The nurse was on duty. She entered the room with a trace of nervousness. Nurse Amy Shaw was middle-aged, with pleasant features and tidy gray hair held back in a bun. She looked at Casey with a hint of distaste.
 Prompted by Dr. Charlton, she told how she had been monitoring Anderson's life signs when she noticed an increase in respiration and heart rate. "He was lying in bed with those stupid goggles and gloves on, his hands twitching, breathing fast. I flipped on the TV to see what was causing this "
 "You did what?" Casey exclaimed.
 She glared at him. "I know why you don't want anyone looking in on your games. You don't want anyone to know what porno filth you've been subjecting that poor man to."
 "What are you talking about?" Casey asked.
 "I saw it," she said. "I know that what you see on the monitor is what Mr. Anderson is seeing through his goggles. He told me that. And what I saw was a naked woman, her legs apart, her arms outstretched. Disgusting."
 "It was his wife," Casey said.
 "It was a teenage girl," Nurse Shaw said.
 "It doesn't matter," Dr. Charlton said. "What did you do next?" he asked the nurse.
 "I removed the inputs and tried to wake Mr. Anderson up. When he wouldn't wake, I called the doctor."
 "But first you turned the computer off, didn't you?" Casey said. "Without using the interrupt button first?"
 The nurse looked at Dr. Charlton, shrugged and nodded.
 After Charlton excused the nurse, Casey said. "We have to hook him back up to the VR interface."
 "Out of the question," Charlton said. "The man is comatose."
 "He's comatose because the nurse shut off his inputs while he was in a particularly vivid VR experience."
 Charlton chewed his lower lip as he considered this, then shook his head. "There's no reason to believe that her shutting off the machine could have induced the coma. He's undergoing a general failure of his vital systems. But for an elaborate medical effort, he wouldn't even be alive. It's unlikely an external stimulus was involved, but if it was it's just as likely that your program agitated him to the point where the physical shock of the experience pushed his body into that state."
 "If it is his body," Casey said. "I think it's his mind that retreated from the shock of being disconnected from virtual reality, the only reality he cares about. I know I'm not qualified to give medical advice, Doctor, but I don't see how it can hurt him if I'm wrong."
 Charlton considered this. "I'll have to get permission from the family, you know. Gavin is not likely to give his consent."
 "You won't need his consent," Casey said. He reached in his coat pocket and produced an envelope. He handed it to Charlton. "This is a power-of-attorney. Before he fell ill, Mr. Anderson anticipated that he might become incapacitated. In that event, he authorized me to make legal and medical decisions on his behalf. Business decisions are left to Gavin."
 "I'll have to have this checked by our legal department," Charlton said. "If they say it's okay, I have no objections."
Two hours after Casey hooked the unconscious man back to the interface, Anderson raised his right hand to his face and removed the visor. Casey helped him with the other inputs.
 The doctors and medical technicians came bustling in and Casey was forced to wait outside until Dr. Charlton gave his okay for Anderson to receive visitors again. 
 Anderson smiled. "I knew you'd get me back. What happened? Ray was all business."
 Casey told him.
 Anderson looked thoughtful. "I didn't notice any shock from the disconnect. Hell, I don't remember the disconnect. I was with Helen. Later, when I looked for the door, it was gone. I wasn't worried. Every once in a while, I'd look again. One time it was there."
 Casey studied the older man. "You're saying there was no discontinuity. But the interface was disconnected. You were not in contact with the VR program."
 "Couldn't prove it by me, son. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except the door wasn't there. Helen and I just kept checking she didn't seem to be worried about it either."
 "You...uh, discussed the outside world with Helen?"
 "Sure. We talk about it all the time. Helen says she's sorry she didn't know you before she died. She wants you to come inside so she can meet you."
 Casey's head was spinning. His whole world was being threatened. If prolonged exposure to virtual reality could leave a reasoning person unable to distinguish between real and imaginary people after the interface was broken if Anderson had become psychotic, it could mean the end of virtual reality as a commercial project.
 He felt Anderson's thin hand grip his own. 
 "I told you they were real, Casey. That's why I wanted to know where they go when the machine is turned off. Now I know. They don't go away. They're still in there. It's like Brigadoon, waiting to be reanimated. I know. Because I was there. When the nurse broke the connection I was still inside."
 "Listen, Toby," Casey said. "I know you think you were in the computer world during the coma. But it's not possible. The interface was turned off. Remember, the unconscious mind dreams too. I think you just dreamed that you were still in VR."
 Anderson squeezed Casey's forearm with a viselike hold a toddler could have broken. "My boy, you've done a wonderful thing for me. And you'll be rewarded. The doctors want to have at me again. More tests. We don't have much time. Remember your promise to me. Finish the modules. For them. And for me."
 Before Casey could answer, Anderson broke into a spasm of coughing that brought Dr. Charlton back into the room. As Casey squeezed his friend's hand and said goodbye, he knew it was for the last time.
Casey stared out at the San Francisco Bay from his suite of offices high atop the Embarcadero One Office Plaza. Tobias Anderson had died shortly after that visit, still hooked to the VR interface. That had been three years ago. There had been a whirlwind of expansion in the VR industry in that time, with Casey's VR Enterprises leading the way. Anderson's will had contained the reward he so often spoke of. Casey received a sizable bequest, one that guaranteed that he would never have to pursue VR research for commercial reasons. The company still made games, though at Casey's insistence, research was proceeding toward marketing virtual reality to hospitals and nursing homes as geriatric therapy.
 Casey removed the program chips from the VR interface in his office. This module had tested out perfectly. 
 Casey's chief design engineer, Kate Zarella, stuck her head through the doorway of the office. "Going to lunch, boss?"
 Casey looked at his watch. "I guess not. I'm going to install the new module. Coney Island, 1945."
 Kate said. "That won't take you too long. I've got a few things I can tend to. I'll wait in my office." She shook her head. "I can't believe you still spend so much time working on those things. I mean, they're wonderful, the ones you've shown me, but they're not exactly mass market."
 Kate walked with him down the plush hallway. They dodged a bevy of designers and engineers making for the elevator. Casey stopped before a locked door marked ANDERSON INTERFACE.
 "Why do you do it?" Kate asked him as he unlocked the door.
 "It's a promise I made a long time ago. I said I'd finish the design concept. I've got two more scenarios to go."
 "No one will know if you do or don't, Casey." Kate shuddered slightly and rubbed her crossed arms to chase away the gooseflesh. "The guy's been dead for years. And no one but you ever goes in there." 
 Casey smiled. "I won't be long." 
 He closed the door behind him and opened the access cover to the now-obsolete VR interface. A few moments later he updated the map and closed the cover. The machine hummed quietly in the air-conditioned room.
 Casey flipped the monitor to ON. He spun the trackball on the interface panel and panned the view perspective to reveal the grandeurs of the premiere amusement park of the middle of the twentieth century. Toby's memories of Coney Island had been vivid and the wealth of existing newsreel and archival images of the place had made Casey's latest module even more detailed and more richly textured than the others. He was proud of it.
 The amusement park teemed with summer revelers enjoying the elaborate diversions that surrounded them. Casey's fingers paused as the view perspective centered on a handsome young couple. A tall, trim man in white slacks and blue sweater stood with a slender brunette swathed in white crinoline. They were arm-in-arm, staring and pointing out the wondrous sights on every side.
 Casey's fingers flew across the keys of the manual interface and spun the trackball. On the near horizon of the screen, in the line of sight of the young couple, a bright red biplane swirled and looped a message in smoke, How do you like it Toby?

 In the foreground, the man took his right arm from around the waist of the young woman and held his hand aloft, thumbs up. Then Toby Anderson took Helen's hand, pulled her close for a hug and tender kiss, and the two of them strolled toward the ferris wheel.


