Starwell on 13 @-rep

Starwell, Main Belt

Kripa checked the access logs, confirmed the site was undisturbed. Her muse, an animated mallow, cordoned it off as Kripa examined the skeletal holographic structure of its code. A broken smile came over her as she began to excavate.

This section of the Mesh was junkspace, archived sites running on antiquated equipment. Kripa Ko Samjho was a software archeologist, a digger through old code. Sometimes she unearthed treasures, photo-files of old Earth and data lost and forgotten. Mostly she catalogued the development and evolution of Mesh sites, the old programming languages and structures that still underpinned much of the Mesh.

The proceeds of her excavations were posted to her feed channel. It kept her @-rep from falling too far down.

Today’s excavation was a minor archaeoporn site. Primitive XP recordings brought across by Starwell’s founding families to sustain them in the new colony site. Kripa catalogued the site contents, turning her muse loose on reconstructing corrupted files.

Sifting through the site code and old safeguards took time and concentration. Kripa kept journals of ancient, time-specific exploits to overcome the protections of the old sites, only resorting to her illicit password and encryption cracking software when absolutely necessary. Some of the programming lingo was unfamiliar to her, but the important thing was the socio-historical context of the code. Names, dates, quirks that might reveal the identity of the anonymous programmer and the participants.

It took hours. Most of the XP recordings had been long since looted and uploaded to an Extropian community porn drive, but Kripa managed to recover a number of variant take tracks and stills that were worth the time and cost of the excavation. One track apparently starred Mhara Vargheese, one of the Founding Mothers of Starwell and Exotech. Kripa would have to check the releases before releasing that one on her feed channel. The Vargheese clone-clan were not to be fucked with.

Old sites like this had a distinct time-arc, a brief flicker of existence from creation to obsolescence and the trashbin. Kripa logged the seventeen incarnations and upgrades of the site through its first four years of existence and fished for the outgoing links that connected it to the rest of the old Mesh. A few quick searches and she fit it into her holographic mapping projection of the early Starwell Mesh.

The projection was like a constellation, lines for links, brightness representing traffic density. In one of the previously darkened sectors, a tiny constellation of stars now burned, changing the balance of the representation. Kripa ran a quick animation, saw site begin as a simple system, then quickly expand as traffic flowed and the system complicated itself. Lines of light stabbed out into dark suns, spin-off sites that Kripa hadn’t found and cataloged yet.

The mallow chirped a low nutrient warning, and the software archeologist reluctantly ordered the close of the excavation. She did a quick animation of the site evolution, began composing the feed channel entry as the muse stripped away the protective cordon.

----

13 @-rep is almost enough to survive on Starwell, as long as you know the right people. When your groupnet rep isn’t stellar, personal rep counts for a lot more. So Kripa entered into open-ended bargaining agreements with a variety of vendors, surfing the Mesh to satisfy the wants and desires of nutrient vendors and their vast demi-monde of associated providers and service-people. Unlucky Mr. Hong 44 was an avid collector of old XPorn, and today the ostrich-ball farmer thanked her with five kilos of mechanically separated gene-bird paste. She uploaded a limited time auction of the meat mass, and in five minutes had arranged a barter for ten kilos of black salt off of an itinerant trader from Vo Nguyen. Kripa brought the salt to Joahn Mbwabe, who accepted the gift then fussed about Kripa’s body mass and served her up a steaming bowl of micro won tons and a liter of electrolyte refresher.

Kripa chewed the dumplings slowly and enjoyed the view. The physical site of Mbwabe Chinois, LTD. was near the bottom of the Starwell. When Sol caught the edge of the space elevator above the lip of the, the monofilament tether became a ribbon of fire extending into the starry sky. Starwell—the actual pit—was dark, strict environmental laws prohibiting excess light pollution from the habitat.

The habitat had started life as an asteroid with a large natural conical crater, the sides etched and extended through mining. A conglomerate of proto-Extropian clone-families had towed a smaller asteroid into orbital synch to act as the counterweight for a space elevator anchored to the base of the well. The Manyans, the Volt-Feccinis, the Decadent Hongs…famous names these days, but then just another group of paraterraforming family corps. Self-sealable domes rose around the edges of the pit in a loose spiral structure, one-way windows jutting out of the dark grey rock that reflected the night sky and blazing thread of the tether.

Things moved out in the well. Egos sealed against vacuum, performing basic maintenance. Social debtors doing voluntary community service in exchange for basic habitat services. According to the Starwell charter, none of the permanent residents were exempt from mandatory voluntary service, but most of the clone-clans had the creds or reps to get others to do their service for them. A small class of people did it professionally; their dedication freed others from the chore and their reps tended to soar. More than one Station Administrator had begun as a debtor tech that way.

Kripa watched the reflective patches on the public servants’ black suits shimmer and undulate as transports came up and down the elevator. Miners dock at the outer asteroid and ship down water-ice and raw minerals, took with them foodstuffs, gases, feedstocks for nanofacs, and goods too big or complex for a shipboard fac to manufacture. Kripa polished off her mini-tons and drink, returning the serving-tubes to Joan with a thank-you smile. Fed and refreshed, it was time to get back to work.

---

MOM3: Your mothers and I just think it’s time you got a real job.

KKS: I have a real job.

MOM2: Really, my little cabbage. Your newsfeed channel barely pulls in a couple thousand hits a day.

MOM1: We worry about you.

KKS: Look moms, I appreciate the parental nagging, but I’m doing what I want to do! Isn’t that enough?

MOM2: You can’t even afford reporter insurance. What if you get sued?

MOM3: The Vargheese clone-clan might have objected to that XP you posted.

MOM1: At least go to the interview today. Exotech is a very reputable hypercorp.

KKS: What mother-fhtagn interview‽

MOM1: It’s a consultant position in Software Research. The details are on your calendar.

