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           ____________________________________________________

           July 1995      ISSN 1053-8496     Volume VII Issue 2
           ____________________________________________________

                             C O N T E N T S

           Looking Ahead...................Daniel K. Appelquist

           In The City.........................Jacqueline Carey

           Virtual Immortality...................R.E. Smergalia

           The Harrison Chapters (Chapter 17)....Jim Vassilakos

           RoboTroubles..............................Ken Kousen

           The Plains of Meer......................Simon Joseph

           A Sense of Humor.........................Kevin Walsh


           ____________________________________________________

            Editor/Technical Director....Daniel K. Appelquist
            Artwork............................Boris Starosta
            Editorial Assistance................Allison Lambe
           ____________________________________________________

         Subscription and back issue information, as well as legal
         goo and a list of related resources are at the end of 
         this issue.








___________________________________________________________________________

LOOKING AHEAD

Daniel K. Appelquist
___________________________________________________________________________


Well, 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! 
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

In The City                        "Why haven't we turned to dust?
                                   Why are we still here?"        
Jacqueline Carey
___________________________________________________________________________

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
___________________________________________________________________________


___________________________________________________________________________

Virtual Immortality         "What have you got for me?" Anderson asked.     
                                                                           
R.E. Smeraglia              "Another module," Casey said. "Churchill        
                            Downs, 1948."                                   
___________________________________________________________________________

Casey 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.

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

The Harrison Chapters                 At first the station was just  
                                      a speck, but ever so slowly it 
Chapter 17                            grew, its dapple-grey exterior 
                                      sheltering an ever-shifting    
Jim Vassilakos                        collage of light and shadow.   
___________________________________________________________________________

He stared out the window, silent and unblinking, as the stars
sparkled everywhere, thousands more than he'd ever seen before,
more than in any stellar database or navigation chart he'd ever
read. Each of them glistened, crisp and defined, against a
backdrop of the deepest black his eyes had ever known, and as his
dad tilted the stick, New Eden toppled into view, a ball of
shimmering blue with puffy white patches. Nod, the gas giant,
loomed behind with seemingly menacing intent, preparing to gobble
up its smaller neighbor within a swirling mass of orange and
yellow clouds should the life-sustaining world foolishly drift
too close.

"You know what that is?"

"Home."

His dad smiled, hopeful brown eyes betraying only the faintest
trace of sorrow.

"Look over there."

At first the station was just a speck, but ever so slowly it
grew, its dapple-grey exterior sheltering an ever-shifting
collage of light and shadow. Inside, machines crowded against the
bulkhead, some of them vibrating like washers, others sitting
quietly waiting for one of the doctors to float over and poke a
nose inside. The weightless was new and strangely discomforting,
and Mike held to the boarding rail for dear life. He didn't let
go until a intrusive finger tickled him up the armpit, and then
he squealed and soon found himself floating along the ceiling,
which he found to his amazement to be not so much a ceiling as
just another floor.

>From the new vantage, he could see several people mulling
about, quietly picking up test tubes, examining plastic trays
under an assortment of microscopes, and making notes on flimsi
boards. He and his father floated there, presently ignored in the
distended space of shooting neurons, until a middle-aged man
rounded the corner and approached. His hair slid golden and
wavy along his ears, the wrinkles he sported around his eyes only
serving to complement his warm voice, making him look even
friendlier than he sounded, as though that were humanly possible.

"Well...I didn't know we had a new pilot."

"Tan, this is my son. Mike, say hi to Tan."

"Hi."

"Welcome aboard, Mike. You helping your dad today?"

Mike smiled self-consciously, not really sure how to reply. It
turned out to be the right response, however, soliciting him a
tour of the base. Tan kept talking about the equipment, what all
the stuff did, how it worked, so much detail that the meaning of
it all got lost somewhere within the folds of his explanations.
Mike just kept nodding, floating to one of the numerous windows
every chance he got.

"So are you going to be a scientist, young man?"

"A scientist?"

"Ah...a scientist figures things out, answers questions...
fixes problems..."

"And creates them," his father interjected.

"I'm gonna fly a spaceship."

They seemed to think he was joking, and outside, New Eden
vanished behind the gas giant, the moment of its disappearance
creating a sloshy feeling inside his stomach. They ended up
sitting him in front of one of the larger windows along the outer
ring while the two men huddled together at a small, aluminum
table, drinking zardocha with spots of a lavender rum.