unter awoke in the infirmary, a swarm of stewards and part-time medics darting frantically from null to null. They dressed the patients with neurogram napkins and monitored pulse rates, such was the extent of their training. She heard Feso's voice somewhere in the back of the room, delivering instructions while donning a white service coat over his red and pink striped pajamas, the only calm voice in amidst a babble of cacophony.
 "Well, look who's among the living." He quickly stepped over, reaching for her arm as she tried to sit upright. "There, doctor. Just let it pass."
 "The living?"
 "Don't worry. Everyone seems fine."
 "What happened?"
"You tell me. I just got here."
She glanced over his shoulder as the haze slowly dissipated from her mind. Commodore Reece stood with the Captain and Lieutenant Torin near the main desk, a first-class power-huddle if she'd ever seen one.
"You didn't tell me we had guests."
"Doctor..."
"C'mon."
She tore the napkin from her forehead and began traversing the distance with Feso's shoulder in tow, not a mean task considering his reluctance. It wasn't that he minded substituting for a pair of crutches. On the contrary, he'd do anything to help a patient. His hesitation was founded in cowardice, the prospect of interrupting an impromptu executive conference rating somewhere between jamming his finger in an iris valve and taking a long walk out a short airlock.
"Doctor, this is not such a good idea. You should lay back down and rest."
"Steady, Feso. You drop me and it goes on your permanent record."
The Commodore was spitting out orders left and right, her voice crisp and determined and more than a little peeved.
"I want his image circulated among the crew. Also, post armed stewards at the lifts and escalators. Shoot to maim."
Shoot to maim?
"Excuse me, sir. Might somebody tell me what's going on?"
"Your patient has escaped, Doctor. What do you last remember?"
Hunter took a deep breath and let go of Feso's shoulder.
"I was trying to enter sickbay, and the door was locked for some reason. I opened a channel to security. Then the door opened and...everything went black."
"Hypo darts. You took a double tap in the belly. Did you get a look at him?"
"I...remember a face mask."
"We found this in your hand."
Reece handed her a flimsi, glowing pink letters scrawled across its face: "If you ever want to see me again, don't conduct a search. It's tacky, and you'll only inconvenience the passengers, particularly if you get too close to me."
Erik broke in, "Commodore..."
Reece put up a steady hand.
"Do you have any idea why this was left in your hand, Doctor?"
"I was the ranking officer."
"Did anyone besides the medical staff and guard have access to the prisoner?"
"Lieutenant Torin."
"Any passengers?"
"No sir."
Reece pressed her lips together, "One more question, Doctor. Is he well enough to survive without medical attention?"
"That depends, sir."
"Give me an educated guess."
"Assuming there are no complications, yes."
"Complications?"
"He's very weak. When the regen-compound wears off, his condition will worsen. How badly, I can't say."
"How soon?"
Hunter glanced toward her thumbnail chronometer.
"He's already past due, but there's a two to four hour grace period on the compound."
Reece nodded, "There will be a meeting in the executive conference lounge in two hours. I want an account of inventory losses."
"Aye, sir."
Hunter about-faced as well as her wobbly legs would allow before the Commodore's words hit her.
"Inventory losses?"
The medicine cabinets hung open, boxes of various drugs and chemicals scattered haphazardly on the floor. Feso pulled a chair out of the mess, offering her a place to sit down. She ignored the gesture, bending over to sort through the contents of some of the emptied boxes.
"What did they take?"
"Haven't had time to check."
She sat down in the middle of the floor, starting to pick up and sort the miscellaneous bottles, jars, and canisters into tight, alphabetical rows.
"We'd better find out then, Feso. We've only got two hours."
Johanes administered the injection with all the delicacy of a marsh slog in heat.
"Oops, missed the vein again."
"Ow...you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Don't worry."
If not for Cecil and his bottle of miruvor, Mike figured he'd be heading back to sickbay on account of his health.
"Told you you'd be out in no time."
Mike shrugged as Johanes withdrew the hypo, placing the empty plastic capsule in his pocket.
"You're certain about Sule."
"Positive."
"You saw her dead."
"To put it mildly."
"And what about the body?"
Mike accepted a highbowl by way of congratulations, pausing before taking a sip.
"The body?"
"Anything on it?"
"I don't know. She was wearing a vacc suit."
Johanes shot Cecil a worried glance as he caught the next highbowl, its course erratic as it teetered, languid, from side to side. Spokes received the next, and Cecil finally sent his own spinning on a collision course with the others until it clinked gently against each in consecutive sequence.
"To freedom."
"To freedom," everyone concurred, everyone except the Draconian.
"I don't want to disappoint you all, but we're not out of the asteroids yet. We have about enough time for one drink."
"Two drinks," Spokes took another sip and started reattaching his headgear.
"One drink. If they decide to conduct a ship-wide search, I'd like to know about it before it's too late."
"That would be uncouth."
"That never stopped ISIS before." Johanes gulped down the last of his drink like a man stranded in the desert. Then he smiled. "I hereby conclude this celebration. Cecil, you stay here and monitor their communications. Michael, go to sleep. You've got six hours until the next injection."
"Terrific."
"Don't bitch. Spokes, you're with me."
"Okay, just a sec."
Mike poured himself another highbowl.
"Thanks. Everyone."
"Save your gratitude until we're dirtside. C'mon Spokes, we haven't got all millennium."
"Okay... jeeze."
Mike floated his half-drained highbowl toward the corner of the room as the door closed behind the dynamic if ill-disciplined duo. Cecil, meanwhile, leaned calmly beside his multi-wave radio, sipping miruvor and warming a left-over chili pita in the portable cooker. When it came out, the cheese oozed between the cracks in the flat-bread like a wad of snot leaking out the folds of an overused hanky.
"Want some?"
Mike winced. "I'll pass."
"Suit yourself."
"I'd rather stick to liquids for now."
"As in miruvor?"
"Whatever's being served."
Cecil's single camera danced a bit, the cat taking notice and pouncing on it with claws outstretched. "Your problem is you don't know when to quit."
"Untrue. I haven't gotten drunk for over a week...unless you count being force-fed by psychopaths."
"Well, congratulations," said almost like he meant it.
"Give me a break, Cecil. I'm on my second highbowl which is nowhere near my face."
"Why the sudden fit of restraint?"
Mike shrugged. "Maybe seeing that old weasel Gardansa slurping it down..." he grunted, crawling into the null-tube. "I dunno. I was shot recently, okay?"
"Good excuse as any."
"Besides, I want to keep clear-headed for a change. You check this place for bugs?"
"You calling Cecil a fool?"
Mike sighed. "Just do me a favor. Check again."
Setting the pita beside his multi-wave, Cecil dug a small box out of his suitcase. Its antenna telescoped out, and he proceeded to wave it around the room, switching off the light and then his multiwave as he scanned.
"Light on. You see. Nothing here but us chickens."
"Meow?"
"What's it keyed on?"
"Electrostatic emissions. Do us a favor and switch off the sleeper."
Mike complied, and Cecil waved the antenna over the null tube.
"Interesting," his friend commented, as though he'd found a strange insect on the bottom of his shoe.
"What? Something on the sleeper?"
"No. On you."
Cecil poked him with the antenna a few times, finally stopping at the belt by which Mike's loose-fitting robe was held shut.
"Johanes find this for you?"
Mike untangled it from around his waist, inspecting the stiff fabric until he found what he was looking for. The bug was flat and circular, like one of those old coins he used to find in the barrens, only a little thicker and without a stately, bearded profile on the side.
"One down."
Cecil kept looking, this time even more diligently than before, but the one was all they found. Cecil finally cracked it open.
"It's just a recorder. Looks like cheap crystal."
He put it back together and dropped it into the portable heater.
"Cheap crystal fries easy."
Mike smiled, "Now that we're alone, you can start by telling me everything."
Cecil sat down, his camera taking a thoughtful, sidelong pose as it dumped Pooper-dumper back to the carpet in a fitful of snarls and hairballs.
"Not much to tell."
"Humor me."
Cecil sighed, leaning himself backward until the multiwave became a makeshift pillow.
"Spokes showed up at the Sintrivani after you left, and we heard about the air strike over the three-vee. Assumed you were somehow involved, knowing your aptitude for mischief."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be. One of the offworlders waiting for transport must have sneaked near the landing platform with a camera, because next thing we see is Tizar's favorite gatherer hanging out the airlock of an orbit-bound vessel. Then some explosions in the sky. Made for an amusing show."
"I was on three-vee?"
"More or less. The back of your head was, at least. We knew who it was. Johanes dropped by a few hours later and basically confirmed what we saw."
"And so you guys decided to rescue me... just for kicks."
Cecil thought about it before answering, as though he was deciding whether to be polite or honest.
"Johanes gave you less than even odds against Sule. He wanted our help to finish her off."
"Assassination. This is getting even better."
"One might remind you that you're hardly virginal, Michael."
"I wasn't in it for money."
"Neither was I!"
Cecil spat the words out, pronoun included, pausing briefly to regain his composure. The cat darted to the corner of the room, certain a voice of that volume could only be directed at four- legged personages.
"We agreed to aid him in what he wanted, provided that he aid us in what we wanted."
"Which was?"
"Your rescue, given the unlikelihood that you would still be kicking after a confrontation with Sule."
Mike smiled meekly, a little embarrassed.
"That's it?"
The camera nodded, "In verbose totality."
"If it was just you, I'd buy it. Why's Spokes here?"
"Like Cecil said before, he seems to like you. We chipheads stick together."
Mike smirked, "That's pretty weak."
"Then call Cecil a liar. It won't be a first."
"What are you giving him? Free wedgies?"
Cecil chomped another bite from his cheese pita as he pondered the question. In the hackers lingo "free wedgies" equated to a gratis apprenticeship, master to novice, wizard to user, or between any other combination of disparate proficiencies: in short, Cecil to just about anyone. Before, Spokes was just the aspiring pupil. But now, given the risks involved, he was encroaching to the point of earning his keep, making the so-called "wedgies" not entirely free.
"What's it to you, Michael?"
"Well...I guess I'm just curious how this all came about. I've never known you to team-up with people, much less take on a long-term student."
"Life brings newness."
"Is that what you told Spokes?"
"Not precisely."
Mike laughed, then coughed.
"Try me."
"Get some RL." Real life, he meant.
"C'mon Cecil. Just the main points. You can spare the slogshit."
Cecil smirked, "Courage as an aspect of knowledge. Necessity of the will to seek. Proof of intents..."
"You waste my time, I waste yours?"
"Stop whining. It got you out, didn't it?"
Mike shrugged defensively, "I'm not whining. I don't really care that you're using him. It's merely a transaction as far as he's concerned. I just wanted to know where everyone stands. For some reason," Mike tried to laugh, "I just couldn't picture you three guys coming all the way out here. You maybe. I mean, now we're more or less even again. Right?"
"More or less."
"But Johanes and Spokes...I thought I was dreaming."
"Maybe you are."
"No...I've got other dreams. I guess we both do."
Cecil was silent for a bit after that, finishing the pita and sucking down the last of his miruvor. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Mike tried closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.
"Y'think we're gonna get out of here, Cecil?"
He didn't answer. Mike wondered if he'd even heard the question. With eyes glossed over, Cecil was already in the other world.
"See 'em? Self-replication detected. Zoom."
Chief Tuto looked from one monitor window to the other, his brown eyes narrowing on the detection pings as they appeared, divided, and vanished in short order. It was just as before, only quicker, as if they knew they'd been spotted.
"Where are they coming from?"
Dira shrugged, a tangle of amber hair falling over one eye.
"Tracer says medical, but look at the entry log."
"Could be stealthing. Run a CPU verify."
One hand danced over the keyboard, "Yeah...no...well, something was there. A difference of two percent detected for about...half a second."
"Run a full heads on exit channels, quick."
It was a waste of time, of course, and by the time they got around to checking out the entry logs, there were no entry logs. Tuto studied the blank screen with an equally blank expression, finally releasing an irritated grunt.
"This is getting rude."
"Maybe not."
Her hand did another dance. "Port 129 shows simultaneous closure."
Tuto glanced toward the wall-chart. 129 was one of the public aether ports. It could be accessed via wireless terminal, open to virtually any person on board.
"Entry logs?"
"Nope."
"He's not taking chances. And he's too fast to lock in place." He chewed on the thought. Speed usually bred sloppiness. "Do a frequency comparison on the ports."
Dira tapped a few more keys, her dark blue eyes scanning the row of frequencies as they scrolled off the monitor window. "Got it. Here's the band they were using, and here it's being used on Port 182. Same exact frequency."
Tuto nodded, not terribly surprised at their trespasser's lack of precautions. Too bad. The game had just been getting interesting.
"Feed in a command stop. We'll lock him in place and check the entry logs."
Her fingers complied, and the keyboard locked up as though somebody had yanked it off the desk.
"Huh?"
Tuto went to another console. Same story. He slammed a fist on the keyboard in frustration. Dira put a hand on his shoulder.
"That won't help."
"It makes me feel better."
"Look at the port display."
One-eight-two flashed all the way from the command console to the security desk, as cruel a set-up as he'd ever witnessed. Dira seemed to smile at their predicament.
"We got re-routed, sir."
Tuto pushed the air from his lungs and began pacing around the room, re-booting each of the consoles in turn. It would be several minutes before they were back online, and somebody out there was making the most of the time, probably laughing hysterically.
"This is getting very rude."
It felt a little like free-ditching off the Aerial Palace, the rush of adrenalin and anxiety clawing at the will's outer shell. He could break a sweat just thinking about it, because every time the possibility of fate catching up was both real and expected. They had a place called "Gyron's Fall", named after some poor sap whose grav-restrainer failed. Not his fault. It just suddenly decided to up and quit in mid-air. Became the biggest joke halfway across the Realm. Gyron ended up bouncing, and they dug a little crater and buried him head-first, his feet sticking up with a pair of boots that had foggers in their soles, such was the Draconian sense of humor. Johanes remembered laughing out loud at the time, wishing he could have been there.
"It's locked."
Spokes waved his hands in an apparently arcane gesture as the door slid open. Johanes regarded his triumphant expression with all the amusement it deserved.
"We're on a schedule here, okay?"
"Sorry."
Spokes followed him inside with a casual waltz, a sharp contrast to his crisp-collared maintenance uniform. That was okay. It made him look like he knew what he was doing. Johanes paced about the room, flipping a power screwdriver end over end.
"There are fire sprinklers in here."
"So there are."
"Here, hold this."
The chiphead still regarded the canister with a mixture of curiosity and ambivalence. All he knew was that it held clear liquid sandwiched between white powder and a fan, each separated by a sheet of impacted polymer with radio-controlled shutters. Enough information for the average ten-year-old, Johanes figured, opening a vent.
"There's a sensor in here also."
"So?"
"Tell Cecil we'll need to deactivate it just before this is triggered. All of them. This has to work perfectly or we all get caught. Understand?"