KKS: My calendar? Momsy, privacy space!

MOM2: If you want privacy, you should change your password and security checks. We raised you better than that.

MOM3: Maybe you could show the interviewer some of your softtools. They might be interested.

KKS: No moms. Ownself 3.3 stays with me. I told you, it’s proprietary. At least until I can work the kinks out.

MOM3: Now cabbage, where would posthumanity be if everyone was selfish like that?

MOM1: Your rep would probably soar if you released a bit of freeware.

KKS: There’s more to life than rep and cred, mothers.

MOM2: The recruiter said they were willing to focus on your skills, not your education.

KKS: Thanks for that vote of confidence, I’m sure it’ll swing the employment election.

MOM2: Also, they’re aware of your…condition.

KKS: Budai! Do you have to tell everyone about that?

MOM1: Now dear, we’re very proud of you.

MOM3: Not many posthumans can say they have three birth mothers.

KKS: I know. I met the others in the support network.

MOM2: We still have a patent on that technique!

MOM1: If you make something of yourself, we might be able to sell it someday.

MOM1 is away

MOM3: Not that we want to pressure you.

KKS: I love you moms, but you are all beyond the standard posthuman definition of sanity, and I mean that in a good way.

MOM3: We love your abnormal behavioral patterns too, dear.

MOM3: By the way, you haven’t updated your relationship field lately.

KKS: Subtle, momster. I’m still in Classical Lesbian mode.

MOM2: Edda! We agreed to give her some time-space before bringing up the biological clock.

MOM3: Come on, Veetha, we’ll never know whether there was any chromosomal damage until she procreates! It’s very important for my geneline to propagate.

MOM2: I’ll propagate your geneline into a mycelium culture if you don’t lay off.

MOM3: Oooh, I love it when you talk dirty genetics, you bitch.

MOM1 is back

MOM1: I’m gone for a nanosecond and you two are already starting to cyber!

MOM2: Nonsense, darling.

MOM3: You know you’re the catalyst in our reactions!

KKS: On which happy note, I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll go to the interview. Chat with you later moms!

KKS has signed out.

--

“Basically, we’re looking for research in black magic.” The Exotech AI said. “Do you have much experience in that area?”

Kripa’s interview was not going quite as she expected.

“I’ve excavated a lot of old code, and I know the basics of dozens of dead programming modules. See,” she said “there are two basic methodologies to software archaeology: you can dissect sites at a programming level and trace the code from there, or you can navigate through the menus at a user level. Because modern computer systems are built on top of the programming architecture of older systems and code, there are plenty of things that happen at levels below the awareness of modern programmers that can affect modern programs. When something just works for no known reason, its black magic.”

“91% response rating to that question, Applicant Samjho!” said the Exotech AI.

“Call me Kripa. Please.”

“We have tabulated your skill and personality assessments, and they are well within the range of key proficiencies we need for this position. Before we can offer you a position however, there are a few personal questions we’d like you to answer.”

Kripa’s muse scanned the proffered Exotech release, and peeped that there were no hidden subclauses. The software archaeologist scanned the outline then affixed her thumb to the genetic signature outlet.

The AI’s icon froze.

“There is an error processing your genetic signature.”

“I thought one of my moms explained the situation?” Kripa said.

“We are not authorized to access that conversation.”

“I’m a chimera baby. My mothers conglomerated me from three separate fetuses, so I have three genetically distinct cells.”

The AI went silent for a few minutes. Kripa’s mallow reported a stress spike and began a calming routine.

“Your genehistory may still qualify you for 75% of the markets Exotech deals in, provided you have appropriate documentation for your condition.”

“Two of my mothers did their dissertation on it. Do a search for ‘Samjho Thriceborn’.” Kripa paused. “If I did get the position, what would we be talking about in terms of compensation?”

“As an Exotech contractor, you would qualify for inclusion in Exotech’s extended network provided you meet career goals equivalent to 50 ExPoints. On this habitat, the relative boost to your @-rep would be eight points immediately, and approximately twenty-one points over the next one-hundred and eighty Starwell cycles. Alternative hourly compensation may be available. You will also gain access to various Exotech services.”

“Restrictions?”

“Standard non-disclosure, non-compete, and you’ll need to install the Exotech contractor software package. It allows you access to our network, provides standard specialized tools, and allows us to check your progress. Also, we’ll need you to meet security clearance requirements.”

“How will that affect me?” Kripa said.

“Everything you discover in your researches will become registered Exotech property. You’ll have to discontinue or repurpose your newsfeed channel.” The Exotech AI said.

Kripa began a slow fade on the connection.

“Thank you for the interview, and I hope you have luck filling the position.”

-

It was near the end of Starwell’s current cycle. Some distant part of Kripa Ko Samjho felt the burning thread of the space elevator suddenly flick out as the anchor asteroid passed into penumbra. The rest of her was engaged in a bit of software anthropology.

The subject was an erasure poet, about fifty years ago. The data of her life was compressed and compiled when she had died, one of the first digital generations to undergo post mortem archiving. Kripa picked through the damaged contents of the archive, restoring pieces with her software when and where she could. Her mallow-muse peeped and chittered, searching the net for any other back-ups that might exist.
Her name was Savita Torstensson, and she was 30 years old when she died. She was an erasure poet that dabbled in graphic arts; her poems were set-piece pseudo documents, the erasure caused by deliberate damage to the medium. Kripa’s favorite recovered so far was a page of William Blake’s The Tyger; the page had been ripped as by the claws of a giant cat, and the surviving words told a new poem.
Savita was survived by a cybernetically augmented cat, Magellan. The cyberkit made the crossing to Starwell with the first clone-clans, and stayed for decades before being subjected to an uplift procedure. The first thing Magellan 2.0 did was book passage on the first flight out of the Main Belt, but there was still the local interest angle. That would be worth something.