Quietly they exchanged their words, Mike tuning in only for
the most occasional outburst, and then listening for several
minutes before the phrases became intertwined like a sullen
melody, and his mind fell deeper into the dark, jeweled expanse.
At one point, he thought he heard his sister's name, spoken in
the sort of hushed voice usually reserved for dead relatives. It
was a moment he'd forgotten, until now.

"I guess it wouldn't help if I called you crazy."

"No."

"What are you going to do about her?"

"I don't know."

They sat silent, and then his dad spoke again, as though
clarifying the answer.

"It's not like they take every second-born."

"Nearly half."

"Yeah, well...she won't be on the list much longer. If she
gets chosen, I guess we'll have to make a run for it."

Tan grimaced, a tired, somber stare running along the table's
edge as though he were watching some insect crawl from one end to
the other.

"You know how that usually works out."

"Why do you think I keep a gun?"

"You fly a shuttle, idiot. You can always try to smuggle her
out. Tell them she died."

"And who'd take a girl from New Eden?"

"A good samaritan."

"Slavers, more likely."

"Well, James, there's risk with everything, even with doing
nothing at all. Sometimes I think you're more motivated by sloth
than concern for the consequences."

His father snorted, perhaps for lack of a decent comeback. "We
could all be exiled...sent to live with the infectious. You know
the penalties."

"So what are you going to do? Pray?"

"Believe me, I have."

"Oh?"

"We've been taking them up to the old church on seventh-days.
It's pretty much vacant now, except for the Baxsens and Culwrigs."

"I thought Bryan Culwrig caught the bug?"

"He did. I think the whole family may have it."

Tan shook his head, "Better find a new church."

"Was thinking about a new deity, actually."

Then his dad turned sideways and saw him staring back over his
shoulder, brown eyes meeting somewhere in the space in between.

"Ya ready to fly?"

Mike smiled, but when he learned the extent of the question,
his emotions turned toward unbridled glee. His dad sat him down
in the pilot seat, pointing to various switches. Mike's mind
swam. But, he learned that taking off from an orbital station was
about as easy as leaping off a diving board. Open helm access,
hit the disengage, switch on the gravitics and inertial
compensation, punch the aft thruster, and slowly bring it up to
full. So easy a child could do it, or so he'd proved.

He dad finally shook him by the shoulder as if to say "Good
work, I knew you could do it." But this time, the shaking didn't
stop, and he felt the craft rumbling, its windows shattering as
the hull exploded outward. He could see his dad falling toward
the huge gas giant, its bright clouds engulfing him. So bright,
Mike had to squint.

Johanes stood over him, shaking one shoulder while gripping
the other and hauling him out of the null tube. Mike squirmed,
getting himself dropped to the carpet for his trouble.

"C'mon Mike, time for another injection."

"I was dreaming."

"Congrats."

"That didn't feel like six hours."

"It was two?"

"Two?" Mike blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Thought
I had six."

"There's been a slight change in plans."

                       *          *          *

The headache rated somewhere between skull-splitting and brain-
boiling, such was its intensity. She sat back down, cursing
herself for such stupidity. Meanwhile, all the guards and
miscellaneous crew members stood around panicking, only one with
the self-righteousness to say it to her face.

"You gonna die?"

"No."

"Well, in that case, I told you so."

"Oh shut-up."

They had to wait several minutes for the gas masks, and Carla
kept everyone away from her, providing as much air as she could
fan in her general direction.

"One more dumb question sweetheart."

"Shoot."

"What's with the moustache?"

Hunter got back to her feet and tore the tiny white bandage
from beneath her nose. There followed a loud cheer, lasting all
of about two seconds, right until they came in with the gas
masks. Then dead silence reigned supreme, cut only by
intermittent squeaks and rustles as people either donned their
headgear or backed into the lift. One of the techies slid the set
of doors back open, again manually, and inside, it was as bad as
she'd imagined.

Erik: dead, a gun in one hand, a folder full of papers in the
other. Commander Simms: same status, face a light bluish tint.
Captain Dunham: not much better, at least his dark pigmentation
hid the deathly pallor, but the expression on his face wouldn't
help morale. He must have been screaming and thrashing about
right to the very end. Finally, there was the Commodore:
communicator still in hand, a blonde mane of hair sweeping over
her head, hiding the distant look in her hollow, blue eyes.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

They re-engaged the air filters manually and got the room
cleared out while Hunter took a browse through Torin's folder.
The papers caught her interest right away, the sort of thing
she'd expect to find in some archaic museum. Everyone used flimsi
leaf except on some of the outlying worlds where the technology
wasn't sustainable. One picture in particular caught her
interest. It was right in front, a small, balding man with thin
arms and a large forehead. He looked frightened, sort of wide
eyed with a sallow complexion. The name "Erestyl" was printed
underneath.