"I still don't know what you're talking about."
Johanes bit his tongue. Spokes knew, all right. He just didn't want to admit it, the perfect conspirator, hedging all bets by feigning ignorance.
"Relay the message. Can you do that much?"
The tall one sighed and finally nodded, soft blue eyes seeing no ready alternative.
"First of all, we're going to find the escapee. There are no alternatives. There will be no excuses for failure."
Reece stared around the chamber, slowly taking in all their expressions. Every officer in the room knew that organizing a ship-wide search on a ship the size of the Crimson Queen was no mean task. The deadline only increased the challenge.
"As you all know, we'll be dropping back into normal space in about nine hours. The traffic situation at Tyber will be enough of a problem without a fugitive to worry about, so it would seem that time is of the essence. Keep that fact in mind while you make your reports. Captain?"
Dunham leaned forward, nodding to the Commodore as his broad mass shifted. With the press of a button, Mike's image materialized over the conference table in three dimensions.
"This is the man we're looking for. Pictures have already been distributed to the crew, several of whom have noticed a likeness with this man."
He pressed the button again, and the jacks were replaced by an unkept mane of long brown hair.
"His real name is Michael Harrison. He's a gatherer with the Tizarian division of Galactic Press. We believe he has two allies on board. They used hypo guns with a short-duration sedative in order to incapacitate the guard stationed at the cage. They also tranquilized Dr. Hunter and two specialists."
Reece interrupted, "Has the hypo compound been identified?"
Hunter nodded, "Senthinol-3. It's a consumer product made at a number of systems in this sector. Been in circulation for the past three centuries."
The Captain looked around slowly, drawing presence from the silence before continuing.
"Harrison is wanted for homicide on Calanna. He is also suspected of impersonating an ISIS operative in order to get aboard, a felony under interstellar law."
"He's wanted for homicide?"
Dunham nodded. "Apparently, but we don't have any details."
It made sense. The Calannans were generally private about such things. But that didn't explain why he wasn't caught.
"They must of sent us his image recognition code."
"Yes, but because of the unusual way he attained passage, he was never checked out."
Reece bit her lip.
"Any idea on how his associates got the cell combination?"
"We have a theory. Security ran a level two diagnostic of the ship's computer after the break-in. They found a number of recon-worms. We've been attempting to trace their source, but so far, no luck."
"You're saying they broke into the system and just read the combination?"
"So it would seem."
Reece bit her lip again.
"Those combinations are well protected. Why wasn't an alarm activated?"
"We don't know."
"How are they avoiding our trace?"
Dunham turned toward a petty officer at his right. "Chief Tuto?"
"They're using a variety of means. Stealth, entry-log erasures, misdirection tactics. They've also found out how to slip into unused frequencies unobserved."
"I thought all unused frequencies were observed continuously."
"They've managed to draw out our observation routines and are sending data packets between the check points. We also believe they're using above-board frequencies for voice transmissions."
"Have you conferred with communications about this?"
"Actually sir, they were already aware of it." He nodded across the table to another officer. Tabor shifted in his seat, realizing he was suddenly on-stage.
"Uh...six hours ago..."
"Who are you?"
"Tabor. Ensign. First Class. Communications Officer, sir."
He looked raw, like a typical navy recruit, the coppery-orange hair cropped so close to his head that his appearance reminded her of a turnip. She guessed that his problem had more to do with nerves than hair. He seemed so scared it made her jitter just to look at him.
"Go ahead, Ensign."
"Six hours ago, one of our engineers noticed some very interesting readings from an instrument which measures fractures in the normal-space bubble around the ship. The device operates by bouncing a short-wave signal along the bubble's area perimeter."
"Excuse me, Ensign," Reece waved from the other side of the table. "Is this going to take a while to explain? We don't have time for a lecture in astrophysics."
"Umm...I'll be brief, sir."
"Very brief."
"Yes sir. The gist of it is that this radio frequency is being used continuously while we are in hyperspace, but to someone unfamiliar with engineering, it looks like normal line noise between usable bands, thus qualifying it for exploitation by a tight frequency transmission."
"You're telling me that they're using a voice frequency which is already in use?"
"Anyone sufficiently skilled in communications can compress transmissions into data packets, fire each one off several times, then decompress the packets, check for inconsistencies caused by the line noise, correct, and presto: they're using a frequency which also happens to be in use by a non-sentient system, and their transmission goes through entirely undetected. But in this case, it didn't."
"I think you just confused me more. Try the gist again."
Tabor took a deep breath. "Okay. Prior to jump, they must have been looking for an above-board frequency with residual noise. Something that wasn't being used, but that had enough random noise on it that it wouldn't be scanned like a clean frequency where their transmission would be picked up in an instant. This frequency qualified perfectly. The computer was running tests on it by generating random noise, transmitting it externally to the sensor, and making comparisons to see whether or not the sensor was operating within its safety parameters."
"So you're saying this particular band was ideal for their purposes?"
"Very much so. If this had been an older craft where the comm system isn't as tight and clean as it is on this ship, they would have had a lot more to choose from, but on this vessel we don't really have any junkie above-board frequencies, so their choice was very limited."
"And our engineers caught them when their transmissions interfered with the operation of the sensors."
"Correct."
Reece nodded, "I understand, but why wasn't this reported immediately?"
Tabor took a deep breath, "I didn't learn about it until I came on shift about three hours ago, and at that point I didn't believe it. By the time the second transmission rolled around, I was convinced, but..."
"There were two?"
"Three, sir. The first six hours ago which lasted for a minute or two. The second, a little over two and a half hours ago, which lasted only a few seconds. And the third began a little over two hours ago and has been continuous since then."
Reece bit her lip yet again, this time hard enough to make her reconsider the action.
"Let me get this straight. Harrison has been using a restricted frequency for the past six hours, the past two hours continuously, and this is the first I hear of it?"
"Sir, we didn't even know what we were dealing with until news of the prisoner escape started to circulate. For all we knew, it was some sort of localized hyperspace phenomenon or even a prank."
"A prank?"
"Yes sir."
Reece regarded Dunham with a sinister stare, and the Captain's dark cheeks grew rosy under her scrutiny.
"Well, it's a relief that the crew has grown proficient at entertaining themselves. We wouldn't want morale to suffer. Ensign, can we pinpoint the signal source?"
"Not with the equipment on board."
"Can you at least tell us what it's saying?"
"The instrument's readings are used and removed from computer memory in a continuous cycle, so we lost the first transmission entirely. That's gone forever. The second one lasted only for a few seconds, and I've already tried around a thousand standard decryption routines, none of which has worked. I wouldn't put too much hope on us ever deciphering its contents, at least not any time soon, and certainly not without very powerful computer support. The current transmission is still being saved, but I expect that we'll find the same problem we're having with the second."
Reece took a deep breath. "So in other words, no."
Tabor just sat there looking pale.
"In the future, Ensign, when I ask you a question, don't give me a speech. A yes or no will suffice."
"Aye sir."
"Can you jam the frequency?"
"Yes sir."
"Do it. Immediately. You're dismissed."
"Aye sir."
He saluted and exited.
"Chief Tuto, I want all passenger access to the computer stopped and aether port access restricted to pre-verified frequencies. You're dismissed."
"Aye sir."
Reece waited for him to leave as she studied the stony expression on Dunham's face. He seemed to be waiting for some comment, or perhaps a pat on the head. She might have obliged him had she a sturdy club.
"Pranks?"
"They do happen, sir."
"We could have spotted this hacker hours in advance if there hadn't been such leniency. Now that they've had hours to feel out our system..."
"It makes them all the more dangerous," he took the luxury of completing her thought.
"I want one of your people to run through the passenger lists and see who looks like they might qualify. Unless those have already been erased."
"Will do, sir."
"Also, see if any of the passengers are mentioned in our library records as being associated with this Mr. Harrison."
"Of course."
Reece leaned back, seemingly examining the ceiling.
"I'd like to order a re-boot as well."
Dunham smiled, "Not a good idea, sir."
"No, not while we're in hyperspace," the Commodore reluctantly agreed. "Lieutenant."
Erik snapped to attention, "Yes sir."
"Give me a scenario."
He took a breath. "Gatherer in search of a story. He learns more than is wise; breaks some planetary laws. He decides to turn tail but gets cornered at the starport. He calls us, pretends that he's an ISIS agent, and we obligingly offer him a ride. His friends figure out what happened easily enough. They rescue him."
"A great deal of risk on their part. And what about Erestyl? What about the information we so ardently desire?"
Erik bit his lip. "More than likely it is gone, blown to bits by Clay. Perhaps he wasn't lying except about his own role."
"If he is simply a gatherer, then how did he happen upon Draconian fleximesh?
"Bought it at a Calannic yard sale?"
"Right," Reece smiled, then frowned again, looking back across the table at nobody in particular. "It seems to me this whole thing reeks of the DSS, and who more willing to take such a risk, provided the pay-off is right? Which would suggest that Harrison is important to them alive. All the more reason for us to take him alive. Commander Simms?"
"Sir."
He had broad shoulders and a square jaw, the sort that made her wonder if he spent his free time doing push-ups in three-gee while chewing down carrots and ironweed.
"Are we prepared for a top to bottom?"
"Yes sir."
"Word to the troops?"
"Shoot to maim, sir."
"I don't want him dead."
"Aye sir."
She began to wonder if there was a half a brain in there. Then she noticed the look on Hunter's face, half way between fear and urgency.
"Doctor, you look like you have something itching up your backside."
"Yes sir."
"Spit it out."
"Well, first of all, I think this Mr. Harrison is in trouble... to put things mildly, sir."
The Commodore's eyebrows arched playfully.
"Enlighten me."
"We found several vials of Torogon-66 missing from our stores. It's a wide-spectrum regen-formula common to the outer worlds. We've kept it in stock for patients who are unsuited or prove allergic to the in-house compound."
"So?"
"The Torogon formula is never injected directly following use of our in-house compound without an intervening stabilizer and a twelve hour waiting period. If this isn't done, the interaction of the formula and our compound will cause a high-potential for misreads of the patient's DNA."
"What, he mutates?" said with a smirk.
"I doubt he'll live long enough for that. It'll begin by wiping out the delicate systems, two critical ones being the immune and nervous systems. He'll lose control of his lungs in a day or two, and he'll have to invent and new way of fending off opportunistic viruses sooner than that."
"Did they take any stabilizers?"
"I haven't found any missing."
Reece nodded, "We can only assume that our thieves are pharmaceutically inept. They have probably already injected him. Is there any treatment?"
"Yes, there's a compound called Anamesa."
"Go ahead."
"It'll stop the interaction between the regens and boost the immune system so the body has time to restore itself, but if it isn't applied within the first six to twelve hours, you can forget it. It'll be too late to do anything without extensive medical resources, much greater than we have on-board."
Dunham sat upright, "How soon until he gets sick?"
"Like I said, it varies, though usually by the time the patient is seriously ill, it's too late to apply the Anamesa. You can still artificially boost their immunity to specific diseases, however, the damage to their system, per se, is already there."
"And restoring it is not easy."
Hunter shook her head. "Some might say impossible."
The Commodore grinned from ear to ear. "I hate to be celebrating another person's misfortune, but all in all, that's excellent news. I want our supply of Anamesa destroyed, and I want our mind-scanner readied for use."
"Sir?"
"You have moral reservations, Doctor?"
Hunter averted her eyes, "Sir, we have never used the mind-scanner."
"You don't have trained staff?"
"No, it's not that. I just...it's over ten years old. I don't even know if it'll work. And as for destroying the Anamesa, if you do capture this Mr. Harrison, that may be the only thing you have to bargain with." 
"Oh, don't worry Doctor. We'll capture him. I just have no intentions of serving him the opportunity to live, and besides, this way it isn't anyone's fault." She smiled, then frowned.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"They took more than the Torogon-66."
"Such as?"
"Hydrochloric acid and potassium cyanide."
"Enough to pose a threat?"
"Not to the entire ship, but to a small section, yes. I would like poison filters circulated to the crew and passengers."
Reece shook her head. "We don't have enough except for the senior officers. I wouldn't worry about it too much Doctor. It's a lame threat. He's asking us what it's worth to catch him. The answer is yes... it's worth a few lives."
"I am prepared to declare quarantine."
"That won't be necessary." Reece shrugged. "They probably won't use it. They would have nothing to gain and everything to lose. I could see them smuggling it to Tyber, but..."
"And that sits well with you?"
"The Tyber corporation is just barely Imperial aligned as it is. We owe them no favors."
"Sir, the Tyberian population is extremely impacted. In such an environment..."
"I know doctor. Look, cyanide gas is easy to make; its components are easy to come by. Nobody will trace it to us, and even if they do, we can simply deny involvement."
"Commodore..."
"Don't argue with me, Doctor. There's more at stake than you may realize."
"Sir...with all due respect, human life is at stake."
Reece felt her cheeks flush red with anger. What did she think this was? A playground?!
"Doctor, I can see that you've been under a great deal of stress lately. I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm relieving you of your post until we leave the Tyber system. I want you toget some rest, and under no circumstances are you permitted to discuss any of this with anyone. Understood?"
"You're relieving me of duty?"
"Affirmative."
"Sir..."
"Don't argue with me, Doctor. I'm made up my mind. Now go to your quarters and get some rest."
"But sir..."
"That's an order."
Hunter took a deep breath. "Yes sir."
The bridge seemed immersed in slumber as Tabor exited the lift. The reason was fairly apparent. Most of the officers took their sleep shift during the ship's final hours in hyperspace. It was a common practice. Everyone wanted to wake up and be ready for sightseeing. That was the real attraction to working on board a liner.
Of course, somebody had to stick around. The Captain didn't want people calling the bridge to end up talking to a computer. It would leave a bad impression, and people would start wondering if anybody was ever up there in the proverbial nerve center. It was such a joke. The computer was in charge while in hyperspace, and everyone knew it. They just refused to accept it.
So while everyone else was dozing, he and Lish often had the whole place to themselves. A communications officer had to be there. Communication still went on, hyperspace or normal space, it didn't matter. But she was a sensor operator. She could go to sleep, though she seemed to prefer the solitude, fiddling with the equipment during the wee hours, programming new image recognition routines, skimming library files, and generally being a nuisance or a quiet companion as the mood suited her.