Kripa sorted the facts and files before her. It was good to branch out a little. Variety was the spice of posthuman life. Her viewers would like that. She also told her mallow to make a note to find something nice for Joahnnie; it would be for the best to keep on the good side of the local won ton chef if Kripa still wanted to eat this month.

Exotech had been tempting. It wasn’t selling out, not at contractor rates. The extra @-reps would have been nice, and made her mothers happy. The rep boost would have let her eat better, more regularly, with better variety. She could have squeezed into some Titan online courses, build her academic credentials.
But she was happy where she was, doing what she was doing. Kripa finished picking through the pieces of Savita Torstensson’s life, and began composing her upload for the feed channel. Magellan took center stage, and a few minutes of research tied him more clearly into the architecture of life on early Starwell. The poems were next, and her mallow contributed an ancient literary review of Torstensson’s work. The muse had found a hardcopy tagged in some senile elder-clone’s library and convinced the old posthuman to scan the text. Kripa placed it side-by-side with the Tyger poem. She liked the contrast.

Kripa Ko Stamjho sealed the archive and her mallow dated the access. Life wasn’t exactly easy on Starwell at 13 @-rep, but it was the life she wanted to lead.

Afterbirth

Afterbirth

by

Bobby Derie

The fetus floated in a urinal full of blood. Detective Lieutenant Jack Bastard thought it was beautiful. The scene of the crime was beautiful, all imported Italian tile, the floor laid out in a mosaic that some ancient emperor might have spent many a long dark hour after an orgy staring at as he emptied his bowels down a shithole. The blood in the bowl was beautiful, bright red, just beginning to scab at the edges where it met the porcelain. The shriveled pink thing with the great unopened black eye bobbed softly in the breeze from the air conditioning.

“Gilles de Rais’ own ultimate shrimp cocktail.” Bastard said out loud, looking all around the bowl, rubbing a gloved finger in the space between the tiles. “This isn’t a crime, this is an art project.” No splatter, no swipes. Almost absentmindedly, he pulled a couple strands of long black hair off the floor with a pair of tweezers. The detective bagged it and patted a pocket by habit, groping for the Turkish blacks that weren’t there. Sweat stuck to the back of his neck, under his arms, cooled and drying from the hard AC. He stepped back three strides to stand at the doorway, taking in the perspective. A forensic examiner stepped in to have a go at the fetus.

Men’s room, executive bathroom attached to the penthouse ballroom of the Pualp’o Hotel. The attendant steps out for his contractually allowed five minutes an hour to suck on the plastic dick of an e-cigarette out on the balcony, five stories up and looking over the Pacific. Nicotine addiction and wage labor agreement satisfied, he returns to his post via the laundry with fresh towels…and finds the cleanest abortion on record. Somewhere behind him, cordoned off by the police tape and the uniformed cops, a gaggle of teenage girls with trust fund accounts and tiny, ultrafashionable purses worth more than Jack earned in a year.

The suspects. Each of their mommies and daddies could buy and sell a small African country, and every one of those girls had their lawyers on speed-dial. The oldest one was sixteen, platinum card jailbait already working on the heroin-model figure, eyes already not there. The youngest was short by the standard of the crowd, fourteen and a half if a day, dressed in black lace, a jeweled dagger at her hip, Jewish-American princess playing at being dark and dangerous. Somewhere in the middle, looking nervous, was a mousy little thing whose mother had married rich and turned neurotic, sucking on breath mints for all she was worth, her dental work alone cost more than Jack’s car.

“Fuck this.” Bastard says. “Gerry! We’re out of here.”

“What the hell do you mean we’re out of here? This is a crime scene!”

Gerry Knobbe was a rookie detective, assigned for Jack to put though his paces by someone higher up whose knob Knobbe had refused to polish. Jack Bastard was on his best behavior with this one; he promised himself not to fuck him again until the blood washed out of his underwear.

“This is not a crime scene, this is a fucking after-school special. You see a murder? Abandonment? Child endangerment? Someone made this scene. Has personal written all over it. Schoolgirl revenge by coked-out proto-whores with golden spoons up their asses.” Bastard sprayed spittle in Gerry’s face, whispering just loud enough the trust fund babies couldn’t hear him. “And I, for fucking one, do not feel like playing my part. Look, you, dip shit…” Jack swatted the lab tech playing trying to bag the human jumbo shrimp in the back of the head “…the thing was frozen, right?”

“Uh…yeah, I think so. I mean, it was thawed out, but it’s still way below body temperature to have come out anytime recently.” The guys sputtered.

“Right.” Jack said. “Scenario: Junior prom crack-baby. Deluxe freezer bag. No questions asked, no one wants to know. Then somebody pisses somebody else off, and this little fucking arthouse here is the result.” Jack sighed. “Girls do this shit, y’know. I was thirteen, my sister had me jerk off into a bowl of cookie batter, baked ‘em up for her friends. Even the ones on diets. Just because Julie Guttenhall sucked Big Archie O’Moll. They’re cruel at that age, its good practice for them.”

“We can’t just leave it at this.” Knobbe whined.

“Oh, for fuck sake…fine, follow my lead.” Jack walked under the tape, drew up his shoulders, lifted his chest and filled his diaphragm so he could project.

“Ladies! I apologize for the difficulties. As you are aware, we have a small situation in the bathroom. I would like to make it very clear that none of you are under arrest. We do, however, request that you remain here for a little while and please refrain from using your cellphones while we search the rest of the floor.”

Dead eyes flickered, hands clutched purses, thumbs twitching.

“…or we may be forced to call your parents.” Jack continued. The thumbs stopped twitching. “Thank you for your cooperation.” Lowering his voice, Jack turned to Gerry. “Get that fucking ass-washer in a conference room on this floor, now. Just us.”

