Analog Science Fiction and Fact - March 2014 Read online

  Mike squeezed next to Jeremy and, looking over the other man's shoulder, indeed saw only water, beneath a beaming sun that told him it was midmorning. Then he looked in the opposite direction. What he saw made him tap Jeremy on the shoulder. "Look this way," he said.

  In that direction stood the familiar sight of the Sears Tower (which at one time was called something else, but Mike couldn't remember that any more than he knew who Sears was), the Shedd Aquarium, and the rest of the familiar skyline of Chicago.

  "So I was only a little right," Mike told Jeremy. A water landing's much better if it's in Lake Michigan!"

  Within minutes, a hydrofoil boat just over twenty meters long began running toward them. Once it got within about a couple hundred meters of their pod, though, it began to circle, as if taking their measure.

  "Wave," Mike said. "Look friendly. Try not to look like a Jenregar."

  "Not funny," Jeremy said. But he waved, as did Mike.

  The hydrofoil drew closer, and Mike saw the logo CHICAGO POLICE MARINE OPERATIONS on its side. Four uniformed men and women left the boat's pilot house and lined up along a railing at its bow. All of them armed, Mike thought. Mike waved again. No one waved back. I can't blame them. They probably have no idea who we are or why we're here—just that we dropped out of the sky in the waters next to a likely Jenregar target.

  The hydrofoil drew within shouting distance. One of the women at the railing, her hand on her stunner, said, "Identify yourselves, please!"

  Mike said, "We're from the Unity warship Admiral Susan Kojima. I'm Mike Christopher and this is Jeremy Sheffield."

  The woman checked her wrist comm. "It seems we received a bulletin on you, Mr. Christopher—Mr. Sheffield. Along with about every other law enforcement and military unit in the world."

  "What about the Kojima? "

  "Seems it took some hard hits, but got away. Let's get both of you aboard, and we'll get you on your way to Brussels as soon as we can."

  Moments later, Mike and Jeremy were standing on the bow of the hydrofoil as it rushed back to shore. The off icer who'd greeted them, Lt. Sharon Nyquist, told Mike, "Welcome back to Earth. I understand it's been quite a while since you've been here."

  "Not exactly the way I intended to make it back, either."

  "I understand that. Look off in the distance, there, to the northwest. See that?"

  "Some kind of plume of smoke—the Jenregar?"

  Lt. Nyquist nodded. "They're making one of those mounds in Arlington Heights."

  "Damn. How serious is it, overall?"

  "Serious enough. It's going to be tough getting you and Jeremy to Brussels—and we do want to get you there in person—comm channels are spotty. No orbital or suborbital craft are up. Except, rumor has it, some pretty dark intelligence missions. Wouldn't know about those."

  "So we have to go on the surface?"

  "Looks like it. Most of the main underground maglev routes are still running, at least within continents. Getting across the Atlantic or Pacific is the tough part—plenty of power disruptions, that kind of thing. Imagine being stranded in a tube as much as five or six klicks underground, and beneath the ocean, to boot."

  "No thanks."

  "I'm glad you came back, Mike. I... know what your circumstances were when you left. And I know of your previous experiences with the Jenregar. I think they could be valuable here."

  Mike had been present on Korolev Habitat, a Human colony cylinder orbiting a distant star, seven years earlier when the Jenregar tried to take it over. He'd been the one to discover how to disguise himself against them using their own pheromones. He'd also figured out how to create another pheromone that fooled half of the Jenregar within the habitat into thinking the other half had died. They'd fallen over themselves trying to dispose of one another.

  "I hope you're right," Mike said.

  Lt. Nyquist said, "I guess you could say I also know what your circumstances were with other Humans, too. I believe you might find things are better for you now."

  Though he had his doubts, Mike said, "I hope that's true. I have to admit, I'm struck by how right it feels to be back here—to be on a planet rather than on my ship and feel a single grav pulling on my body. To smell the air—I never realized how distinct a particular planet's atmosphere might be until just now. Even the way the clouds are formed, and how the waves around us rise and fall, seem to tell me I'm on Earth—and that it's home."