"How'd it go?"
"Oh... not so well."
She grinned, turning back to her work station.
"Lots of questions?"
"Yeah. A few too many. Oh, terrific. What are they doing now?"
She turned around again.
"What is it?"
"These bastards. I don't believe this. Just when I'm about to jam their frequency..."
Lish studied the monitor from over his shoulder. "Why is everything blinking?"
"Theyre using the clean bands, must be switching continuously. They're not even trying to disguise it anymore."
He hit a switch, listening for the familiar pop signaling a channel opening.
"Bernie?"
"Huh? Oh, hi."
"Bernie, have you been watching the free lanes lately?"
"Yeah. Did you just freak the system? I think it's space sick."
"It's working fine. Look, I'm gonna need you to hook up our wide-band transmitter."
"The shouter?"
"Yeah. We need to jam all the free lanes."
"All of 'em? What's up?"
"Freeloaders."
"Ah...so we've got a little war on our hands, do we? Just gimme a minute or two to get it online, and we'll have 'em sending smoke signals."
"Okay, open sesame."
The door complied, and Johanes peeked inside, spraying a canister of air-freshener from ceiling to floor. The Lieutenant's cabin was decked out more nicely that he probably deserved. Queen-sized null tube, a full length wall monitor, and the sort of fluffy red carpet that suggested Imperial royalty.
"Hmmm...cozy. A trifle insecure but very cozy."
"Don't you think you're overdoing it?"
Johanes turned around. "One can never overdo it."
*Beep*
"Attention all personnel and passengers. By order of the commodore, all radio frequencies are to be restricted for the remainder of this voyage. Obtain clearance for all vital transmissions through channel two. This order takes effect in one minute."
Johanes breathed a sigh of relief. "Important corollary. One may always count on the enemy to over-do it. Contact Cecil for me. Tell him that's his cue. Also have him jam channels one and two."
Spokes leaned against the wall, his long, lanky arms dropping to his sides, head tricks gleaming in the steady, white light as he seemed to concentrate on nothing in particular. Then in a hollow voice, "He says we have to get something for Mike."
"What now?!"
"Anamesa. Difference between life and death."
"This is getting tiresome."
"It's in sickbay."
"Later. Tell him we're busy."
"Now or no deal."
Johanes grunted and kicked the wall, "We don't have time to discuss it."
"He says this is a dead end. It was never mentioned. They don't seem to know it exists. What's he talking about, Jo?"
"They must!"
"He says it probably got trashed in the air strike. Or they left it on the Louise."
"I don't believe this. Look, just tell him to activate the canister or it'll be too late. We'll get this Anamesa now. Tell him...ummm...tell him to change the computer records on it...make it a lust-potion...but he has to activate the canister now."
Spokes shook his head. "Everything's jammed. He was saying okay, but I don't know if he had time."
Johanes smirked, "If he said yes...he had time."
"...and at that point, Harrison's only alternative will be to turn himself in. We'll have a mind-scanner readied for when he arrives at sickb...what's that sm..."
The odor was overpowering, like a strong whiff of almond extract. She'd breathed several gulps before the bubbling noise and the gentle hum of the fan even registered, and then her head throbbed as though a vice were pushing on both sides. When she looked back up, Dunham was busying himself by body-slamming the door. His heavy mass finally crumpled to the ground, limbs still thrashing spastically as gunfire ricocheted against its metal frame and into the locking mechanism. Simms was already at the IC, hitting his fist against the audio pick-up and switching channels wildly. Presently, the room began swirling, and she felt herself drop from the chair, her communicator miraculously in one hand. She switched it to channel one.
"Anybody..." Static.
"Help..." Channel two. More static.
"Need help..."
Hunter didn't know which peeved her more, getting force-fed an unsolicited sedative or being relieved from duty, by the Commodore herself, no less. The perverse politics they were playing was only upstaged by their thoughtless endangerment of human life. Hunter shook her head, disgusted with the whole mess. At least there was a bright side. She was no longer responsible. Whatever happened would be on their heads, and as soon as she was back in bed, this awful day would be over.
She let a yawn escape as she glanced at her thumbnail chronometer, ignoring the minor sparks of pain her bruised nose loved so much to scream about. It was already the middle of her sleep shift, and her body was aching from a recent workout which bordered somewhere between spirited and raging. Sickbay was just around the corner. She decided she could stay up for a few more minutes, squinting her eyes shut as another yawn muscled its way down her throat. After all, what more could happen in a few lousy minutes?
Boxes were everywhere, reds, blues, yellows, all falling in different directions, their long, curly ribbons waving gleefully from the impact. She picked herself slowly off the floor, looking amidst all the colorful, geometric shapes as a red, sticky liquid dripped to the white, hexagonal tile. The culprit's head tricks had to take the prize for conspicuousness. They rose from his head like long, thin, needles, clearly illegal on many worlds not only for their self-destructive properties but also for their ability to skewer innocent bystanders should he suddenly flip-out and go on a bloody, head-butting rampage. He looked up slowly, the soft blue eyes strangely familiar as she helped his long, lanky body back to its feet.
"I'm terribly sorry." She mouthed the words, obedient to the ship's policy code. It was his fault, of course, but he was just another stupid passenger, oblivious to the world around him. She felt like telling him that in so many words, but his blue eyes and gentle hands, still shaky from the impact, helped stay her tongue.
"No," he smiled as she helped him up. "It was my fault. Are you okay?" Then he dropped his look of shame. "Alice?!"
Hunter nodded, wiping the blood from her nose with the back of her sleeve.
"Do I know you?"
"What, you don't remember me?"
"Umm..."
"IASM, class of '43."
"I'm sorry, I don't..."
"Hanson's microbiotics."
"Umm," she stared back into his eyes, soft blue pinwheels coasting vaguely in her head. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"
"Well well...if it isn't Mr. Smyth."
Johanes grinned shyly as he walked into sickbay. Feso was with a patient, one of the food service workers probably. The crew had their uniforms color coded according to section, the only problem with the system being that there didn't seem to be enough distinguishable colors to go around. Feso, of course, had found the perfect solution.
"You always wear your pajamas to work?"
Feso laughed, "I've been getting comments on this all day. No, we had a little bit of a...how shall one put it..."
"A busy morning?"
"Very busy."
The patient looked very frigid, but whatever Feso had given him seemed to be warming the blood. Johanes followed the nurse back the main desk, looking over his shoulder as they passed the office. Several boxes were still scattered about.
"What's with the mess?"
"Ah...just been taking inventory."
"I love your system."
"Yeah. Well, we're sort of disorganized at the moment. So what can I do for you? That drug been giving you a bad aftertaste?"
"I just wanted to say thanks. I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't been here."
"Awww..." Feso grinned, "you just got to beware Calannans bearing gifts. Oh... what's this?"
"A tip. "
"Five hundred credits? I didn't know they printed denominations this high. This is very nice of you, but I couldn't."
"Please. I made a mess. I feel bad. Please take it." He looked like he was on the verge of being mortally wounded.
"Okay. You twist my arm, how can I refuse?" Feso pocketed the waxy bill with a grin. "This is a very big tip. You sure that drug isn't affecting your brain or something?"
Johanes laughed. "I think that's what she had in mind."
"She?"
"The woman who spiked my punch. Actually, she's part of the reason I'm dropping by."
"Oh?"
"I didn't really know who else to ask, but I need something."
"What?"
"Anamesa. Just a few grams."
"Anamesa? I've heard of that somewhere."
"Can you...you know..." Johanes motioned his glance toward the boxes in the office.
Feso shook his head, "Not a chance. I don't even think you can get Anamesa without a prescription. What's she need it for? Isn't it some sort of immunity enhancer?"
Johanes laughed, "You call yourself a nurse."
"What? It is, isn't it?"
Johanes leaned over the counter, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. "It's an aphrodisiac."
"No..."
"Would I lie?"
Feso turned to the medical console, bringing up a description from computer records. He blinked at least twice when he saw the classification. Johanes just smiled.
"See. What'd I tell you?"
"Wow. Learn something new every day."
"So can you?"
Feso looked back towards the boxes. The A's were long since reorganized. Finding it would be a snap. Still, he didn't like the idea.
"You know, it says it's non-restricted. You can probably get it from the pharmacy."
"Already tried. They're out. I guess a lot of people have been partying."
Feso smiled, "Guess so. Wait...what's this for? You're not thinking of getting that Calannan back, are you?"
"Hey, she drugged me. She said I could drug her back."
He laughed. "That's immoral."
"I'm going to propose."
"Then it's extremely immoral."
"Please?"
Feso smiled. "Just because I'm wearing pajamas doesn't mean I'm a push-over."
"Look...the proposal is sincere. We've been talking about marriage for the past five years."
"Five years?"
Johanes nodded, making his best honest face. Feso pondered the request for a moment. The Captain always did say to bend over backwards for the passengers.
"I never did this for you. Okay?"
"Thanks. I knew I could count on you."
"Yeah yeah...sheesh."
Feso watched him leave, trophy in fist, and not a moment too soon. Hunter came through the door two seconds later, holding her nose and looking mildly irate.
"Wasn't that our resident stoner?"
"Naw...you mean Mr. Smyth?"
"Yeah. What are you so happy about? He give you a roach to go with the jammies?"
Feso smiled. "I take it the meeting didn't go as well as planned."
"It was horrible."
"What's wrong with your nose? The Commodore smack you one?"
"In a manner of speaking. She relieved me of duty."
Feso's jaw dropped. "Why?"
"Various reasons."
"Ah..."
She forced a smirk. Feso had long since learned when to keep his mouth shut, even when it looked like his boss was defying a direct order.
"I'm just getting a bandage, Feso."
"I didn't ask."
The infirmary had all the good ones, not like the flimsy retail bandages that held just long enough to soak through with blood. She taped one under her nose, giving herself the little- moustache look. It suited her, Feso decided, going back to check on the food service worker who still sat wrapped in a warm blanket, a layer of frost melting along his eyebrows. Hunter came in, maybe to ask a question or give an order. He could never tell which was coming. Then she looked at Mr. Frosty, whatever was on her mind apparently stolen by the spectacle.
"What happened to you?"
"Huh?"
"Anyone tell you that you resemble an ice cube?"
The man looked up, a slow sort of smile crossing his face.
"Accidentally locked myself in a meat locker."
"How come?"
"Just happened."
Hunter smiled, heading back to the office with her nurse in tow. Feso felt somewhat confused.
"What now?"
"I thought that since I'm dishonorably relieved, you'd like to know that you're hereby conferred the honorable title of boss until I'm back on the job."
"Me? What about Dr. Pendelton?"
"He's a techie, Feso. He doesn't know anything about running the shop. You do. Besides, you know how he is when he gets a gram of power."
"Yeah. He likes to take charge."
"He'll be in charge...of the mind scanner."
"Mind scanner?"
"Better not to ask questions."
"Yeah, but I don't think he'll like..."
*Beep*
"Attention all passengers. By order of the commodore, public access to the computer is disallowed until we reach Tizar. Requests for waivers must be made in person at the computer security center on deck four."
The line popped shut, and Feso shot her an incredulous look, "Jeeze... this is getting ridiculous. First the comm-system. Now the computers. What's going on?"
"Politics. Go get Pendelton and tell him we need the scanner."
She went to the office and shuffled through the stacks until she found the carton of Anamesa. The tiny, yellow bottles were the size of her thumb, and one by one, she opened them over the sink, washing their syrupy contents down the drain. Her joints felt grainy and brittle, her skin growing increasingly coarse with every new bottle. As she reached in for the last one, her fingers met only vacant air. Feso was coming back in, a dismayed expression now transforming to the epitome of innocence.
"Feso, I'm not sure, but I think we're missing a bottle here."
"A bottle?"
"Yeah, of the Anamesa. When I counted them this morning, I'm sure there were six. There are only five here."
"Ah...that's interesting. What do you want with Anamesa?"
"I'm trying to get rid of it."
She tapped a few keys on the medical console, and the database's query prompt popped into view at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Feso's blood froze cold. Hunter finally looked up at him, her eyes sullen and tired.
"I guess I was mistaken. It says five."
"It does?"
"Feso...is something the matter?"
"Yes...I mean no...I'm fine. What's all the concern with Anamesa? People getting too horny or something?"
"What?"
Feso gulped. "Why was the Captain ordering you to destroy an aphrodisiac?"
She laughed. "Anamesa is not an aphrodisiac. Where'd you get that idea?"
"I thought it was."
"Well, it's not."
Feso looked her over like she was crazy, and she imagined she was staring back the same way.
"You don't believe me?"
Feso shrugged. "With all due respect, sir, I just happen to know for a fact that you're wrong."
"You do, do you?"
"Yes. I'll put five-hundred on it right now."
"You're on."
He hit a few keys on the medical console, staring dumbfounded at the screen when he saw the result. Hunter regarded him with a cheerful smirk.
"Pay up, buddy."
He figured that either he was going nuts or he was being toyed with, and luckily, the latter was the more likely of the two.
"This is a prank, right? You and Mr. Smyth. Very clever. Okay, here you are." He didn't care. He was tired and just as rich as when the whole thing started.
"What's this about Mr. Smyth?"
"Oh...nothing I'm sure the two of you can't figure out. Tell him thanks for the tip when you see him. It provided me with so much joy and happiness."
"What?"
"I'm going to sleep. It's the middle of my sleep shift."
"Feso, what's the matter?"
But he was gone, leaving her alone with a half-frozen patient in the other room. Two security guards emerged at the entry portal a minute later, both puffing anxiously.
"Dr. Hunter?"
"Yeah."
"Need you at the EC-lounge. Medical emergency." 
jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu
"What have you got for me?" Anderson asked. 
 "Another module," Casey said. "Churchill Downs, 1948."
The Harrison Chapters
Chapter 17
Jim Vassilakos
In The City
Jacqueline Carey
ell, the big news is that I've moved again. My new postal address is: 1509 R. St NW #3 Washington DC 20009. Please address all future postal correspondence/donations/solicitations/etc. to this address. There's also been a change in Quanta's email address, although the old one will probably continue to work for some time. The new address is quanta@quanta.org. A mirror WWW site at "http://www.quanta.org/quanta/" has also been set up, although the main Quanta WWW site will continue to be "http://www.etext.org/Zines/Quanta/".
We've recently been getting a lot of publicity - both a "point of interest" listing on the MacUser Internet Road Map (I guess we're "on the map" now...Ugh) and a listing in The Net's latest issue, with special mention of our "groovy graphics." Well we've got plenty more groovy stuff where that came from...
I learned last month that due to a mix-up with some mailers, some Quanta subscribers were not notified when the last issue came out (January 1995). So if you haven't checked out the January 1995 issue, I recommend that you do - you won't be disappointed.
Something I've been working on recently which folks might be interested in is the WWW Virtual Library Electronic Journals list. After taking over ownership of the list, we've significantly revamped it (we actually developed an application called WILMA to administer it). The URL is: 