Brooks showed up not too much later, not that being any more
punctual would have helped matters. The nearest thing they had to
a commanding officer, he'd been on stand-by in the security
armory and didn't look particularly pleased by his sudden
promotion.

"This the work of the escapee, I take it?"

She nodded, loading the Commodore's body into a grav-sled. The
phosphorescent light shined off his dark skin as he watched her
work, a sort of oily texture that made him look all the more
determined. Then he picked up the folder, leafing through it
until he stopped at the same picture.

"What happened?"

"Cyanide gas."

He shifted his tongue into one cheek as he looked over the
corpses. His black, frizzy hair seemed to stand on end.

"Quick death?"

"Uh...about ten seconds. Twenty on the outside." She was
surprised he asked. "It blocks respiration between the hemoglobin
and oxygen-hungry cells." She took a deep breath, letting go of
the body, "They probably felt like they were suffocating.
Painless...but they knew they were dying."

"I understand you got a breath of it."

"Just a whiff, sir. Enough to tell me what it was."

"You can hold the 'sir', doctor. You're third in command now.
If myself and our illustrious chief engineer hadn't been too
preoccupied to attend this fatal engagement, you'd be captain,
not me."

She looked down at the floor, "Not necessarily."

"Come again."

"The commodore relieved me of duty just prior to when it
happened. I was just completing some final tasks in sickbay
when..."

He nodded again, as though she's just answered a lingering
question.

"Why?"

"A disagreement. She wanted to use our mind scanner on the
escapee. She also wanted a drug destroyed which might have saved
his life."

"I don't follow."

"We have reason to believe he's mis-medicating himself. If so,
he'll be dead within a day or so. There's a drug called Anamesa
which could save his life, but I got rid of our supply of it
according to the commodore's orders."

"Can he get more at Tyber?"

"Yes...but it won't do him any good. It'll be too late by
then. Since he's already as good as dead, are you still going to
order a full search?"

He stuck out his chin and sucked in his cheeks, probably
wondering what was going through her mind.

"You think he has more tricks up his sleeve?"

"It's a possibility. If we just let him go and let the
medication take it's course..."

"Fewer casualties for us?"

"Also, the Commodore wanted to capture him alive. Not kill
him."

"Why?"

"Apparently he has some sort of information. Torin was
interviewing him in sickbay just before he escaped."

Brooks nodded, but he didn't look terribly persuaded.

"I'll keep it under advisement."

"What about me? Am I still R.O.D. or what?"

"We may need your help if there are more casualties...but
until then, we'll honor the commodore's final order. Sorry
Doctor."

"I understand."

She about-faced and made a bee-line for the lift. Carla was
standing to one side, quietly stepping in after her friend as the
doors closed behind.

"You okay?"

                       *          *          *


"No...not really," Bernie leaned back in his seat, munching down
the last of a jelly donut as a self-satisfied smirk crept up the
side of his face. The guard seemed vaguely disgusted.

"Why not?"

"Look buddy. I have orders coming straight through the
commodore that these frequencies go down and stay down. No if's,
and's, or but's from nobody."

"The commodore is dead."

"Aha...sure. That's great. You want a donut?"

"Just turn it off."

"Look, I'm under orders here!"

Tabor came in a moment later, more than little breathless.

"We have to take the shouter offline."

"This is a joke, right?"

"No joke."

"What's going on? This guy's telling me the Commodore's dead."

"Long story. Just take it off."

Bernie shrugged, getting up to pull the plug on the most fun
he'd had since the time he impersonated Dunham's voice for a mess
inspection. The guard seemed satisfied, heading back toward the
lift, and Bernie was glad to see him go.

"Now that Captain Carnage is out of here, tell me what in hell
is going on."

"Something about poison gas. All I really know for sure is
that Brooks is in charge."

"Poison gas?! Sheesh, I pull a bunch of freqs for you and next
thing, all hell breaks loose. You're a real pain in the you-know-
what, you know that?"

Tabor stared back, an incredulous expression traversing his
face like a sonic wave.

"You think you're on the receiving end? I was right there just
before it happened. A few minutes sooner and it would have been
me dead, Bernie, so don't give me any..."

"Okay...okay. Take it easy."

He keyed open the comm-shed, switching the shouter off with a
flick on his finger.

"Look, I'm sorry, but you know that shutting this thing
down...I mean...you saw the free lanes. I just don't get the
logic."

"They're jamming one and two."

"So use the internals."

"No routing software. Somebody got inside the computer, killed
internal routing and erased all passenger records."