Gerry sorted it out with the hotel manager while Jack Bastard kept a discreet eye on the girls, trying to do the cold-reading thing, infer the cliques-within-cliques from the body language, then realized what he was doing and stopped himself. That shit never worked in real life. A couple uniforms walked the guy into a private conference room, and Jack followed them in, closing the door behind him.

Joe Ranklin the restroom attendant was on the wrong side of fifty or sixty. Jack wasn’t quite sure what the man actually did; the last time Jack had been in a bathroom this swanky he’d been pumping a confidential informant for information…and six weeks later was holding her hand in the clinic. He shook his head and took his own e-cig out of his pocket, lit up the filament.

“No smoking in here.” Joe said.

“Nice about these things.” Jack said, letting steam flow out of his mouth. “No smoke. So Joe, you know what they do to kiddy-fuckers in prison?”

Joe’s face crumbled. “Look, I’ve seen the cop shows. What about a deal with the DA?”

“This isn’t a cop show, Joe. This is real life. I know that’s hard to grasp, I have a lot of trouble with it myself. Kids like Knobbe here come along, we have to de-program them, work all that television cop bullshit out of them. In real life, things take time. You do not get from crime to courtroom in half an hour plus commercials. This is not an interrogation. This is a friendly chat. So, what do you want the DA for?”

“…immunity from prosecution. I tell you everything, you don’t charge me for it.”

“It?”

“Statutory rape.” He swallowed. “Drug possession.”

“Really.” Jack was quietly impressed. “I might be a bastard, like my father before me, but I would have bet my back teeth you hadn’t cracked any of those golden pussies. And you’re holding?” He almost laughed.

“I didn’t!” Joe said, half excited, half angry. “She gave me a blow job, that’s all. Didn’t say why. It’s just how those kind of people roll, y’know man? Maybe her friends made a bet or something. But her mom owns this building. Little Jannie squeaks funny, I’m out on my ass.” Joe reached into a pocket and drew out a small balloon tied with a rubber band, laid it on the table.

“Jannie…the mousy one? Brown hair?” Jack reached across and pocketed the baggie, keeping eye contact with Joe—and winked, just for good measure.

Joe nodded, and Jack got up and left the room, feeling Joe’s eyes on him until the door closed. Jack walked down the hallway, back to the ballroom where all the girls were sitting, and ordered everyone else out. Knobbe was the last one out the door, giving Jack a look somewhere between sheep’s eyes and a bad squint; it was all Jack could do not to smirk as he watched Gerry’s ass on the way out. Then he turned once more to the girls, and all the joy dropped out of his voice, letting the tired through.

“Okay my terrible little girls, I am Detective Lieutenant Jack Bastard. I know exactly what is going on here, even if you all don’t. One of you had a miscarriage a little while ago, and don’t want your parents to find out. One of you made this scene to get them into trouble for it, and another one sucked off that creepy old restroom attendant to give them the time and space to do it.” He let that settle in, keeping eye contact with as many of them as he could. “I have DNA evidence on three of you, right now. The baby and the blood, the saliva being scraped off that old pecker, and a couple strands of hair. I know you done it, so you can step forward now or we can call your parents and make a proper scene out of this.”

No one moved forward at first. Jack hadn’t really expected them to. Then the heroin blonde came forward, shot a look back and the mousy blonde followed. “Right. Good girls. The two of you are going to develop a certain civic-mindedness. One hundred hours each, community service, to be served within a year. I will be checking up. As for the other one…” Jack palmed a small baggie from his pocket and tossed it underhand at the dark-haired one with the blade on her hip, who caught it.

“Congratulations. Criminal possession of crack cocaine.”

“You bastard!” She squealed.

“Don’t I know it. Call your parent’s lawyer now.” Jack Bastard said, eyes drifting to Knobbe’s ass again. “I’m going to go get drunk and try not to break any vows.”

###

Heavy Water

Heavy Water

Blazing Loch, Ganymede

Axial Alexeinov reviewed the crude three-dimensional image of the lake bed, scratching at his stubble. The first colonists had come to Ganymede in ships powered by nuclear drives; short-lived vessels incandescent with radiation, abandoned in a water-ice rich fissure twelve klicks magnetic north of Enki Catena. The residual heat and radioisotopes had melted the ice, which froze over again, trapping liquid water beneath the surface. That was the beginning of the Blazing Loch.

Ax scowled. The radiation played hell with most sensors, forcing them to rely on primitive side-scan sonar devices. The resolution was terrible.

Over the decades, the liquid water absorbed the neutrons spat out by the exposed cores, transforming a percentage of the elemental hydrogen into deuterium. Heavy water had numerous industrial uses, from neutrino sensors to tritium production, and there was always a need for it on Ganymede. Sensing an opportunity, Axial and his partners had pooled their resources to from Liberty Mining, Limited and secure a temporary claim to harvest the heavy water. A few weeks freezing their asses off in a temporary habitat on the shore of the lake were worth it for the tens of thousands of credits they would receive when LibMin, Ltd. sold their load in the city of Liberty.

The airlock zipped; Ax did not look up as Henq cycled through, stomping in hir magnetic boots. Axial was a flat; his aggressively normal human phenotype augmented by neural implants and the aggressive psychosurgery he had endured in some nameless hypercorp lab, probably already succumbing to some slow cancer or genetic disease. Henq was a neuter splicer; genetweaked to eliminate innate weaknesses, a product of unnatural biological engineering. Hir parents were members of a Martian splinter that believed sex, while a fundamental biological imperative, wasted too much time and bioenergy.

The other partners were Gwynn and Gills. Gwynn was an infomorph, and the partnership’s legal counsel, currently somewhere in cisjovian orbit, keeping on top of the financial and legal details. Gilles was a biorg, the brain of an uplifted dolphin piloting the submersible morph at the bottom of the loch.

Henq nodded to Axial, and then whipped his hand around. A rough sphere of damp ice caught Axial in the eyes, knocking him off his folding stool.