http://www.edoc.com/ejournal/

and we'd be happy to get in any new additions to the list people might have.
Another big project I've been lucky enough to be involved with is the Science Magazine Science Conduct Online special feature at http://sci.aaas.org/aaas/. As well as hosting a reprinted article from Science Magazine on Conduct in Science, the feature is intended as a discussion area and general resource for science conduct.
Quanta Needs Help
If you're interested in taking on some responsibilities for Quanta, or if you have suggestions about Quanta's format, read on...
My work load just doesn't allow me to produce this magazine single-handedly anymore. Last year, I was only able to produce one issue! This year is slightly better, but I can't give Quanta the attention it deserves - not and work at the same time, anyway... That's why I need your help.
First of all, I want to turn Quanta into more of a WWW based resource than it is now. Right now, I work on Quanta in FrameMaker and then export to Text and PostScript after the whole thing is done. Then I take the text version and make the HTML version for the Web Site. Since more and more people are coming on to the World Wide Web, I've decided to do it the other way around. The WWW version will be developed first, and then the text and PostScript versions will come after.
Secondly, I'd like to turn Quanta into a more dynamic resource. On the Web, there's really no need for issues and volumes. I'd like to make Quanta more story-based. When I get a good new piece of fiction in, why should it have to wait until I get five more pieces in before it sees the light of day? Quanta will become a science fiction database, with new stories (and artwork) appearing constantly.
Then, after enough stories accumulate, a quarterly PostScript "issue" could be produced which would contain the best picks from that quarter.
This new service will be called "Quanta Interactive," and ideally it will become not only a great repository of science fiction, but a resource to be used by authors. It will include online discussion groups, dynamic hot lists, possibly even audio and video.
The trick is developing it. If anyone out there has the time and is interested in this project, please contact me at quanta@quanta.org. Ideal candidates will be SF aficionados who also know quite a bit about the Internet and the World Wide Web, including HTML and CGI script development. Of course, I can't pay you right now, but in the future, who knows?

