The Omega Egg [A Fictionwise Round Robin Novel] Read online

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  The Omega Egg [A Fictionwise Round Robin Novel]

  by Mike Resnick and Various Authors

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  Science Fiction

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  Fictionwise, Inc.

  www.fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Mike Resnick

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  A Note From the Editor

  Welcome to the first Fictionwise.com Round Robin Novel. A round robin is a science fiction tradition dating back some 70 years. It works like this: a number of authors agree to write one chapter each of a novel. There is no plot. There is no outline. Author #1 writes the opening chapter and sends it on to Author #2, who has no idea what he's about to receive. He can continue the plot, branch off from it in a logical way, even contradict something that came before if he does it fairly (such as showing that the main character was being purposely misled). It then goes to Author #3 and so on down the line; the final Author wraps it up. Now enjoy!

  —Mike Resnick

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  Congratulations to Jim Barnabee of Haines City, Florida, for winning the suggest-a-title contest ... “The Omega Egg” was chosen over 120 other entries submitted by Fictionwise subscribers.

  Congratulations also to Jen Roper of Santa Fe, New Mexico, for being randomly selected from our subscriber list to have her name included in the final version of the novel. Keep an eye out for Jen's debut in Chapter 3!

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: Conversation with an Admiral by Mike Resnick

  Chapter 2: Conversation with a Dragon by David Gerrold

  Chapter 3: Dreams and Nightmares by Nancy Kress

  Chapter 4: Smoke and Mirrors by Robert Sheckley

  Chapter 5: The Egg and the Dragon by Brian Herbert

  Chapter 6: The Da Vinci Code by Laura Resnick

  Chapter 7: Your Own Private Gulag by Kay Kenyon

  Chapter 8: Altar Ego by Stephen Leigh and S. L. Farrell

  Chapter 9: Falling by Bill Fawcett

  Chapter 10: Holes in the Universe by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Chapter 11: Choosing Sides by James Patrick Kelly

  Chapter 12: Picking a God's Nose by Dean Wesley Smith

  Chapter 13: The Search for Bob by Jody Lynn Nye

  Chapter 14: The End of Some Things, The Beginning of Others by Jane Yolen

  Chapter 15: Mr. Spencer's Blues by Pat Cadigan

  Chapter 16: Conversation With His Future Self by Michael A. Burstein

  Chapter 17: For Whom the Bellflower Tolls by Tobias S. Buckell

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

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  Chapter 1: Conversation with an Admiral

  by Mike Resnick

  Spencer waited for the ship's hatch to open, then stepped onto the platform that gently lowered him to the ground. Two uniformed men, a lieutenant and an ensign, were waiting for him.

  Both stood at attention and saluted.

  “Welcome to Goldmeadow, Commander Spencer,” said the lieutenant.

  “Don't call me Commander, and don't salute me,” said Spencer irritably. “I haven't been a member of the Service for seven years.”

  “I'm sorry, sir,” said the lieutenant. “But we were told to meet Commander Kendell Spencer and escort him to headquarters.”

  “Either stop calling me that, or go find a Commander Spencer and I'll be more than happy to catch the next ship home.”

  “I don't mean to offend you, sir. Will you come with us, please?”

  “What about my luggage?”

  “It will be brought to your quarters, sir.”

  “All right,” said Spencer, falling into step behind them as they led him away from the ship. “Where's the Customs kiosk? I didn't have a chance to get a visa. I'll have to arrange for one here.”

  “That won't be necessary, sir,” said the ensign as an aircar pulled up. The robot driver, which was actually part of the car, swiveled its head until its prismatic eyes were staring at him.

  “I have been dispatched to find and transport Commander Spencer to his destination.”

  “I'm no longer a Commander,” said Spencer. “I'm a private citizen and I would appreciate being addressed as such.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” said the robot. “I have been programmed to refer to you as Commander Spencer.”

  “Have you got a name?” asked Spencer.

  “Military Vehicle 3B4178H, sir.”

  “What if I called you Marilyn?”

  “I would not respond, sir.”

  “Perfectly reasonable,” said Spencer. “And I won't respond if you call me Commander again.”

  The robot instantly examined a million or so programmed responses, and finally chose the most likely. “Then I will simply call you sir.”

  “Fine,” said Spencer. “And I will simply not speak to you at all.”

  He entered the vehicle, accompanied by the two men, and it immediately began speeding away from the spaceport, skimming some ten inches above the ground.

  The robot's head swiveled one hundred eighty degrees, until it was looking directly at Spencer. “I have a built-in bar, sir. May I offer you a drink?”

  “No, and keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I have eyes built into my headlights, my fenders, and my tail lights,” answered the robot. “I assure you, sir, that I am watching the road.”

  “Well, turn your head around and face it toward the road,” said Spencer. “It makes me nervous.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the robot, swiveling its head back and watching the road with yet another pair of eyes.