“Deuterium snowball,” the Martian explained.

“Fuck your mother, genefreak.” Ax said, spitting out the mildly radioactive snow. “What percentage?”

“Half a percent by mass.” ze replied. “Tailings from the seafood’s claim.”

The Octonautical Ceres-Titan Mining Corporation was a trio of uplifted octopi telepaths that had been ejected from the methane seas of Jupiter’s largest moon for their failure to abide by conservationist regulations. Ganymede has no such restrictions, and they had transported their operation there wholesale, securing an illegal claim on the other side of the loch from Hyoden, Ganymede’s other major city, just a couple weeks ago. The doubled activity of harvesting operations had upset the circulation of the lake, and was causing difficulty for everyone.

“Get on the satlink with Gwynn and see if our motion for preliminary injunction has come through.” the flat said “I’ll check on Gilles.”

             

Gilles sang in the dark waters at the bottom of the loch, navigating by sound and taste, hir eight-legged mechacrab morph picking its way across the reef of discarded engines, the nanocarbon pumping hose trailing away above hir. The loch was a simple exoscape: heavy water, with its extra mass, tended to settle to the bottom of the loch with the shattered and radioactive cores. However, there was a simple convection circuit in operation, driven by nuclear heat, and tides from the other Jovian moons. The weight and warmth of the water on Gilles’ exoframe felt warm and comforting to hir, but the viscosity and weird acoustics of the deuterium-rich liquid were throwing off hir instincts. Still, ze was an old salt and managed to adapt.

Claws scrabbling for holds, the biorg skittererd along the wall of the fissure, trying not to disturb the wildlife. Slimy slicks of radiobacteria clinging to the cores formed an artificial reef at the bottom of the loch. Transgenic cockroaches adapted into artificial crustaceans shuffled along the loch’s bottom, feeding on the radiobacteria and each other. The roaches were an abandoned xenocological effort by Liberty’s local university students, an exercise in second-stage terraforming transgenetics, but were naturalized creatures of the planetoid and still protected by the city-state’s laws. Gilles tried not to step on too many.

The loch ran roughly east to west, oriented with regard to Ganymede’s magnetic north. The bed of the loch sloped, with the majority of the ionizing radiation sources in the deeper eastern end. The cephalopods had brought in a Titanian hydrocarbon pumping station and a hundred meters of pipe; drilled straight through the crust and snaked the pipe down until they hit loch bottom at the west end of the loch, then began pumping all the waters back up to the surface.

So, Gilles was forced to drop below the level of the cephalopods’ pipe, taking her into the deepest, least accessible waters on the east end, where both the radiation and pressure were strongest. Axial had the idea of mapping the bottom to locate any deep wells where rich yields might settle, and ze followed a track along the northern wall of the eastern end to one such well, taking samples from the thin calciferous ooze left by dead roaches with one articulated probe-claw, tasting the deuterium content.

The acrid pseudo-taste of tritiated water caught Gilles’ attention. Ze followed it to the well, taking samples, focusing hir sonar scans. The well was a small crater or bowl surrounding a piece of dense metallic debris, absent of loch life, filled with nearly pure heavy water—really heavy water, nearly ten percent tritium oxide by volume—but with no apparent source of ionizing radiation. The biorg sang in frustration at the conflicting data hir sensors were feeding hir. Gilles circled the well, angry but cautious, rechecking her results, running diagnostics.

Gilles was about to venture into the well for a closer look when Axial called.

           

: Ceres Protocol : Mare Lachrymarum : popped up on Axial’s entoptic display, activating his dormant neuroprogramming, sending the flat into selective memory mode. For the duration of this conversation, Axial’s memories would bypass his biological memory, stored instead on his less vulnerable cortical stack. Normally there was no need for such security considerations, but the presence of psi-gamma capable competitors put the partners on edge.

“Go ahead Gilles, I read you.” Ax sent.

“Anomaly. Tritiated water in well 26. Possible item of interest.”

Files popped open on Axial’s entoptic display, the latest scans and test results. Ax started to incorporate them into the earlier 3D map, then stopped. Henq’s brain wasn’t secure. He needed to a keep a lid on this until he was sure what was going on.

“Exposed core?”

“Negatory. Ionizing radiation is minimal. Going in for a closer look.”

“Careful Tuna Can; that morph wasn’t cheap and tritiated water is corrosive.”

Gilles sent back a microsoundfile of an electronic raspberry. Axial focused on the telemetry from the crab-morph’s probe arms.

The display reconstruction showed a half-buried object. Striated metal, grown or sculpted like the shell of an oyster, a rough torus thirty centimeters in diameter, varying between one and six centimeters thick, with a single three centimeter hole set slightly off-center. Basically, a flattened donut. Platinum-nickel alloys, probably spun out in near-zero gravity. Estimated mass was pushing 500 kilograms.

“Are we looking at retrieval?” the neo-dolphin sent.

“Maybe. Have to ask Gwynn about salvage rights first.”

“I can move this thing, but I can’t swim with it.”

“Affirmative. We’ll work it on our end. Meanwhile, continue harvesting the heavy water. Sign me out.”

: Ceres Protocol : Mare Tenebrum :

Axial registered the words and checked the timestamp in the lower left of his visual field. Six thousand seconds.

“Henq?” he said aloud. “I just had a brainlock conversation with Gilles. Ceres Protocol. Are you online with Gwynn yet?”

“Affirmative.”

“Okay. Patch me in, and then take yourself off-channel.”

“Mind if I take a biological imperative?”

“You know where the restroom is.”

Ax turned away as Henq unzipped hirself and attached the vacuum hoses. Gwynn’s icon popped up in his visual screen.

“?” the infomorph sent.

“Talk to my fork.” Axial replied. “Ceres Protocol.”