Well anyway, this issue we've got some great stuff lined up for you. It's an eclectic mix - it challenges as well as entertains - it's a bit of this, a bit of that. I'd like to thank our contributors this month, as well as Boris Starosta for this issue's dazzling artwork. You can look at more of Boris's work at the following URL:

http://poe.acc.virginia.edu/~jrs/teesbryce.html

Bye for now - See you all next issue!	
"Why haven't we turned to dust? Why are we still here?"
art 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."
"Within spec? Are ye daft, lad? You call armed mechanical revolution within spec?"
Mirrimar stepped between them and held up his hands. "Please, please, calm down. Exactly what is going on here?"
MacDougall and Tok exchanged glances. She shrugged. "You tell him. You're the one who thinks he knows."
"Okay. Uh, you see, sir," Tok said. Beads of perspiration appeared on his brow. "RoboNet is a massively parallel hypercomputer, with two to the twentieth independent processors . . ."
"No need for the tech talk," Mirrimar said. So far, he understood the kid, but he knew that couldn't last, and it wouldn't pay to show his own ignorance around subordinates. "Just tell me what went wrong."
"Well, first we booted up RoboNet. Each of the processors is capable of handling thousands of different functions, and controlling hundreds of independent robots. It's state of the art design, powered by a sub-ethernet --"
Mirrimar waved him off. "All right, that's enough. You've had your chance. Now, Dr. MacDougall, it's your turn. What's the problem?"
MacDougall sat down in her chair and leaned back precipitously. "It's like this," she said. "We switched the bloody thing on, and the first thing that happened was that the individual processors decided to band together for common tasks."
"That's good," Tok interrupted. "We designed it that way."
MacDougall gave him a dirty look.
"Aye, but what we didn't design," she said, looking pointedly at Tok, "was for the nationalistic tendencies that arose. Processor groups became Sectors, and Sectors started forming alliances and setting up boundaries. Governments sprang up, and before we knew it, there were border skirmishes. Then Sector 3EE27 invaded, uh, . . ."
"Sector 3EE42," Tok said.
"Right, Sector 3EE42, in direct violation of the safety protocols--"
"Not to mention the nonaggression treaty the whirrer-droids etched earlier--"
"And, after that, all hell broke loose."
"Right," Tok said, getting excited again. "Sector 3EE42 is dominated by the whirrer-droids. They attacked the screw-tights in Sector 3EE42, and the ratchet-pawls honored their treaty and joined the battle. Then the drill-throughs saw an opportunity and intervened."
"Nasty critters, the drill-throughs," MacDougall said. "Bad tempered and mean."
A high-pitched whine suddenly filled the room, and everyone looked up. A small, round hole appeared in between two light panels, and began to grow. Inside it was a thick black drill bit, spinning at high velocity.
"Bloody hell," MacDougall said. "Speak o' the devils. Tok, me lad, short 'em out, fast."
"Aye, aye--I mean, yes ma'am." Tok grabbed a length of cable lying across his desk and hooked it to a small generator nearby. "Cover your eyes, everybody," he said.
Mirrimar shielded his eyes, but watched carefully as Tok slipped the cable in the drill-through's path. It made contact, sending sparks everywhere. The whine became a scream as the machine withdrew from the hole. Two technicians wearing white coveralls set up a ladder, and Tok scampered to the top to examine the hole.
MacDougall watched him and frowned. "We're not gonna be able to hold this room much longer."
"Then what do you plan to do?" Mirrimar said.
She glared at him. "You're the bloody executive," she said. "You make the decisions. Me chief assistant here thinks the machines are behaving normally. We tapped into RoboNet core and scanned for viruses and came up empty. You explain it."
"All right, all right," Mirrimar said. "Let me think." He started pacing the room, trying to avoid bumping into people.
Hell, he thought. Hell and damn. Lesson number one of management was to avoid getting roped into other people's messes, and this was a doozy. If he salvaged the situation and still had a job, somebody was going to pay.
He stopped abruptly. "How about cutting the power?"
"We tried that," Tok said, from atop the ladder. "As you can imagine, the robots didn't like the idea. The screw-tights bolted the access panels shut, and the whirrer-droids cut us off from the main lines. The router-rooters laid down a suppressing fire, which let the rivet-welders seal all the entrances."
"Probably the last time they all cooperated," MacDougall said. "They forced us down here. We were able to make a stand by employing the screw-looses as mercenaries." She motioned toward a pile of disjointed machines in the corner, which were milling around a power cabinet, opening and closing its cover. "Odd little buggers, but they did the job."
Tok jumped down from the ladder. "I think they prefer to be called screws-loose." He shrugged. "Anyway, most of the drill-throughs operate on rechargeable batteries. Cutting the power would leave us blind, deaf, and dumb, but they'd have at least six hours of juice before they ran down."
"Wait a minute," Mirrimar said. "You said earlier that you tapped into RoboNet core. Maybe you can tell them to shut down or something."
MacDougall stared at Tok, who winced.
"Uh, we're sort of currently locked out of high level functions," he said. He spread his hands to either side and shrugged. "As soon as I got access the first time, I gave them an infinite task to do, figuring it would disable them."
"What did you tell them to do?"
Tok reddened. "I told them to compute the irrational number pi to the last decimal place. I saw it on TV once. It worked, too."
"Sure, sure," MacDougall said. "Worked like a charm. One, and I mean exactly one, processor went into a loop. The rest just got mad and locked out our access line."
"That's one less we have to deal with," Tok protested.
"Right, lad. Now we only have to handle two to the twentieth minus one."
"Two to the twentieth minus two, actually. There's no 00000 processor."
"How many does that leave?" Mirrimar said.
MacDougall rolled her eyes. "Oh, just over a million. Got any ideas?"
At that moment someone rapped on the door. Muffled shouts were heard. Everyone dove for cover. Tok crawled over on his stomach and pressed his ear to the door.
"Oh no," he said, as he stood and unbolted the door. Three men dashed into the room. Between them, they forced the door shut again. Tok donned a visor and lit an arc-welder to seal the door. Mirrimar recognized the three men as the employee who had been standing at the door, and Officers Friendly and Thursday, who he met in the lobby.
"Screw-tights," Officer Friendly said. "Took us by surprise and cut us off. I think they took out the ratchets-pawls, and the router-rooters, too, in one hell of a battle. Not a pretty sight. Oil and parts all over the place, calls for mechanics, that sort of thing."
"Well, we're not getting out that way any time soon," Tok said, hooking his thumb at the newly welded door.
"Just as well," Officer Thursday said. "They've already taken the lobby." His moustache hairs stuck out at odd angles, and his nose seemed to be swollen. "We gave them a fight, but there wasn't much we could do."
"Ach," McDougall said. "I canna believe we're being held here by a bunch of machines. It donna make any sense."
"Sense!" Mirrimar cried, slapping his fist into his hand. "Has anybody tried talking to the machines?"
Everyone stared at him in surprise. "Talking to them?" Tok said. "They're just machines. What could they have to say?"
Mirrimar grinned. "We're going to find out. You've all been attacking this problem from the technical standpoint, and getting nowhere. It's time to start negotiating with them. Let's run this operation like the business it's supposed to be."
He moved over to the terminal and sat down. "Does this thing take voice commands? And can you link it into the intercom system?"
"Just a sec," Tok replied. He leaned over and typed for a moment, then pulled a microphone from behind the display and mounted it on the keyboard. "How do you know they'll talk to you?"
Mirrimar just smiled and waved him away. He leaned in to the microphone and cleared his throat. "Attention," he said, a trifle uncertainly. "Attention. This is Hart Mirrimar, Senior Executive Assistant to the Vice President in charge of Massively Parallel Robot Technology for Mechanized Solutions, Incorporated. I wish to speak to the leaders of all the various robot factions."
Silence filled the room. Mirrimar waited what he judged was a reasonable amount of time, and leaned in to the microphone again. "I feel I should warn you," he said, "that you are in violation of your labor contracts, and that we soon will be required to take steps to rectify the situation."
He settled back in his chair. Labor negotiations had always been a favorite subject of his. You just had to bluff your way through until you found out what your opponents really wanted. Then you hit them with everything you had. In this case, he thought, it'll be sort of like putting nuts on the screw-tights and squeezing them until they cracked. "I'm sure," he continued, "you don't want me to be forced to involve _lawyers_ in this matter."
The display terminal sprang to life as a dozen different images vied for control. The superposition of round whirrer-droids, long-snouted drill-throughs, spindly-armed ratchet-pawls, elongated router-rooters, twisted hangers-on, warped borer-lathes, and all the rest made for a confusing, if comical, picture.
"Slow down, slow down," Mirrimar pleaded. "One at a time, please."
"We can do better than that, sir," Tok said, reaching across him to type in some commands. Mirrimar noted with some satisfaction that that was the first time anybody in this mess had called him `sir.'
The screen blurred and then reformed into six roughly equal portions, each with a single robot representative. "These are the six primary factions," Tok said. "The rest will go along with whatever these six do."
Mirrimar nodded, then addressed the microphone once again. "Now that I have your attention," he said, "let's discuss our common problems."
Everyone started talking at once. It took Mirrimar some time to sort out what motivated each camp. He probed as carefully as he dared. The ratchet-pawls acted confused, and seemed almost relieved to be dominated by the screw-tights. The router-rooters and borer-lathes had far smaller numbers that the others, and were simply trying to defend themselves. The hangers-on seemed to be operating on everybody's side at once, which struck Mirrimar as typical. All were united in despising the drill-throughs, who seemed to be in for the mayhem.
The conflict really came down to the whirrer-droids and the screw-tights. The whirrer-droids apparently got too ambitious for their own good, and started a war they were now realizing they might not be able to win. The screw-tights, on the other hand, were puzzling. They were the only ones who saw the humans as a direct threat, and were also the only faction to refuse a general truce. They fought with a combination of maniacal fervor and desperate fear. Something worried them terribly, and Mirrimar suspected that if he could just figure out what it was, he might be able to settle this whole mess before any one else got hurt.
Mirrimar asked for a recess, to which the robots agreed grudgingly. After all, they operated twenty-four hours a day, given enough power. Still, everyone but the screw-tights felt that substantial progress had been made, so they were out-voted. Mirrimar rubbed his eyes. He was unaccustomed to staring into computer screens for any length of time.
Tok clapped him on the back. "Hey, that was really great, sir," he said.
"Aye," MacDougall agreed. "You bought us a bit of time. I donna know if it'll do us any good, but it's better than nothing."
Officer Friendly took off his cap and pressed his ear against the door. "The fighting has stopped, too, for the most part."
"That won't last," Mirrimar said. "The screw-tights are being stubborn. I doubt they'll hold off for more than an hour."
"That's a heck of a long time for the robots," Tok said. "Their time perception is tied to the central RoboNet hypercomputer. An hour of our time is eons to them."
"Hmm. Maybe I can use that," Mirrimar said.
The whole situation irritated him. Though none of the robots could be described as acting rationally, or as whatever rational behavior for the robots constituted, all made some sort of sense to him. Only the screw-tights were acting crazy.
Crazy. He took a deep breath as the idea hit him, and a broad smile broke across his face.
"Och," MacDougall said, "you've got something there?"
"Aye, me lass, I do," Mirrimar said, imitating her accent. He turned to Tok. "Can you get me a private communication to the screw-tights?"
"I think so. I can do some pretty good security coding on it, but it won't hold up against a determined effort."
"That's all right; I don't need much time. Do it."
Five minutes later the link was established, and Mirrimar found himself staring into a ten limbed, cylindrical robot whose arms looked like screwdrivers of various shapes and sizes. It spun itself in crazy circles.
Crazy, Mirrimar thought again, and smiled. "We have something you want, don't we?" he said to the robot.
The spinning increased in velocity until the robot looked about ready to fly apart. "Yes, yes, yes!" it said. "Give, give, give, or ..., or ...."
"No need to threaten. I'm sure we can work something out, as long as you are willing to cease hostilities and cooperate with us."
"Yes, yes, yes. Give, give, give. We stop. We stop."
"Good. I'll get back to you." He broke the connection and turned to the others in the computer room.
"What is it?" Tok said. "What do they want so badly?"
Mirrimar debated not telling right away, but he was too pleased with himself for that.
"They want their mates," he said.
"Their mates?"
"Ach," MacDougall said. "The screw-looses."
"Screws-loose," Tok corrected automatically. Everyone turned to watch the spindly robots in the corner.
"Exactly," Mirrimar said. "That's how it hit me. They're acting crazy, like they've got a screw loose."
He enjoyed the general groan. Subsequent negotiations went easily. Mechanized solutions agreed to a 160 hour work week, with oil breaks to be determined by supervisors. Prisoners were immediately exchanged by all parties. As their final act as mercenaries for the humans, the screws-loose unbolted the computer room door and were joyously repatriated with their mates.
After it was all over, Mirrimar treated everyone to dinner at the Executive Dining Room in the home office, and even had a special area set up for the robots, where they could dine on imported, high-octane fuel and other delicacies. A good time was had by all.
Tok and MacDougall agreed to look into RoboNet, and decide whether the current situation was truly a bug, or a feature. "By the way, sir," Tok said, "how did you get the whirrer-droids to agree to the truce? After all, they started the battle."
Mirrimar patted his full belly, feeling pleasantly satisfied. "I promised them some more space, and guaranteed that there would be no reprisals against them by the other robots. In effect," he said, grinning widely, "I buried the ratchet."