  They drove the next five minutes in silence. The two officers looked very uneasy, and Spencer did nothing to assuage their discomfort. Finally the car halted before a well-fortified building, gently floated up to the fourth floor, and skimmed alongside it until it came to a door that matched its own. It stopped, both doors opened, the ensign climbed out, reached back for Spencer's hand, helped him out, and began walking him down a polished corridor, followed closely by the lieutenant.

  They turned left as the corridor branched out, and came to a stop before an unmarked door.

  “This is as far as we were told to accompany you, sir,” said the lieutenant. “The Admiral's inside.”

  Spencer considered knocking on the door, then decided not to. By now the door would have read his retina, his bone structure, his weight, and would doubtless be reading his fingerprints when he touched the handle.

  “Come on in, Spence!” said a hearty voice from behind the door. “Don't stand out in the hall all day.”

  Spencer reached for the handle, but the door was quicker, dilating to let him pass through, then snapping shut behind him.

  Admiral James Nathan Ktonga, a burly man in late middle age, the chest of his crisp uniform festooned with medals and ribbons, rose from behind a large desk and approached Spencer.

  “Good to see you again, Spence!” he said, extending a meaty hand. “How the hell are you?”

  “I was fine until two days ago,” answered Spencer, taking the Admiral's hand and shaking it briefly. “I had fondly hoped never to hear from you or the Service again.”

  “You don't miss it?”r />
  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Come on, Spence,” said Ktonga. “It was your life for how many years?”

  “Too damned many.”

  Ktonga grinned. “You sound like you're not thrilled to see me.”

  “Aw ... you guessed.”

  “But I asked and you came, like the patriot you are.”

  “Did I have a choice?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay,” said Spencer, “you want my input on something. What is it?”

  “We want more than your input, Spence,” said Ktonga. “We want you.”

  “Forget it. I've retired.”

  “Let me explain the situation, and then we can discuss it,” said Ktonga.

  “I don't want to discuss it,” said Spencer. “Say what you have to say, let me tell you again that I'm retired, and then we can end this farce and I can go home.”

  “As you keep pointing out, you're a private citizen, Spence. I can't force you to do anything. I can only ask you. So will you please stop acting as if I'm the enemy and hear me out?”

  Spencer stared at him silently.

  “Well?” demanded Ktonga.

  “I'm hearing you out,” said Spencer. “Do you mind if I sit down? You look like you've been saving up a three-hour speech for me.”

  “Sure, sit down, make yourself comfortable,” said Ktonga. He pressed a hidden button and a section of the wall slid back, revealing a well-stocked bar. “You want a drink?”

  “No,” replied Spencer, sitting down on the opposite side of the desk. “That would imply that we're friends and that you didn't pluck me out of my nice, happy, peaceful civilian existence and drag me to this ugly little world.”

  “It's actually a very pretty world—and as for dragging you, did anyone lay a finger on you?”

  Spencer glared at him. “Just make your pitch, add whatever ridiculous request you want to make, and let me get the hell out of here.”

  “That doesn't sound like the Kendell Spencer I know,” said Ktonga.

  “The Kendell Spencer you knew was under your command and could have been court-martialed for telling you what he thought of some of your hairbrained schemes. This Kendell Spencer is free to say what he thinks.”

  “I can't say that I approve of your attitude.”

  “I earned the right to hold it,” said Spencer. “Thanks to you, there's bits and pieces of me scattered over half a dozen worlds.”

  “I know,” said Ktonga. “And don't think the military isn't appreciative. You were the best, Spence. It seems a shame you decided to hang it up.”

  “I am walking around with a prosthetic left arm, a prosthetic right leg, a cloned spleen, and an artificial eye,” said Spencer. “Just how many more body parts did you think I should have given to the cause before I hung it up?”

  “Now you know that the Navy gave you a better eye and better limbs than you were born with, and all at our expense.”

  “I'd have been happy to foot the bill if the Navy had been willing to suffer the pain.”

  “You were honored for your service, maybe more than anyone else,” said Ktonga. “Three Medals of Courage, an Outstanding Service medal, two Diamond Stars, four Exceptional Valor ribbons...”

  “Worth 50 credits in any hock shop in the galaxy.”

  “You hocked them?” demanded Ktonga in a voice that was half shock and half outrage.

  “No, I didn't hock them. They're in a drawer somewhere, or maybe in the attic.” Spencer lit a smokeless cigarette. “Have we exchanged enough pleasantries, or do I have to listen to still more before you tell me why I'm here?”

  “Do you remember Ramon Boganda?”

  Spencer nodded his head. “A good man.”

  “How about Patricia Kelvin?”

  “Patsy Kelvin,” he repeated. “I haven't thought of her in years. Tough and smart, and she could pick up an alien language quicker than anyone I ever knew. You couldn't ask for better.”

  “Ever meet a little dragon called Plibix?”

  “From Beta Loita VII? I never met him—or her, or it—but I heard about him. He had a hell of a reputation. We were lucky to have him on our side.” Spencer paused. “Are we through reminiscing?”