  Jeremy rolled his eyes, told Mike, "Spare me," and headed toward the stern of the hydrofoil.

  Lt. Nyquist raised her eyebrows in a silent question. Mike said, "He's a religionist. Doesn't think I have a soul, all that. He wouldn't wish any harm on me—at least, I think he wouldn't—but he considers me a 'mistake,' as he put it."

  Lt. Nyquist clapped a hand onto Mike's shoulder. "Don't worry about him, Mike. You'll find enough people who support you to get by these days."

  "I hope that's true—I've got enough to worry about with the Jenregar to keep an eye over my shoulder for threats from Humans."

  The hydrofoil settled into the waters of Lake Michigan as it approached the 31st Street Harbor, which was crowded with people watching. Lt. Nyquist explained to Mike and Jeremy the difficulties involved in trying to get him and Jeremy to Brussels. "You're going to have to use surface or subsurface transport. The Unity's trying to route you the best way it can to get to Brussels. We've got a capsule to get you to the nearest station, but then you're on your own."

  "I appreciate your help," Mike said, then indicated the line of people along the dock. "What's with our reception committee?"

  "You're still an object of fascination, Mike. Once people realized who'd just landed in Lake Michigan, it was all over the social and news nets."

  Jeremy spoke up for the first time in awhile. "I can see a bunch of news flitters, too." He pointed to a section of sky to their right that seemed to contain a cloud of buzzing insects.

  "Don't worry about them. Flight laws only allow them to get so close, even if they aren't any bigger than a bug."

  Jeremy said, "But their cameras can make it look like they're up in our faces."

  "I'm not worried about any of that," Mike said. "I just want to get to Brussels."

  Crewmembers jumped onto the dock and started tying the hydrofoil down. Lt. Nyquist joined the other uniformed officers and asked the crowd to move back. Mike smiled at the thought that just minutes earlier the same officers had been glaring at him and Jeremy with their hands on their stunners.

  Most of those gathered at the dock moved back willingly—but several began shouting comments:

  "We love you, Mike Christopher!"

  "Go back to your filthy spacer friends!"

  "Please, save us!"

  "Leave the Earth alone—now!"

  So, mixed reviews, Mike thought. He stepped down from the boat, marveling at this response, marveling as well at the latest clothing fashions, with their strange lapels and bright swatches of color, far from the utilitarian modes of clothing, unattached to pop culture trends, that spacers tended to wear. They even seemed strange in the ways they walked and gestured, their fluttering hands and wide eyes revealing an excitement Mike couldn't begin to associate with his own presence among them. He muttered, "How the hell do they even know who I am?"

  Jeremy indicated the flurry of news flitters. "I'm sure this went world-wide the moment anyone spotted our pod. And once we stuck our heads out, facial recognition tech took over."

  "Yeah. I'd forgotten how much people are devoted to their ideas of news."

  "You're no doubt the latest fascination, Mike—though why anyone would want to glorify you I have no idea."

  "I'm not looking to be glorified, Jeremy— I'm just trying to do the best I can for the Earth. It is my homeworld—despite all the people here who want me dead."

  The officers had to be a bit more stern with the crowd, as many of the individuals within it didn't want to move back. Some were starting to push back against the officers, who pushed t
hat much harder. The shouts were no longer about Mike:

  "Police thugs!"

  "We just want to see Mike!"

  "Let us at him—we'll make him go home!" Mike saw Lt. Nyquist was growing more impatient by the moment. Finally, she pulled out her stunner and shot a blast into the air that echoed across the docks. The crowd stopped cold and became quiet.

  "That's the only warning you're getting," Nyquist said. "The next person who pushes against one of my officers will be stunned and taken into custody. Is that clear?"

  No one in the crowd spoke. Each individual settled into place, and they even formed a pathway toward the sleek black two-seater capsule that was at the curb awaiting Mike and Jeremy.

  Lt. Nyquist holstered her stunner. "That's better," she muttered. She extended an arm toward the capsule, beckoning Mike and Jeremy toward it. "Gentlemen," she said. "Your steed."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant," Mike said. "You couldn't have been more help."