"Inside the computer? You tried going to backups?"

"It locks up every time we try. Tuto figures they punched
holes in the op-sys. Perfect, neat, little holes just to screw us
over."

"Neat holes, eh? That's great. Just great."

                       *          *          *


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

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

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

A little, metallic cylinder?

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

                       *          *          *

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

"You okay Bern?"

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

"Is this all you got?"

Bernie licked the sugary filling off his finger.

"Hey Bern...you okay?"

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

"Bern..."

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

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

He sighed, and she nudged him in the ribs.

"Brooks has a little present for you."

"What?"

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

"And there are five guards stationed outside."

"Five?"

"Just in case."

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

"Might need it."

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

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

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

"Yah?"

"Comm-hardware?"

"You're in the right place."

"I'm Dr. Hunter."

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

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

"Can you tell me what this is?"

                       *          *          *

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

"Anything on it?"

"I dunno."

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

"Where'd you get it?"

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

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

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

"Okay, eight."

"Fuck you!"

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

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

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

"Don't threaten me, man."

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

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

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

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

"Need some I.D."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Second shelf."

"Thanks."

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

"Uh-huh."

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

"What have you got, crewman?"

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

"Erestyl."

"You know him, sir?"

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

"Umm...it was a present."

"From who?"

"A friend."

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

"Crewman Saloris, sir."

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

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

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

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

"Sir?"

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

"Yes sir..."

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

                       *          *          *

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

"All fair in there?"

"I'm fine."

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

"You sure this regen is working?!"

"We took you off it."

"What?!"

<em>Beep</em>

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

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

"Cecil...we need to talk!"

                       *          *          *

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

"What's there to discuss?"

"Well, our lives for one thing."

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

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

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

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

"Yes. Very much so."

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

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

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

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

"You ever gamble, Spokes?"

"Uh...yeah, sure."

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

"Uh...you fold."

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

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

"Okay, you bluff."

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

"I dunno."

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

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

"No."

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

"You're crazy."

"You see this?"

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

"Where'd you get that?"

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

"I don't get it."

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

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

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

                       *          *          *

"Corpses?"

"Yes sir."

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

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

"Sir...the corpses..."

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

"People are gawking at them, sir."

"Gawking?"

"Yes sir."

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

"Sir?"

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

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

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

"Yes sir."

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

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

"They're at it again, sir."

"See if you can predict their switching."

"Aye aye."

Lieutenant Anders just stood there, confused as usual.

"You're not going to jam them?"

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

"Aye sir."

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

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

jimv@cs.ucr.edu
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," Mirrimar said, and ran.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"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
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

The Plains of Meer               I picked up the stone. It was warm
                                 and shone red through my fingers. 
Simon Joseph                     How real is this?                 
___________________________________________________________________________

The 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.
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

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

___________________________________________________________________________

James 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."
___________________________________________________________________________


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surgery to cooking, e*journal has a pointer to an electronic
journal at that covers it.



Cyberspace Vanguard Contact: cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu

Cyberspace Vanguard is a new digest/newsletter, containing news and
views from the science fiction universe. Send subscription requests,
submissions, questions, and comments to xx133@cleveland.freenet.edu or
cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu.



InterText Contact: intertext@etext.org

InterText is a free, on-line bi-monthly fiction magazine. It publishes
material ranging from mainstream stories to fantasy to horror to
science fiction to humor. InterText reaches thousands of readers on
six continents and has been publishing since 1991. InterText publishes
in ASCII/setext (plain text), PostScript (laser printer), and PDF
(Adobe Acrobat Portable Document) formats, as well as on the World
Wide Web.

To subscribe to InterText, submit stories, or request writers
guidelines, send electronic mail to intertext@etext.org. InterText is
also available via anonymous FTP at the URL
ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/InterText and on the World Wide Web at
the URL http://www.etext.org/Zines/InterText/. If you plan on using
FTP or the Web to get InterText issues, you can be placed on a list
that will notify you when a new issue appears by mailing
intertext@etext.org.



Unit Circle Contact: unitcirc@netcom.com

The brainchild of Kevin Goldsmith, Unit Circle is the underground
quasi-electronic 'zine of new music, radical politics, and rage in the
1990's. "Quasi-electronic" bcause Unit Circle is published
both as an electronic magazine (in PostScript form only) and as an
underground journal, in paper form. If you're interested in receiving
either format of the 'zine, send mail to Kevin at unitcirc@netcom.com
or check it out on the World Wide Web at 

http://www.etext.org/Zines/UnitCircle/
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