Ax connected the application straight to his cortical stack and allowed his other ego to talk directly to the infomorph. While Gwynn chatted with his backup, Ax attempted to meditate, allowing his body and mind to relax. Whatever he had been talking about with Gilles, it had left him tense.

Gwynn pinged him.

“We’re moving to phase three.” ze said.

“We don’t have a full load yet.”

“It was your fork’s idea. Patch me to Gilles. Inform Henq.”

Axial patched Gwynn through to Gilles. It didn’t make sense to pull out so soon, but his fork had more information than he did. Privately Ax hoped he know what he was doing.

Loch bottom, Gilles received hir instructions from Gwynn. The artifact was the new priority. Ze brought the nano-carbon hose down, sucking up the heavy water, trying not to stir up to much dust. It would take about fifteen minutes at current suction to empty the well. The neo-dolphin considered the mechanical challenge of how to get the artifact back up to the surface, pulling up calculator programs and the morph’s technical manual.

The mechacrab morph could just about handle a five hundred kilo dead lift, provided it didn’t have to actually carry it anywhere. The nanocarbon tubules the hose was constructed from could handle much more than that under normal Ganymede gravity, but there was the added weight and pressure of the water to consider. Gilles ran the calculations, taking her time, singing softly to herself.

The jellybots ping suddenly appeared on her sonar, singing their alien, discordant songs. Ze recognized the model. Highly maneuverable bots normally used in the methane seas on Titan; they took in liquid from their environments, pressurized it, and could release it either to propel themselves, or with higher velocity and the addition of an abrasive, mine through the coral-like xenolife. They could even cut through the armored hide of Gilles morph, eventually.

The Octonauts claim, issued by a rival Ganymede city-state, was a point of contention between the two groups. Axial had brokered a temporary agreement where both sides would stay within their half of the lake until the matter was formally resolved. Of course, by the time legal authorities in Liberty and Hyoden got their acts together, one or both groups would have taken their fill and left the claim.

Now, however, the Octonauts were coming dangerously close to violating the truce.

Gilles raised hir antennae and began broadcasting a query to the jellybots, and was rewarded with a crackling, looped commercial message playing in Deutsch and Korean. The jellybots swam up and away, back toward the western end of the loch.

After their pings finally disappeared, Gilles turned back. The bulk of the tritiated water had gone up the hose, leaving the object temporarily clear. The mechacrab crawled forward into the well.

With two arms, the other six firmly planted, ze gave an experimental lift. The object stuck. Gilles let go, rearranged hir stance, and tried again with four arms. This time the object lifted free of the loch floor. Gilles held the torus with two arms, and used the other two to tie the carbon nanotube hose around it. Gwynn had suggested avoiding threading the tube through the central hole, even though that seemed the simplest solution. Ze was forced to pull down as much slack as possible and create a pentagonal frame secured with a series of hitch knots.

When done, the crab let go and the object floated securely in its nanocarbon web, suspended in the water by the end of the hose. Gilles signaled to Herq and Axial that ze was ready to ascend.

Henq was monitoring Gilles’ ascent toward the loch crust. Ax, Gwynn and the Octonauts representatives had been talking for the last ten minutes. It was a suspicious time for the cephalopods to cause a fuss. The uplifts likely thought everything they were doing was suspicious as well.

            After the heavy water was pumped up to the surface, Henq and Ax would run it through the separator to screen out the light water, heavy-oxygen water, and semiheavy water. The remaining deuterium-rich liquid was left in an open channel exposed to Ganymede normal temperatures and froze. Then it was just a matter of cutting the heavy water ice into blocks and loading it into their transport. Henq enjoyed the labor. Ganymede gravity was less than half that of hir native Mars, lower even than Luna. It made lifting and hauling easy.

No doubt the seafood had been keeping an eye on them and seen Henq outside in hir exposure suit, picking up trash and debris. Ze, like most children of colonists, had been raised to believe in proper waste management from an early age. Only the most decadent and wasteful would pollute a natural xenoscape rather than take it with them. Henq’s promised genemate waited for hir on Mars. Someday ze would return so they could combine their genetic material. Ze wanted hir geneline to have a solar system worth inheriting.

Henq was surreptitiously battening hatches and stowing tools and other small portables when the seafood arrived in their exoskeletons. Ax had moved to intercept them, and Henq kept his distance. Henq was a greater risk than Axial. Hir analytical facility and engineering bent led hir to intuit and reason out more than ze should about the situation. Ze knew from the sound of the gear system that Gilles was bringing something massive up on the nano-carbon hose with hir.

Fifteen minutes went by, and then twenty. Axial and Gwynn were still negotiating with the Octonauts. Henq could do no more to break down the site until Gilles had arrived. Even then ze doubted Ax wanted hir to bring the neo-dolphin up through the ice until the mollusks had departed. Henq donned hir exposure suit again and zipped herself out of the airlock again, on the excuse that ze needed to retrieve some tools.

Ze proceeded to the pump assembly. Once there ze popped out a fake panel and withdrew an ancient bullpup AK-47. Most of it had been cold forged by hir grandparents from Martian iron, but the foam metal folding stock and Reactive Armor Piercing ammunition ze had purchased quietly on Callisto. Henq had made the vacuum modifications hirself, and added a molded plastic frame to give the illusion it was actually a power tool of some kind. The weapon was quite serviceable, even in Ganymede’s thin atmosphere. Henq popped the panel back into place, stuck the submachine gun under her arm, and grabbed her toolbox. Ze hoped ze wouldn’t have to use it.

             

The jellybots were waiting. The ice crust on top of the loch acted as an insulator trapping the heat that radiated up from below. A thin thermocline of cooler water hugged the ice, mostly free of heavy water. The heat differential buffered sound, confused the sonar Gilles navigated by. Wiry tentacles wrapped around the mechacrab’s limbs, bringing the jets on the jellybots’ undersides to bear on hir armored back.