  Mike and Jeremy piled into the automated capsule, its nearly silent electric motor began to hum, and it pulled away from the dock. "Destination—Union Station," the capsule's voice said. "ETA twelve minutes."

  Mike looked behind the capsule, and saw several people break away from Lt. Nyquist's officers and try to run alongside them, but the capsule quickly outpaced them and began racing along Lakeshore Drive. They were the only vehicle in sight on the broad streets, but plenty of people were taking in the sights along Lake Michigan. In the opposite direction stood the city's eternal skyscrapers, most either devoted to housing or standing as museums dedicated to the former market economy.

  "That was disgusting back there," Jeremy said.

  "You might not believe this," Mike said, "but I agree with you. I'm not here to be the subject of adulation."

  "You simulate Human emotions very well."

  "Listen," Mike said, "I'm as real and Human as you are—and I'm getting goddam tired of you trying to imply I'm not."

  "You're right, Mike. I should probably just feel sorry for you."

  Mike seethed silently as their capsule turned right onto South Canal Street, and soon was pulling up before Union Station's tall columns. They entered the building, the news flitters still hovering above.

  Mike and Jeremy went right away to the Union Station's Great Hall. Mike made his way down the marble steps that had felt the tread of so many feet through countless decades that they had smooth grooves worn into them. He found his eyes drawn to the five-story atrium ceiling, marveling that he had more of a sense of wide-open spaces here than he had out in the open air.

  Mike spotted a large screen off to one side that indicated upcoming departures. He went there, Jeremy right behind him, and scanned the listings.

  Next to most of the departures for anywhere in Europe was the indication: POSTPONED. Others went right for CANCELLED.

  "Dammit," Mike said.

  "What do we do now?" Jeremy asked. "This is ridiculous that we can't get to Brussels."

  "It's just like Lt. Nyquist was saying. The Jenregar have disrupted a lot of routes. Let's look at something non-direct. See—if we head west instead of east, we can get to California, up through Alaska and Siberia, and go that way."

  "The long way around?"

  "At four thousand kph, nothing takes that long. Look here—a train leaves for Denver in twenty minutes. Then that'll take us to Sacramento or San Diego. I, uh, vote for San Diego."

  "Why's that?"

  "We have a layover of a couple hours in either place. And I have a stop I'd like to make."

  Thick fog, which the morning sun had yet to burn off, shrouded San Diego's Cortez Hill neighborhood as Mike and Jeremy trudged up a steep slope toward an unseen destination.

  The Sun was barely discernible in the east as a fuzzy glow. To the west, Mike knew, he'd normally be able to enjoy a view of downtown San Diego, Balboa Park, and the Pacific Ocean, perhaps see a shuttle arcing from orbit down to the Starport. Instead, he felt as if he were walking across a stage set, his existence confined to a distance he could traverse in fewer than a dozen steps. Even those footsteps refused to resonate, as if sound couldn't be bothered to stray too far.

  "I don't want to go here," Jeremy said. "It's an evil, evil place."

  "For once I'll probably agree with you," Mike said. "But this is why I was headed to Earth to begin with. I have no way of knowing what's going to happen to the Earth—or to me—in the next few days or weeks—hell, the next few hours. I need to see this."

  A building took shape before them and the fog opened around them like a theater curtain. Mike recognized the structure as his destination—the one-time facilities of the Genome Advancement Project.

  The two-story building was of early twenty-first century design, with two wings that were asymmetrical, one slightly taller than the other. The entrance to the building's lobby stood between those wings, as did a glassed-in stairwell, which extended several meters past the rooftop and ended in a point, as if aiming into the sky or toward the stars.

  The doorway into the lobby glided open and a bearded man about the same age as Mike, mid-forties, maybe a little older, walked out. He wore a tan caftan fringed with green at the collar and sleeves. "Good morning," he said, extending his hand toward Mike. "I'm Kemal Butali, the curator here."

  Mike shook Kemal's hand. "Mike Christopher," he said. "And this is my... colleague, Jeremy Sheffield."