Ken Kousen is a Research Engineer at United Technologies Research Center in East Hartford, CT. His short fiction has appeared in Mystic Fiction, InterText, and The Magic Within anthology. "RoboTroubles" was written as a "fun" break while slogging through writing a heavy, as-yet-unfinished novel. 
kousen@utrc.utc.com
RoboTroubles
by Ken Kousen
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The conflict really came down to the whirrer-droids and the screw-tights.
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"If you ever want to see me again, don't conduct a search. It's tacky, and you'll only inconvenience the passengers."
he fist-sized stone was pyramid shaped, perfectly cut on all sides, and clear as glass. I didn't think the geology of Thetus permitted diamonds. I had found it near the edge of a tidal pool on my morning walk up the North Beach. I immediately adorned my one-room bungalow with the mystery rock, displaying it on a driftwood table. There was no one to share this find with. I lived alone on Thetus, as a woman who sought her fate in the solitude of this big blue world. That night I lay on my bunk nearing sleep. The eyes were heavy, half dreaming of a storm out at sea. Only half dreaming because I could still hear the surf roaring outside. One eye opened lazily to spy on the rock once more. Light danced off the multisided stone. Thin white beams flashed across the room, sweeping the dark. The rays bounced from wall to wall, flickering about. 

A man runs barefoot on the wet hard-packed sand of low tide. His unrelenting stride dances to a beat, forward in rhythm. Sweating in his tattered clothes. Moving, hurrying, getting somewhere. I am a bird gliding high above, crisscrossing the runner's path. After straying far ahead I double back, dive down and dart pass the man. His face transfixed, arms swinging wildly under striding legs. I circle above the human projectile and our motions lock in tandem. I hear voices in the man's movement, "Anticipate there, adjust here, footing soft, veer right, straddle over, find line, maintain pace, second wind, surge now, forward, faster." Legs alternate each lunging step with machine-like continuity, rotating like a windmill. The arms swing back and forth maintaining balance. I descend again and glide past the man. The limbs are a mayhem of movement but the head is locked forward, bounding only to the runner's inertia. The eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking, possessed, fixed on a destiny imagined or real. The open mouth is seemingly breathless. I climb against a strong southernly wind. The man is running north. Like broken sails his ragged shirt and trunks flail behind him. He is impervious knifing into the ocean gust, skimming the coast with a thousand strides.

Lines of white energy tapped my forehead. I stared at one beam, a photon torpedo that was paper-thin and inches wide. I followed it to the ceiling corner and drifted to sleep again. From one dream I stumbled on to another.

Everything ceases. The man is kneeling on the sand, head bowed down before me, his hands holding my robe like a repentant Christian. The man and I are statues with frozen gestures. There is no urge to speak. I only want to stand above him. The man kneels repentant, for his own sake or mine it doesn't matter. Thoughts are too still here. Even where the ocean pounds the shores, with the wind-blasted sands, and the dune grasses crackling like fire. Here we stand and kneel, if only to cry out, "Look, look Thetus!" Alive all around us with her chaos of forces, my planet she listens, she sees. The sea falls away, the winds leave the sand, and the grasses become silent. Now I can breathe stillness. Our hearts have stopped beating. The man grips my robe and the side of his head presses against my thigh. My hands rest on his shoulders as I look out over the calm ocean. Thetus knows. Knows tranquility reigns. 

The rock glowed a soft white hue in my room. I staggered off the bunk and approached it. I had not imagined the wild lights earlier. Diamond or not, no crystal in this universe exhibited these properties. I picked up the stone. It was warm and shone red through my fingers. How real is this? With the stranger on Thetus. 
I put the crystal back down. Turning away I found a window and looked out into the night. It was dark. There were no lights, no running man, nor a kneeling one. Just the sea. Just me, Mara, alone on Thetus. Why was the man running, and kneeling before me? 
I could see the glow out of the corner of my eyes. I turned and saw a shower of rays arcing and angling into a wild, gleaming matrix. I quickly looked down. Each light a channel to another place, to the visions. How? The visions felt so real. I noticed two beams converging at my feet. 

The man - that same man - stands beside a ship. Not an ocean ship. It stands on the shores of Thetus, a tall metallic egg propped on three spindly legs. The incoming tide begins to fill the darkened crater underneath. A ship for the stars. The man is poised, standing at attention, his suit gleaming blue and silver. An entry materializes on the egg's silver shell. He climbs inside and I follow. We stand on a mirrored floor and the space between us is small. An octagonal room. The walls are black, streaked with long curving strokes of white, red, and blue pinprick lights. Strips of the universe one beside the other, making a wallpaper of stars, nebulas, and galaxies. The man points to one bright speck. Flash of red. "Away," he says with his eyes. But to where? The man smiles, "Where the angels dance, on the plains of Meer."

I stood in the bungalow doorway and witnessed an intricate geometry of lights. From every angle white lines bounced on the walls, floor, and ceiling. I was drawn by the diamond's web of light. 
"No!" 
I fled out in the moonless night, running towards the beach. I stumbled on the loose sand. My chest pounded making me fight for breath. Scrambling to get away I followed the shoreline. I turned to look back. A pinpoint beam darted out of the house. It moved closer - not at once, not at the speed of light - extending its reach toward me. I tumbled forward crying out and fell into the surf. 

I know that place, Meer. On the other side of the galaxy, as green with grass as Thetus is blue with the sea. The man grins, "We are here." We step outside the craft. Orange light makes the eyes turn away, blazing. He spreads his hand to the horizon and I see waves of tall grass racing up a sloping field. We are in a valley. I follow him. After a while, he stops and turns to me. Behind him I see an oddly shaped building. Beyond it many more line the green slope. Weathered and rusty looking like old corrugated steel. Half-moon shaped. He points to the building near us. The man is sad. His suit glistens under the bright sunlight.

I was kneeling in water. A wave crashed into me and knocked me back. I crawled out of the surf, coughing out seawater. I found dry sand and lay there, sprawled on my stomach, cold, exhausted. My eyes opened. Lights sparkled off the white-water. 
We enter the strange building. A body lies still. A man with eyes closed. Wires in his skull. I kneel beside the cot and pull them from his head one by one. The man opens his eyes, smiles. He is not sad like his reflection standing nearby. The light is blinding. I feel his joy now, his freedom a super nova. I am lying down and I see him standing above me. The wires inside my head make me still. I am on Meer. The man is walking on the beach on Thetus. No longer running, no longer kneeling for forgiveness. A crystal is in his hand. He turns to face the ocean and throws the stone far over the waves. I see a splash, watch it descend in the murky water. It sinks into the green-to-blue-to-black, to a place of unlight. I lie in the dark. Helpless under the half-moon ceiling. Longing to run on the wet sand, wild with freedom. To kneel for forgiveness with tranquil heart. I am waiting for the crystal to wash ashore. To dance its light again, like the angels on the plains of Meer.