  “We're through.”

  “And?”

  “They were the three best covert agents in the Service,” said Ktonga. “The only better one I ever saw was you.”

  “I'm flattered beyond belief,” said Spencer sardonically. “Get on with it.”

  “All right,” said Ktonga. “Something's happening on Leonardo.”

  “Something's always happening on Leonardo,” said Spencer distastefully. “It's been a trouble spot for decades.”

  “This is something big,” continued Ktonga. “We got the beginning of a transmission from the officer in charge of our garrison there. He wasn't a man prone to overstatement, but he said what he'd discovered threatened the very foundations of the galaxy. Those are his exact words: the very foundations of the galaxy.”

  “Well?”

  “The transmission was cut off—and so was the officer. He was found dead the next day. And the strangest thing, Spence—he had a blue bellflower in his hand.”

  “Enlighten me,” said Spencer. “What's a blue bellflower and why is it special?”

  “It's a very pretty flower that chimes like a bell when the wind blows through it, and it only grows on MacDougal II, half a galaxy away. I know what your next question will be, and the answer is that there's never been a greenhouse or a botonist that could keep one alive on any other planet.” He paused for the information to sink in. “Anyway, I sent Boganda to Leonardo to nose around and report back to me.”

  “And?”

  “He transmitted one single message, to the effect that the dead officer wasn't exaggerating, that he was on the track of something big. And then he vanished.”

  “Has his body turned up?”

  Ktonga shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Let me guess. You sent in Patsy Kelvin and the dragon, and they're missing too.”

  “We sent them in one at a time—first Plibix, then Kelvin, maybe a month apart.”

  “Any messages from either of them?”

  “No. They knew it was a dangerous situation, they knew that Boganda had vanished, and they were damned good at protecting themselves—and they've vanished without a trace.” He paused. “That's three of them, damn it—so I thought I'd better send for the best there is.”

  “I'll be happy to give you the benefit of my experience and offer all the sage advice I can,” said Spencer.

  “Stop kidding around, Spence,” said Ktonga. “You know what I want. You've been there. You know the language, you know the customs, you know the territory.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me enlighten you,” said Spencer. “The natives of Leonardo are eight feet tall. They have blue skins. Their arms and legs are not jointed like any humanoid you've ever seen. It is absolutely impossible to covertly infiltrate them.”

  “You don't have to be covert,” said Ktonga. “I'll provide you with any cover story you need, and all the firepower required to back you up.”

  “We just decimated them fifteen years ago,” said Spencer. “That's why you've got a garrison there to begin with, and that's why they hate our guts. I don't know what your dead officer learned, but the likelihood is that if there's anything there, he stumbled onto it by accident and got killed for his trouble. There's no way he could have talked a native into betraying his people.”

  “Maybe there is,” suggested Ktonga. “If money's what it takes...”

  “Since they're not allowed to set foot on any of our worlds, why would they want our money?”

  “Maybe they're not responsible at all. Maybe it's someone from MacDougal II. Maybe it's someone from somewhere else. Maybe there's an underground movement we know nothing about. All I know is that three top agents are missing, and we still have no idea what
the officer discovered. That's why I sent for you.”

  “I'm flattered, but my best advice to you is to write it off, forget it ever happened, and hope your man was wrong.”

  “What if he wasn't wrong?”

  “You really think something on Leonardo poses a threat to the whole galaxy?” said Spencer. “Then get every human off the planet, poison the atmosphere, and search for this mysterious threat at your leisure.”

  “We can't do that!” exploded Ktonga. “You're talking millions of living beings!”

  “A few million less than there were before you pacified them, to use the military's favorite term.”

  “It's out of the question. I need you to go in there and learn what's going on.”

  Spencer got to his feet. “Well, it's been nice chatting with you, Admiral. Give my regards to your wife.” He turned and began walking to the door.

  “It's locked,” said Ktonga.

  Spencer turned and faced him. “Am I to understand that I'm being held prisoner against my will?” he asked, almost amused.

  “Well, I hope it won't be against your will. How does half a million credits sound?”

  “Like a lot of money.”

  “It's yours if you'll agree to go to Leonardo.”

  Spencer shook his head. “I wouldn't live long enough to spend it.”

  “A million.”

  “I have a wife and two kids. I am criminally over-insured. If I die, they won't need your million.”

  “Have you considered living?” asked Ktonga.

  “Of course I have,” replied Spencer. “And I think the best way to go about it is to tell you precisely what you can do with your million credits.”

  “You haven't changed as much as I'd hoped,” said Ktonga wearily. “You always got the job done, I grant you that—but you were a positive bastard to work with.”

  “You never worked with me in your life,” said Spencer. “You just sent me into one hellhole after another, and then had your doctors put me together after I'd crawled out.”

  Ktonga reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is a contract,” he said. “Sign it, and the moment you set foot on Leonardo we will deposit a million credits in any bank of your choice.”