Asimov's SF, September 2007 Read online

  Then the corpse sat up.

  The six-fingered hand continued the motion begun before death, revealing some kind of ballistic weapon with a wide stubby barrel that lifted now—a blind hand aiming by memory or by unsuspected senses. There was a soft, almost musical report. An object flew out of the shattered car, and a moment later, a muscular blast rolled across the slope above them.

  The corpse stood and began to walk, its free hand digging into a new pocket and the first gun falling on the floor beside Crockett. Brandishing a second weapon, the blind corpse fired twice again and ran through the open door, momentarily knocked off its feet when the next blasts shook the ground. But it was a determined apparition, rising once more and breaking into a run; and Crockett sat up for no other reason than to keep watch on what seemed to be the most unexpected, incredible sight of his sheltered little life.

  From behind, a voice said, “Help me, my friend. My Crockett."

  He turned, and the fighting corpse was forgotten.

  A spider as wide as a dinner plate rose high as it could, on six jointed black legs. The body was thick and solid, fashioned from some tough species of bioceramic alloy. A mouth built only for speech was in front, and with a familiar voice, it said, “I will pay you ... all I have left..."

  “Doom?” the human muttered.

  “All that remains of my wealth, yes."

  Crockett had heard about such tricks: Organisms in the most dangerous circumstances would peel off their bodies, and sometimes even the bone or gelatin surrounding their living minds. Then their minds were secured inside a lifeboat, tough and temporary, able to weather all but the worst abuses.

  “What do you want?” Crockett asked.

  More blasts peppered the slope, followed by the sizzle of a second plasmatic bolt.

  “I must reach the lake—"

  Crockett interrupted. “You want to get to the Luckies, don't you?"

  “I have no help but yours,” said the spider, with feeling.

  “And if I don't?” he had to ask.

  “I apologize, but these ladies are professional murderers,” Doom warned. “And since you are a witness to their attempted crime—"

  Another blast, higher up the slope this time.

  Crockett snatched the alien gun and stood.

  “My friend—?"

  “We aren't friends,” Crockett spat.

  “But you will help me?"

  “Yeah, that too,” he promised. “I'll help both of us, if I can."

  * * * *

  5

  Some visitors to the hamlet didn't require local guides. Diplomats representing various distant worlds had received permission, or they were scientists intrigued by the robust biosphere. But a few souls had no obvious qualifications. They were peaceful, profoundly focused individuals who preferred not to ride the cable car to the ridge, but instead would walk the steep trails, investing time and some effort into the last moments of normal life.

  The hamlet residents might discuss their fate, but not often and rarely with much feeling. Free sentient entities could do any fool thing they wished, so long as no one else was hurt. And besides, there was always the chance that somebody would come looking for those who were lost, and there was money to be made from that very peculiar work.

  One day, a human woman arrived on the tram. She was handsome and queenly and reserved and alluring. Rumors swirled about her desires, and Crockett managed to put himself in the position where he could impress an old lady with his professionalism and strong back.

  She hired him, promising ten days of constant labor.

  The first six days were spent loading the cable car with equipment that was lifted to the end of the line, then carried over foot worn trails, up to a rocky shelf on the far side of the caldera's ridge. The lake lay below them. In the middle of winter, the deep water was barely warm enough for a bath, and it was spectacularly clear—a vertical realm filled with swimming shapes and flexing tendrils and the delicate, rib-like reefs where the communal Luckies enjoyed their easy times. Alien eyes covered nearly a quarter of the lake surface—thin, profoundly black disks made of light-sensitive neurons. They were lidless and unsleeping eyes, missing nothing that happened in the sky. By comparison, the woman's telescope was tiny, feeble, and perhaps even laughable.

  Crockett laughed, but only when he reached home again.

  Six full days were needed just to bring the pieces of the machine up to the high shelf, and another three days were spent standing in the brutal cold. The two worked in clumsy partnership, assembling and calibrating all the components and photon traps and the generator and its backup, struggling to meet the deadline that came on that last, tenth day. By then, the Luckies’ weak sun had dropped beneath the illusionary horizon. A sky that had been suffused with soft purple tones fell into total darkness. Bright stars became brilliant, and thousands of unseen stars leapt out of the night. Glancing through the viewfinder, Crockett saw more detail than he had ever imagined possible. Each one of those minuscule stars was nothing more, or less, than a colorful mark painted on an otherwise invisible ceiling. And not painted once, but endlessly—a succession of tiny, intense images that if examined closely would reveal flares and sunspots and perhaps the occasional, endlessly consistent transit of worlds. And by the same inherent logic, each tiny round patch of blackness, smaller than a bacterium, was itself imbued with a thorough, finely rendered map, invisible oceans and mountains and twisting rivers running unseen between the two.

  Always, the Luckies had to feel comfortable with their sky.

  Crockett understood that logic, the alien mind ... or at least he accepted the creatures’ strangeness well enough to make them familiar, and in the fashion of a tapestry hung for too long on a wall, forgettable.

  But his client didn't care about stars, bright or otherwise.

