I'm missing not sending this off [again] to Dean and SNW 11
SCHRODINGER'S PILOT by Carolyn Winifred
I’ll tell you this, but then I have to kill you.
Some things never die. Some things can’t be killed. Me, I died a little bit each day. Killing me was easy.
Twenty years planning my move. Twenty years watching him. When I'm about to take him, he gets me first. Cold-cocks me out of nowhere. I had the horror of knowing, two seconds before I hit the deck, that the worst possible thing had just happened.
# # #
"Don't try to talk." The universal constant of the calm, commanding doctor-voice.
I was trying to say, "Dave." Find him. Still on the station. Dangerous.
The mouth wasn't cooperating. And I couldn't see. Some goopy stuff was on my eyes. When I tried to raise a hand, I couldn't move, either. Before I became alarmed that this was any permanent state of affairs the doctor-voice came again.
"Relax. Two ccs -."
# # #
Next time, I could see. Three middle-aged guys with concerned faces standing at the side of the bed. I didn't know any of them. I hadn't seen anyone I didn't know for twenty years, so this was a change.
"Colonel Christopher?"
I presume?
After a bit of work I managed, "Yeah."
One was a governor, one was the doctor, and one was chief of security. They were concerned. If I was me, what about my tragic death, in an accident with my space plane, in the atmosphere of Saturn?
Yeah, that had been the plan. Dave had not gone according to plan. I struggled to sit up. Where was he? Where was I? The room started spinning, instruments started beeping, the doctor set me back against the pillow.
# # #
Third time's the charm.
"Where am I?"
The governor stepped up proudly. "This is Principia, at Saturn."
That was a quote, of me. 'This is Principia, at Saturn.' Like, where else would we be? We dismantled the engines. Earth didn't want to see its orbital weapons platforms again. But this beeping beige medical ward was not any Principia I knew. Then he told me it was 500 years in the future.
My heart raced, instruments beeped, the doctor loomed. The Future. Then I did the math. Still centuries short of clearance for the mission. Disappointed yet again, I calmed down, things quieted down, the governor continued.
An aberrant energy reading had led them to the lowest levels of the station, the original Principia core, to me, in a stasis chamber.
That didn't make sense. We dismantled all the freezers, too. No. I'd given Dave the job. He offered to do it. Apparently, he could plan as far ahead as I could.
"Do you have any idea what happened to you?" the security guy asked.
I had a really good idea. Dave. Our friend the autonomous hologram from the 29th century. But, "No," I shrugged and acted all weak and confused until they left me alone.
# # #
I always thought there was something wonky about Dave. A bright young Captain, I was USAF liaison to Chronowerx for important government work. CEO Henry J. Starling didn't know an aileron from his own ass. A fully functional stealth space plane? Get real.
It all came from Dave. He'd been the A.I. of a time-traveling ship that crashed, that Starling found. The crash, then Starling, messed with his programming. Evil Dave coughed up a load of future tech; computer games and weapons of mass destruction. Late 20th century Earth wasn't supposed to have Matrix of Doom or orbiting weapons stations. Such improprieties led to another time inclusion, which made Khan all suspicious, and started the war.
Lucky Shaun Geoffrey Christopher and his super duper invisible space plane saved the day. Like all good weapons we were then immediately a threat to the peace. So, we received an all-expense paid, no return, trip to Saturn, with Dave, and a DY-2000 full of scientists and other weirdos.
Anyone with knowledge of the future, or more than a passing acquaintance with aliens, was invited to take a cruise to the outer gas giants in a refrigerator. Stasis technology, another no no for planet Earth.
Roberta Lincoln organized the expedition. I don't know what her story was, but she seemed an old hand close encounters of the third, fourth and fifth kind. She gave me the low down on Dave, whose real name was Aeon, but I wasn't gonna call a guy that. I don't know where Starling got 'Dave Dunbar.' After Roberta tweaked him, Good Dave was a pretty bland guy. Nothing was his fault, he couldn't be held responsible. He expressed regret, but that didn't change anything. Couldn't get back to the future, couldn't stay. Indestructible, almost.
I guess I gave him a look that set the tone for the rest of our time together. Growing up the only boy with two way-older sisters, it was always my chore to take out the garbage.
# # #
They were rebuilding me; better, stronger, faster. My teeth had been regrown overnight. The inside itching was my bones being un-osteoporosisized. I have hair again, the jarhead look of my youth.
All the medical stuff proved I was me. All their history listed me as deceased. I answered the security guy best I could.
"We ran an analysis of your speech pattern, and the record of your, from the last flight. The voiceprints are identical."
Dave, master of 1000 voiceprints.
"It was a recording."
"The telemetry from the plane?"
"Autopilot." I expected questions like these.
"You were rendered unconscious by a method known as the Vulcan Neck Pinch."
My neck wasn't broken, it just felt that way. I gave him an honest blank look.
"That's not a technique that would have been known to anyone, in your time," he added.
"Huh," I tried. Weak and confused was getting old for us both. I really needed to get off the bed. If they could regrow my teeth, they could tell I was lying through same. The Doctor wasn't good at this at all. Every question, his eyes went up to the monitors. I suggested a memory jogging visit to the scene of my demise.