  Kemal's mouth widened in a sideways grin that quickly faded. "I knew you'd returned to Earth. I witnessed your... arrival in Chicago. I anticipated that you might want to come here. I'm sorry. I know this isn't a pleasant time for you."

  "Or for anyone on the planet, it would seem."

  This time Kemal's smile appeared more tentative, as if it were a shield against emotions harsher than he wished to reveal just yet. A tilt of his head indicated the building behind him. "You know what's inside. You're the only person this place created that wasn't something horrific."

  Mike drew cold, more from thoughts of what he was about to see than from the chill weather. "Well, then," he said. "I guess it's time for me to meet the family."

  Kemal led Mike and Jeremy through the Genome Advancement Plan building's darkened lobby. They made their way through dim, dusty hallways until they reached a wide set of double doors. Kemal paused with one hand flat against one of the doors, his face mostly in shadow, his jaw set. "The main lab," he said. "Are you ready?"

  Mike cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking: "Let's go."

  Kemal pushed the doors wide. Mike stepped through the doorway and found himself in a room both broad and deep, one filled with medical devices, scanners, and other equipment clearly decades old. The lights shone more brightly here than in the lobby or hallways, and Mike saw that despite this equipment's age, it had been kept in pristine condition.

  Kemal indicated one device after another:

  "This is an enzyme synthesizer. Right here, a protein regulator. Gene replicators over there. And beyond..."

  Mike saw. The embodiment of his most basic fears, that until this moment had been only a series of terrible images. They floated within large clear tanks, all of them upon pedestals that raised them to eye level, many of them displaying expressions that Mike could only describe as shocked and horrified, as if death had come upon them suddenly, yet somehow had bid them to maintain these expressions across an expanse of decades.

  Kemal stood dispassionately. Jeremy watched with what Mike could tell was growing disgust.

  Before him—a fetus barely formed, but with four legs and three arms. Next to it, another, about six months advanced, its still glowing readouts indicating an empty brain cavity.

  Another, with both gills and fur. Still another, a virtual skeleton with only the thinnest layer of skin.

  And another and another, until Mike's mind cried, Stop!

  Mike turned away, covering his face with both hands. He heard Kamal, as if from a distance, saying, "Some people did not want this place to become a magnet for
those they maintained would actually... enjoy... seeing such things. Or even for the idly curious. But others of us—including myself—felt it was important not to suppress the magnitude of what happened here."

  Mike wiped his eyes. "Despite my own reaction, I have to agree with you. This is a harsh memory, but one that shouldn't be wiped out."

  In the distance, Mike caught a glimpse of another glass tank, this one empty. He went to it, knowing instinctively what it might be and what it might mean to him. For long moments, he just stood and stared, unable to speak.

  Finally Kemal said, "That's an ectogenesis tank."

  "I know."

  Kemal pointed out the connections from the bottom of the empty tank to what Mike recognized as a nutrient sac, deflated, that rested inside. Kemal said, "The child floated within the sac, which floated in turn within the tank. A sterile field enveloped the entire device."

  Mike swallowed. His mouth was dry. "And this..."

  Kemal looked at him with sympathy. "Yes. This tank is where you were born."

  Mike reached out with his right hand, realizing with an odd detachment that it was shaking. Odd, he thought, I don't feel that nervous. It's as if my body is reacting more viscerally than I am.

  He touched the smooth glass of the tank and said to Kemal, "I'm told you had records of... how I came about."

  Kemal strode to a large desk with a comp console built into it. He pressed a control. "Right here," he said, and a holo of a series of documents appeared next to him. Kemal pointed to the largest image. "You can see it all. At 42 weeks since conception, you weighed three kilos. You were 49 centimeters long. Heart rate 139 beats a minute."

  "And who kept these records?"

  "The man responsible for your... do you mind if we refer to it as your 'birth?' 'Decanting' sounds rather cold and impersonal."

  "I've used it as shorthand all my life. Go ahead."

  "Thank you. His name was Aaron Corbin. Brilliant scientist. A bit of a contradiction, as he considered himself a devout, though not always practicing, Catholic."