            Gilles sang about the terrible things ze would stick in the holes.

Keeping two legs holding the rocky side of the fissure, the neodolphin scraped her claws against each other. Dull pincers sheered through fragile tentacles, sending a jellybot sprawling, the other let go and jetted out of the way. The mechacrab’s legs braced against the walls of the loch, estimated speed and direction. Ze twisted and leapt. The morph corkscrewed through the water towards the fleeing jellybot. Hir legs dug into the underside of the ice crust and gripped.

Perspective shifted. Gilles now saw hirself on a plane of rough ice, the depths of the Blazing Loch the sky ze might fall into. The jellybot kept to the cooler waters of the thermocline. Gilles raced after it, legs clacking, kicking up chunks of ice that fell away from hir.

The morph and ‘bot chased each other around the loch, from west to east and back again. It reminded Gilles of the tower games ze played, when ze was in space. The jellybot wished to return get to the hole in the ice LibMin, Ltd. had cut, where the object dangled. The neo-dolphin kept between the ‘bot and its goal. The ‘bot had an advantage in vertical movement, could drop below the thermocline and disappear from view. But its jets could not match the horizontal speed of the mechacrab morph. So Gilles played a defensive game as the jellybot tried to feint and outmaneuver hir, keeping close to her home base.

Ten minutes later, there was movement on the surface ice. Tiny projectiles burst through the crust from topside, and the jellybot went to investigate. Gilles kept hir distance. Another line punched through the ice, and Gilles saw a web of cracks develop in the center of the loch. A boom rippled out in the water. The ice bulged.

Gilles watched as a huge section of the ice crust broke and collapsed. Two masses fell into the heavy waters. Sonar useless in the confusion, Gilles switched to optical cameras. The larger mass sinking swiftly downwards was an Octonaut exoskeleton. The other was a smaller transhuman.

The neo-dolphin surged forward across the breaking ice. Henq struggled to swim in the freezing water. Gilles came as near to hir as ze dared. The ice crust had already started to freeze over, but it wouldn’t take the weight of her morph. Anchoring hirself carefully, Gilles snagged the splicer by the strap of hir assault rifle. Ze dragged Henq nearer to her, then punched a hole in the ice and shoved the genefreak through.

 

“This is most unprofitable.” Jung Yi said. The lead Octonaut representative’s voice was filled with artificial indignation.

Axial kept his pokerface. “You are in violation of both our agreement and the local laws of the Ganymede city-states. I’m sorry about your employee, but we have the right to defend our company property.”

“Margin forecasts for operation designate unfavorable market conditions. Competition not desirable.”

“Well, then you should have checked to see if there were any rival claims before starting your operation.”

“If I may gentle intellects,” Gwynn interjected. “There may be a solution to this dilemma. Would the Octonautical Ceres-Titan Mining Corporation be interested in purchasing the heavy water reclamation claim to Blazing Loch, Ganymede?”

Axial kept his mouth shut. He had his suspicions of what Gwynn was up to. The psi-gamma cephalopod uplift was probably already trying to tease it out of his brain. Through the clear plate of its exoskeleton, Ax could see Jung Yi rub his tentacles together.

“Terms?”

“One thousand credits, payable immediately to a Liberty Mining, Ltd. account, and a waiver for the loss and damage you’ve suffered during the…hostile negotiations of the last hour or so. In exchange, we’ll do a transfer of title to the claim and leave immediately with our current load. We also won’t notify the authorities.”

The uplift considered.

“Must consult parent corporation on Ceres.”

“No, you don’t.” Axial said. “If you’re in charge of this operation, then you have the authority to make the deal.”

“Site Manager, yes. You do not know the Project Manager. Very old school. Eaten many subordinates.”

“Wouldn’t you like to report to your Project Manger that you had secured all rights to the site?” Gwynn said. “As it is, you have to deal with the loss of an employee and a valuable exosuit.”

“Yes.” Jung Yi said bitterly. “Company property. Will come out of my share.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Ax said. “Let’s sweeten the pot. A three-dimensional sonar map of the loch bottom. I’ve marked the wells with the highest percentage of heavy water. If you snake your pipe there, you can increase your yield and lower your time on-site.”

“Let me see the map.”

Axial took a fragment of the map and magnified it, transferring the image to the uplift. Jung Yi rubbed his tentacles some more.

“Accept Titanian kroner? Good currency, very liquid.”

“If you’ll accept the Liberty exchange rate, yes.” Gwynn replied.

Jung Yi snaked a tentacle out of the exoskeleton.

“Shake on it?”

Axial carefully took the tentacle in his left hand.

             

Three hours later, Liberty Mining, Ltd. was packed up and moving. Axial drove. Henq and Gilles rode with the heavy water ice blocks, keeping an eye on the object. Gwynn was already trying to line up a buyer. The alien device was probably worth more than the kilotons of ice they were bringing to the spaceport.

All in all, thought the flat, not a bad piece of business.

###

Þorn

Þorn

by

Bobby Derie

“…ex, wye, zed, Þorn, eð.” Þe children sang. Beð smiled at her charges.

“Þat was very good children.” Beð said. “But do you know Þe story of Þorn and eð?”

“No Miss Beðany.” Þe children chorused.

“Þen gaðer round, and we shall have a story-time.” Beð said. Þe children clambered and ran and crawled over Þe furniture of Þe little schoolroom, before finally assembling Þemselves in rough circles around Beð.

Ð

A little souð of Cornwall is Þe village of Oberden Loundres, and some of Þe people Þere worked at Þe mine, bringing up loads of Cymric and Hen Gymraeg from Þe deep mines, and some of Þem farmed Þeir own dialect of Cornish. Every now and again Þe merchants would come, hawking Anglo-Saxon or Gaelic from east and west, and Þe villagers would judge Þe stock and buy a word here or phrase Þere, to try in Þeir own gardens and to mix wið Þeir own, and sometimes it stuck and sometimes it did not. Less often would some likely young lad go off to sea and adventure, and return from far lands wið pockets and packs full of strange tongues.