  The vagaries of orbits had brought both of the outer moons into view. The outermost moon was sold to humans as payment for passage onboard the Great Ship. Colonists had rapidly terraformed the prize, transforming the ice crust into a blue ocean where millions of humans lived in floating cities and submerged cities and walked along beaches designed to be idyllic. Sometimes, in a mocking mood, Crockett would tell neighbors, “I wouldn't mind visiting that place.” And everybody laughed, enjoying his weak humor even as they secretly wondered how walking that sand would really feel.

  The nearer moon was half-full, and following the orbit of its namesake, on that day it reached opposition with the Luckies’ home moon. The two celestial bodies couldn't have been closer. That icy neighbor was as large as possible, big as a big palm riding on the end of the short arm; and while it wasn't near enough to touch, at least it managed to look genuine and immediate, even when the eyes knew it was a smear of light.

  A picture.

  Nothing.

  Except for his presence as an Honorable Guide, Crockett wasn't needed anymore. His client told him to step away, which he did willingly. For the next few hours, he staved off boredom by watching the caldera's lake. He studied the banded face of the old brown dwarf. Then with eyes closed, he imagined sleeping with this woman with whom he had shared effort and time and very little else.

  The telescope was a broad, blunt machine focused hard on one of the cities of that nearby moon. With limited success, Luckies had colonized their neighbor's natural hot springs. Starships had brought other species, and later, the Great Ship brought even more. With the available resolution, the woman found a certain building, and when the light was good, she could make out a solitary figure standing on its roof. Then with a laser barely strong enough to throw its beam across a very large room, she sent a message, and after the appropriate delay, she received an answer that made her laugh quietly and then sob to herself.

  Hours passed while she conversed with that dead person.

  Crockett never learned who it was. Human? Alien? Was it a former lover, or just some lost friend? In a roundabout fashion, he made inquires. But his client pretended not to hear him,
and later, she mentioned that perhaps this was none of his business, thank you.

  “I was just curious,” he muttered. “Sorry, never mind."

  In the Luckies’ sky, no object was so thoroughly rendered as that neighboring moon. Knowledgeable voices claimed that not even the Ship's captains had the computing power that was being focused on that one illusionary body. Every city on the visible hemisphere was real, as were the cities on the far side: How else could the entire organic world be maintained? Each city had its population, and every citizen had a name and address and life and loves, including the fierce hates and passionate disinterests and all the other untidy, inelegant, and wonderful hallmarks of existence. Some self-declared experts claimed the vast imagery was so thorough that every mote of dust had its own label. Every snowflake knew its place; every gust of wind had its story. And that was why the Luckies could demand fortunes from those souls who were desperate enough or odd enough to have themselves killed: Killed so those strange mite-sized creatures could tear their minds apart, revealing every memory, every cherished secret, and then slather whatever they learned to the plaster on their busy ceiling.

  Finished at last, the woman turned away from the telescope and wept again.

  When her grieving was finished, she called Crockett over, and, together, they dragged the telescope to the edge of the shelf and gave it one shared push. An apparatus worth plenty tumbled into the warm water. And alien bodies instantly tore it apart—the rare metals and hyperfibers most likely part of her payment.

  Together, the two strangers returned to the cable cars.

  In silence, they rode back down to the hamlet—a tiny place full of warm homes and real people and organisms that were as good as any person.

  Only in the station, at the end, did Crockett suggest to his client that she might enjoy an evening spent with him. He meant sex, but he didn't say it. He meant to sound friendly and fun, and that was exactly how he came across. But she reacted instantly, decisively. A knife in the belly wouldn't have made her straighten up any faster, and with a tight, small voice, she asked, “Why would you ever think such a thing would be half-possible?"

  He blinked, too startled to react.

  “You're the one living a dream,” she informed him.

  This was not the first time, nor was it the last, that Crockett wondered if perhaps he didn't know women quite as well as he believed.

  * * * *

  6

  The two AIs were sitting together in the false-forest, in the middle of the main path, a thin coat of new snow obscuring their faces and their high functions removed and burnt to ash.

  Six mechanical legs had wrapped themselves around Crockett's waist, the tip of each leg fused with its mate. Doom was riding him, the spidery body snug against the small of his back. The lifeboat weighed almost nothing, and sometimes it was almost possible to forget about the alien. Crockett could run naturally, long legs slicing through the deep fresh snow. He carried the bomb-throwing gun in one hand, then the other. There were moments when he almost forgot why he was running. Then the plasma weapon discharged somewhere in the Luckies’ forest, and he heard fire and saw a flash of light, followed by the stink of burning wood.

  “Who are they?” Crockett whispered.

  “Hired killers."

  “I know. I mean...” What did he mean? “They were security officers. Ours. Children, nearly—"

  “They aren't young,” the alien warned.

  “Okay.” Crockett was following the narrow, unpopular trail that he once used to carry the telescope to the high shelf. “The women aren't what I guessed. But I want to know—"

  An explosion shook snow off the gray roots.

  “My body has expired,” Doom reported. Then with a curiously buoyant joy, he added, “But it did earn us time and distance."

  Crockett stumbled.

  “Careful,” said his companion.

  “I want to know,” Crockett managed as he stood. “Who hired your killers?"