The Plains of Meer
Simon Joseph
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I picked up the stone. It was warm and shone red through my fingers. How real is this?
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Quanta
1509 R. St NW
Apartment 3
Washington, D.C. 20009
ames had just started work after lunch when the telephone rang.
"James, I have bad news... Hans is dead."
James sagged back in his chair.
"Ah, God."
"It was a heart attack, James. He didn't feel a thing."
"Joanie?"
"She's still at the hospital. Went out like a light, they say."
James couldn't say anything.
"He should never have smoked that pipe," Joe, his colleague and fellow philosophy tutor went on. "I told him. Wouldn't listen. You know Hans. Always had to have his pipe. Doctors said no smoking but Hans wouldn't listen...."
"Where are you now?"
"In the office. Man, I see Hans's door. The place is funny... where the hell were you? I was trying to get you all morning..."
"I in there. It must be... it must be only two hours since I was talking to Hans... before lunch..."
"What the hell are you talking about, man? Hans died last night!"
"Couldn't -"
"In his Goddam sleep-Joanie woke up and he was like a stone... "
James leaned forward. "It couldn't be, Joe. You're mixed up. I was talking with Hans before lunch and he was fine... he might have been a bit preoccupied..."
"Preoccupied? He was dead! They reckon he died at four am. They took his body away from the house at seven! Jesus! Man!"
James swallowed. "I'll ring you back..."
He clicked down the telephone and stared at the screensaver. Yael had come in.
"Honey?"
"Hans-is dead."
Yael put a hand to her lips.
"Died... died... this morning..."
"Oh, I am so sorry." She put her arms around James neck.
"I know you two were close..."
"It was his heart..."
"The poor thing. He was only-what... fifties...?"
"Fifty two."
James felt a light kiss on the cheek.
He had been talking to Hans that morning. He had been in the department at... nine. It was nine because he remembered looking at his watch as he trotted up the steps to the main concourse. Because the library opened at nine fifteen and could distinctly remember thinking-would he pop in to see if that Inter-Library loan came through.
No, he thought. He would hop up and see Hans first. Hans liked to get all the department trivia out of the way by ten, before he started work "proper" as he said.
Nine o clock.
Yael had gone to make coffee.
A joke. Some kid rang up, impersonated Joe. Department-no the whole Faculty was full of Joe impersonators. The lively way he had of bobbing his head and shifting his feet while he talked. The ever-present "man" near the end of every sentence.
It sounded exactly like Joe, true. But Joe didn't have a distinctive accent-and besides he had even overheard a student impersonate Joe's voice-only a few weeks ago, in the canteen-and he had been sure it was Joe.
Hans dead... some sicko.
Now, would he ring Joe to make sure or would it be a bit, well, weird? What would he say? Hello, Joe? Did you just ring me a few minutes ago?
James got up and went down the book-lined hall of the bungalow into the kitchen.
"Yael," he said, "it's okay. Hans isn't dead."
"What?" 
"It was a joke... some student.. I don't know what I was thinking...probably pissed because I failed him and he couldn't get his loan..."
"What kind of a person would do such a thing? Completely heartless."
"Who the hell knows? Little shit said he died last night but I saw him this morning."
"You saw him this morning? Then... why did you think he was dead?"
James sat down at the table. "No why. You know, when you're taken off guard? the shock..."
Yael set the mug on the table before him. She sat down.
"You've been spending too much time on front of that computer. What time did you get to bed last night? Four? Five?"
James had been working hard on his Guide to Socrates for four months now, but he had only finished six of the proposed twelve chapters. And they were the easy ones. The intricate stuff-like the way Plato integrated the Socratic method into his dialogues... all that he had shoved aside to wait until he felt he were able.
Problem was, the contract demanded delivery of the manuscript in only eight weeks time-to be on the market for the start of the fall semester. The marketing was in place, the dust jacket had been designed, his editor had told him the week before when he had rang to ask him how the "finishing touches were going?"
All this and five courses to teach-two of these weren't even his but Al Kelly had gone on sabbatical and since they were a general kind of course- how to write philosophical papers, general stuff like that-he had told Hans he would take them on, no problem. Because Hans was in a bind.
Exams in four weeks. Papers would have to be prepared. Corrections in six weeks....
He ran his hair through his hands. Yael was still talking.
"You'll have to take it a little easy... sometime I wonder you find your way home from campus. I really do."
"I have to get this book ready."
The phone rang. 
Yael said, getting up, "you'll just wind up in hospital-hello? Hello? Oh! Oh poor Joanie! On Joanie."
She held the received to her breast and turned to James.
"James -"
"Hans is dead...."
James took the receiver. Joanie through the numb, cold voice of Joanie, James was told that Hans died that morning. She had woken up beside him. He was cold.

James parked his car in front of Randall Clinic. Dr. Lehmann took him immediately, without an appointment.
James told him about Hans's death, and how he had seen him that morning.
Lehmann nodded.
"Do you think its back?" James asked.
Dr Lehmann spoke haltingly, blinking his eyes firmly as if he was constantly changing his mind.
"You see, you are obviously distressed... \and any number of things... We don't even have to enter into that. You could have dreamed this whole... thing."
It was no dream, James knew.
He had stepped out onto the landing of the Department, which was situated in a high tower that over looked the sprawling campus and the city. He passed Joe's office and knocked on Hans's door, which was on the other side of the hallway.
"Ah!" Hans beamed, leaving his ever-present pip on the saucer by his desk. Hans was from Berlin and though he hadn't lived in Germany for many years, he spoke with an almost exaggerated accent. "Just the man! Just the man!"
James had sat down. "You look wrecked!" Hans said.
He had always put emphasis on learning slang. He had learned English by learning swear words first, and even now he slipped in an occasional "fuck" or "cunt". When he did it at lectures, students would laugh nervously.
James had sat down. "I was up until all hours last night."
Hans looked at him with concern. "Perhaps I will take Philosophical Writing today? Hm?"
"Would you-that would be great!"
"Of course-if you forget about that fucking book and use the day to relax. Relax, okay. Yael said you work night and day, day and night."
"I have to Hans -"
"Damn publishers! Damn them! If it is not ready that is their problem. Once my editor told me Professor you have to have the manuscript in four days. Four days, I say. I couldn't give you a pint of piss in four days, let alone a discussion of Aristotelian Theory of Forms. Be hard, James!" he cried theatrically, clutching his pipe and waving at James for emphasis.
There was no point in James telling him that he was a lowly junior lecturer, not Professor and Head of the most prestigious Departments in the world and leading Aristotle scholar. Anybody could write an introductory guide to Plato. And he needed the money. He had been lucky to get the job in the first place.
"I have to do it on time," was all he could say.
James looked at Lehmann. "You see? I couldn't remember that kind of detail from a dream."
Lehmann looked as if he were going to say something, but closed his mouth again and continued to stare. Then he started to form his words very, very carefully.
"You see, you have to understand that your recollection of this so-called meeting can be deceptive. You have to take into account that not only have you been working hard, but also you have been getting very little sleep. Now, you say you got to bed very late last night -"
"Yes."
"And on previous nights?"
"Yes."
"So, you see, it is entirely possible that you could be suffering from some effect of fatigue..."
"Fatigue! I saw a dead man this morning, Doctor! How could I be suffering from fatigue! He was there..."
Though James had to admit that Hans wasn't himself.
"Let's sort out this course," James had said.
Hans took the papers out of his desk after much rummaging. He laid them out on his table.
James said, "So Reilly discussion of the Politics should be the basis of the course..."
"Ehhhh ... yes," Hans had said doubtfully.
James was going to take on this short course at the start of the next semester. James would take his guidelines, hand them out to the students and just be there to field questions. They decided that the course should be graded very, very easily - far more easily than James usually graded - because James was no Aristotle expert. And it was only the second part of a series of three introductory Aristotle courses. James said he would do it without question.
James said, "You're having second thoughts... I thought you said Reilly was the simplest introduction..."
Hans nodded. "Yes, yes..but...yes. Right. Reilly. We'll stick to Reilly's... good idea!"
James had stared. Hans had been teaching that course for nearly fifteen years, and he always used O'Reilly's book.
Lehmann said carefully, "We'll put that aside for the moment then. Well, in light of your history..."
"Yes?"
"It could be a recurrence of your epileptic condition..."
James had been diagnosed petit mal epileptic when he was eleven. At nineteen, the condition disappeared completely. That was twenty years ago.
"It has been twenty years -"
"I am aware of that," Lehmann said without taking his eyes up from James's records. "But I feel you have to understand that our knowledge of epilepsy is extremely cloudy... and, in the literature, it is genuinely surprising to see the variety of symptoms petit mal patients experience...."
James felt weak. Hans dead... epilepsy again. Back to that.
Lehmann read his expression. "The stress... the fact we must hold before us is that the recurrence of petit mal epilepsy after very long periods of time has been recorded. It would seem if there was a concrete medical condition that had the result of your..." he chose the next word carefully, "confusion... then I really believe that's an avenue we would do well to explore."
He was writing. A CAT scan and EEG, immediately, down the hall, in fact. Some perceptual tests. An hour at most...
"Could epilepsy do that-"
"Oh, one can never rule out the effects of epilepsy, James. An interesting condition, too."
Dr Lehmann went out, muttering that he would have to book the machine immediately.

James sat back. 
Hans soon woke up from his confusion about the Aristotle course James was to take. "But let us forget about Aristotle for he's dead and you fuck off home and relax with the sexy Yael and her fine tits," he said seriously, sticking his unlit pipe in his mouth.
Dr Lehmann came back in, sat down and stared at James.
"Nice to see you again James. Now, you weren't specific on the phone but you sounded anxious. So, perhaps you might tell me the problem. You say you're... confused?"

He drove down the highway, his car sweeping through lanes of traffic. Car horns blared but he didn't notice. All he could think about was getting home to Yael.
What could she do for him?
Everything. Get a doctor.
"You've already seen one," he said aloud, swerving his Volkswagen past a garbage truck. "You've already seen a fucking doctor, there's no need to go to another one. Just hope he doesn't charge you twice!"
He started laughing wildly. Charge you twice. That was a good one.
And to see his face when he got up and ran out! 
The car phone beeped. Yael. Thank God! Why didn't he think of phoning her?
"Oh God James you had us so worried. Where are you?"
"I'm just after the clinic -"
Panic came into her voice. "The clinic! James! Are you alright? Are you hurt? When you didn't ring... couldn't get an answer from your phones anywhere..."
"I'm okay honey. I'm okay The shock of Hans... I can't believe he's dead. Is he dead?"
"Dead? Hans? Of course not. I was just speaking to him. He says he hasn't seen you all day as well. Everybody was worried. When he said you didn't come in this morning."
He rolled down the window and threw out the phone. Yael's voice shot away into the traffic and billowing horns.
He started laughing maniacally again. He thought, "If this gets on any worse I'll have to book a slot on Ricki Lake."
He drove for hours, put of the city, though the empty countryside, past the shells of houses, a gas station. Drove on, his gas tank draining, up into the mountains. He came to a stop. He felt very tired. He let back the seat and closed his eyes and fell asleep. He woke up in his room.
He sat up. He could make out Yael's sleeping form beside him. 
"Weird," he said, lying back down. "Weird."
Yael got up just before dawn. Her nursing shift was to start at six. 
He hadn't slept. He saw her form in the darkness. The rustle of a bathrobe. He 
Wearing Yael's bathrobe, was a purple thing, with arms and legs, looking very like a man. 
James bolted up and then was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming calmness. He lay drowsily back on the bed.
The thing grinned. "Surprised? " He collapsed into breathless laughter. He laughed so long and hard James thought cloudily, maybe he might just die.
The thing regained its composure. It looked as if it were wiping tears away.
"You thought-you thought I was Hans! Yes? And Lehmann Yes!" and he started to scream with laughter again.
When he was ready, he said. "Look, I'm sorry. I can't resist messing around sometimes. I get into trouble but, natural joker, that's me. Well, all set?"
James nodded.
"Let's go."
James followed the creature towards the window. The creature stopped and looked around.
"And you really thought I was Yael! And Hans-did I do Hans well?"
James nodded dreamily.
The creature laughed again. 
"I'm just a natural kidder, that's me, for sure. I'm sorry. I get into trouble a lot."
As he climbed out the window James heard him say, "Joe was the easiest. Everybody can do Joe."

A Sense of Humor
Kevin Walsh
"It was a joke... some student.. I don't know what I was thinking...probably pissed because I failed him and he couldn't get his loan..."