It came one day a wind blew from Þe souð, and a strange wind it was too, sending all Þe feaðered folk before it, wið caws and birdsong dripping from Þe sky. When Þat strange wind passed, Þere too in Oberden Loundres was Squire Þoð. Of course, none knew his proper name, but he had a great sack of strange words Þat looked new-minted and gleamed golden and shiny in Þe light of day, and he bought up Þe great house and restored a single tower of it. None knew where his store came from, for Þey tasted strange on Þe tongue and were oddly familiar to Þe eye, but Þey were accepted as currency right enough by many. Some say Squire Þoð took a great interest in Þe mines, and showed Þe assayers how to smelt Yan Tan TeÞera from an old shepherd’s rhyme Þat Þey used to Þrow out as spoil. Maybe Þat is where Þe rumor started Þat he was an alchemist, but Squire Þoð kept his own council and would never say.

Many a night would Squire Þoð’s light burn long into Þe night in his great tower, and strange letters and packages would come to him from farðer shores Þan any son or daughter of Oberden Loundres had ever been. Some few of Þe men of Þe village came to him at times, to beg a loan or talk awhile wið a man of learning, and Þey never got past Þe first floor of Þat restored tower—but what wonders Þey claimed! Þere were Þe bones of giants Þere, some ancient tongues which were long buried and transmuted by centuries ‘til none could name Þem, and strange, beastly chimeras—gangly, artificial Þings, Þe work of a terrible taxidermy. Old Man Seð claimed he saw Þe skin of Latin hang off a partial skeleton of Hebrew—but what a skeleton, in such poor condition, and what a skin, so twisted and strange as any Romance language! Squire Þoð called it a La’az, and said he’d bought it cheap off a Portuguese merchant who mistook it for a peculiar sample of Ladino. And when Old Man Seð told Þis to Þe gossips of Oberden Loundres, Þe whole village knew Squire Þoð for a necromancer as well as alchemist, and feared him doubly.

Þ

Now Þere came to Oberden Loundres from Þe souð anoÞer wind, but Þis one so slight Þat none but Þe young children of Þe village heard it, and Þey only as a ðin keening song in Þe air. A great cloaked figure stalked Þrough Þe streets behind it, and Þe children all came out to look at him. Now some have said Þat Þey had no words in Þeir native Cornish or Cymric to describe him, and perforce used English and whatever foreign words Þey might own; oÞers say Þat on sight of him Þe old words shined a little brighter, and Þe young ones used Þem as if Þey were new again and still to be defined. But if an older man or woman saw Þe figure, Þey said noðing at all, for Þeir precious hoarded words would seem but small and dull ðings. So Þe great cloaked stranger walked Þrough Oberden Loundres, Þe children following and Þe grown-ups locking Þemselves wiðin, until he led Þem straight to Þe tower of Squire Þoð.

Now Squire Þoð stood in front of Þe cloaked figure, but did not look at him directly. Þere passed a great conversation between Þe two masters, and Þe children Þat ringed Þem were astonished at Þe game—for Squire Þoð would speak aloud someðing in one language, and Þe cloaked stranger would appear to answer, and Þen Squire Þoð would switch to anoÞer. Long hours did Þey go by like Þat, and never was Þere such an education for Þe children of Oberden Loundres, who in an afternoon swelled wið such riches of vocabulary and grammerie as was concentrated in old Babel after it fell. And some of Þeir conversation was in English, and Þe children remembered Þat clear enough to tell Þeir own children and grandchildren:

“It is right of Man, by his Art, to make of words what he will. For all ðat Þere is of language is what Man must make up himself. I have embarked on a great work here, Þe synðesis of new ideas from old dross, building a new rational language pure and uncorrupted. You have no auðority here to judge my words, to police my grammerie…” said Squire Þoð.

“You are a fool to play wið such letters. Language cannot be chained by such Þings, but finds its own course, in Þought and expression. Old words adapt to new meanings, are broken and brought to life again according to need. Þis is ðe cycle: all is ðe syntax of ðe moment, ðe vocabulary of ðe mob.” Þe stranger replied.

“No! Þere are words Þat must not be lost to ðe ages, buried and forgotten so deep ðat no spade may ever yield Þem again, ich hast mich…” and here Þe Squire switched to yet anoðer tongue.

It was going on near four o’clock or so when Squire Þoð seemed to get desperate, and now was bringing forð all ðose strange shiny words which were his wealð in Þe town, and at Þese newminted treasures Þe cloaked figure hesitated before answering. Some of Þe new verbiage fell flat and strange on Þe ears of Þe children of Oberden Loundres, and some Þey repeated to one anoÞer, testing Þem. Þen Squire Þoð took forð someðing from inside his robe—some say Þey were crystals or stones of some sort, but ðose were pockmarked teenagers, caught between Þe two spells of Þe cloaked stranger and of uneven memory. Whatever Þe case, Þe stranger’s cloak billowed out in front of him, and a great wind blew as every feaÞered bird screamed out in Þeir languages, and Þat high, keen song Þat only Þe children could hear reached such a power and pitch Þat all Þe children sank to Þeir knees in Þe dust and fields outside Þat tower, holding Þeir ears and clinching Þeir eyes shut.

When Þe children opened Þeir eyes again, Squire Þoð and Þe cloaked stranger were gone. Þe great tower stood wið Þe door ajar, and Þe most curious looked inside to see Þe marvels Þere—Þe wreckage of Þe La’az lay in one corner next to Þe great Þesaurus, which held Þe old alchemist’s new-forged, treasured words, but Þe great chest was empty save for two small letters, eð and Þorn.

###