  “My enemies."

  “Well, yes..."

  “If you learned their identities, perhaps you would know too much."

  “So what are you?” Crockett asked. “And why did you deserve this—?"

  “I am nobody, and I did nothing.” The alien adjusted his grip as the trail began to climb. “Nobody and nothing,” Doom repeated.

  Crockett glanced at the weapon. Could his hands use this thing?

  “I boarded the Great Ship to escape my enemies."

  “That happens a lot,” Crockett agreed.

  “But they came with me, my enemies did. They hate me that much."

  From behind and far below, a woman's voice shouted out a single word:

  “Tracks."

  Crockett muttered, “Shit,” and ran harder.

  “Eight centuries, I have been onboard this wonderful starship. I have made a habit of regularly changing identities and habits. But my enemies always find me, and three times before, they have sent agents to put an end to me."

  “Go to the captains,” Crockett suggested. “Can't they help?"

  Silence.

  “They won't, will they? Why now? Are you some kind of criminal?"

  “If I was,” the alien pointed out, “then my enemies would invite the captains’ aid in finding me."

  Probably so.

  “This is a private, difficult concern."

  The trail angled to the right, flattened and then lifted steeply again. A single plasmatic round passed overhead, near enough that the air warmed, and with the brilliant yellowish glare, the surface of the snow turned to fresh vapor.

  “I am sorry to involve you, my friend."

  “We aren't friends,” Crockett gasped.

  “Of course not."

  “Will this be the end?” he asked. “If you reach the Luckies ... will it put an end to everything...?"

  “I believe so."

  “Because you'll be dead."

  Silence.

  How much farther? Crockett had walked this path thousands of times, but never in these awful circumstances. Never this fast, and never this slow. He felt as if he was in a nightmare, the snow growing deeper for no reason other than to fight every stride. He was aching and sick with fear, and sometimes he caught himself wondering what would happen if he just dropped the damned bug. It would probably crawl after him, he guessed. So then he'd turn and give the creature a good finishing kick.

  Crockett tried to sprint, stumbled and slid backward a few meters.

  As he struggled to rise, the legs around his belly tightened. “No,” said Doom. “Remain where you are."

  Crockett could taste the steam rising off the boiling lake—a rich, acrid scent created by shredded organics and heavy metals. “Why?” he muttered.

  “Here you are invisible to them."

  “But they're coming,” he pointed out. “They're going to find us—"

  “Please wait."

  The runaway terror had returned.

  A very tiny eye lifted high above the spider's body. “Below us stands a substantial rooting body,” Doom explained. “He is parabolic in shape, and much taller than any of his neighbors."

  “What do you want?"

  “With both hands, grasp the weapon's trigger mechanism. Yes, that is the technique. In a few moments, I would like you to sit up and aim at that large root ... and please, twist the trigger until the magazine is empty..."

  “Will that stop them?"

  “With luck, you will earn us more time,” Doom replied.

  Crockett took a deep breath, fighting to clear his head. “Letting the Luckies kill you...” he began. “Is that a reasonable solution...?"

  “I am living in death now,” the creature pointed out. “By doing this, I will simply be exchanging one afterlife for another."

  Crockett breathed again.

  “Now, my friend. Turn. Shoot. And then, please run...!"

  * * * *

  7

  Explosions tore apart the dead wood, and secondary
charges ignited the airborne chunks and splinters, creating a rolling blaze that pushed its way down the slope, melting and searing all that lay in its brilliant orange path.

  Crockett threw down the empty weapon and sprinted uphill, his frantic shadow leading the way. For an instant, from out of the firestorm, he heard what might have been a single voice screaming in misery. Or it was random noise. Then the voice vanished within the boiling crackle of sap, and he reached the crest of the ridge and gratefully started down the other side.

  In a few steps, there was no snow underfoot.

  The air turned blacker and denser, choked with moisture and a miserable heat. A quick succession of hard shocks sprang from some deep, angry place. Crockett stumbled. He stood and then stumbled again. From his left came the ominous rumblings of a thick, newborn geyser. Finding his feet and balance, he warned, “The eruption's starting."

  “Run,” the alien kept advising.

  “Where?"

  “To the lake."

  “But the eruption—"

  “It has not arrived,” Doom replied. “My saviors shared with me the moment of the Birth Catastrophe, and we have several minutes remaining..."

  Crockett discovered that the air was less awful when he bent low, and that was how he ran—a clumsy pitched-forward stride—and when he could see nothing useful, which was most of the time, he would close his burning, tearing eyes, navigating by a mixture of feel and panicked memory.

  The trail suddenly flattened out.

  Here was the high rock shelf where he and that odd woman had assembled the telescope. But the sky was stolen away. Stars and the elaborate moons were hidden behind a growing flume, superheated vapors rising from the lake's center, lifting countless spores with them. Crockett took a step and coughed and managed two more steps before his windpipe began to scald. Then he paused, kneeling forward for what was supposed to be a brief, brief rest. But without oxygen, his body was descending into emergency metabolisms. Energies were dipping, and his eyes refused to stop weeping, and when he tried to rise it was too soon, and he tripped and fell again, losing all sense of direction.