"There's not much left," security guy warned. Just after I'd been found, the compartment had burst into flames. Somehow, pure oxygen had caused a flash fire. The chamber and everything around it was slag.
Big surprise.
# # #
Time had changed the station from the spastic dragonfly we'd started with to a vertical, spinning top. They had up-ended poor old Principia, and run an elevator shaft right down the central corridor. The elevator ended at the former docking bay for the space plane. A few more meters and I would have been found ages ago.
Bending over and turning my head I tried to visualize how it had been. It was only yesterday to me, a groggy yesterday, but still I saw the corridor lined with storage canisters. A place I'd been through practically every day.
The 'How' was no great mystery. Now slag 29th century holo-emitters had been showing whatever anybody wanted to see since I gave Dave the job of recycling the materials. Storage canisters, who noticed storage canisters? They were everywhere. Heck, I had them in my quarters.
'Why' had me stumped good though. I got the knocking me out part. I would never have let him take the plane. Why the stasis chamber? Why hide me? Why the impersonation? Why not just leave me sprawled on the deck for Victor to find? Why not kill me outright?
Azimov postulated laws about A.I.s not harming people. Maybe he couldn't kill me, but he could put me in a box and leave me there. I'd be dead just the same.
I had psyched myself up during our walk to the docking bay. He was slightly behind me, in his usual, differential way. Turn him off. Go for a spin. It would be a relief to be dead dead. I had thought it was going to work.
I was ripping to find out the guy had lied to me all along. I straightened up so fast the fainting was no act.
# # #
I lived for The Cause, The Future of Humanity. Roberta Lincoln could talk in capitals all day. This was my Aim High and Be All You Can Be moment, which turned out to be scientist-sitting at Saturn, waiting until it was okay to take out the last of the garbage. She had told me fairy stories of wondrous things to come. Earth needed to stay on course, no more detours like Dave. I thought she would be Julie, our cruise director, but she stayed behind, to take care of any future future incursions.
I was kicked upstairs three flights to Colonel. Victor, an experienced Russian sub commander, foolishly volunteered to be my trusty sidekick. The DY-2000, once an innocent DY-100, and before that, the shell of a Trident, came into its own as a fifth wheel.
We came, we saw, we conquered. We planted flags, contaminating pristine environments. We threw probes and our rubbish into the trash compactor that is the planet Saturn. We had no idea of the size, until it was all of the sky. This from a guy from Nebraska, who was used to sky.
I didn't see the future coming, back home. Earth seemed struck in a time loop, making the same mistakes over and over. I bounced off walls, a billion miles away. If they hadn't pulled my teeth before leaving, I would have ground them down in frustration.
I'm a pilot, not a station commander. We stayed alive, ahead of Roanoke Colony and the Donner Party. Not going the way of the Titanic. I spent my lonely nights wondering if it was all worth it.
# # #
I was on sale in the museum gift shop. A brief bio, heavily padded with generalities of 20th century Earth, most of my actual exploits having been effectively erased by a googleworm of Dave's before we left. Young, proud, smiling, me on the cover.
Laughing, actually. 'Not as bad as Stalin,' Victor would say. Always made me laugh. Dave took the picture. The best way to keep him out of the picture was to have him take them all.
The last picture, prematurely old, pissed off, hard ass me. A hard ass in Nebraska red woolly socks and a NASA propeller hat. Feet up on the nav console, thinking too much for a pilot. Just before I realized he was there and gave him The Look for sneaking up on me.
The movie part of the book had audio and telemetry of my death. I'd taken the plane to do experiments in the ammonia cloud deck, lost control, plummeted into Saturn at 500 meters per second. My plan, except for the 'me' part. And the losing control. He made it look convincing enough. There was the calm and heroic delivery of some final readings. He did me proud. Damn him.
I have Dad's flight jacket again. Roberta Lincoln sent it to me after Dad's passing. It's funny. I'd thought of wearing it, the last time, but that would have tipped off Dave that it was the last time. I left it folded neatly on my bed, an equally clear message to Victor that the mission was over. The museum still has that one. The governor presented me with a replica from a slot.
# # #
Earth is still there, the pale blue dot. My World War Three was downgraded to tropical storm Eugenics War, 'cus a conflict more deserving of the moniker 'World War Three' came along. But, most of what Roberta talked has come true. Humans have manifest destinied across the Milky Way. There's a nice Federation of Planets. Some fringe elements keep the authorities on their toes. And still a few places where there might be dragons.
The governor hovers over me. I have not been fussed over so much since I was a baby - the longed for boy baby. His 'Sir's started getting on my nerves. His first name is something unpronounceable. My first name is Shaun. Nobody calls me Shaun. I told him to call me Chris. He's thrilled.
# # #
"Who's Dave?"
My heart leapt. The security chief had said the boogey word. Just because he looked like Luis from Sesame Street didn't mean he was Luis from Sesame Street. I clamped down on my knee-jerk reaction, and there was no beeping from the biobed.
"You said the name when you were unconscious. There's no record of a David, Davis, Davidovna among your crew. No mention in your log, or anyone else's log.
"But there are 47 variations of the name among the next two generations."
Damn them. He'd always been strangely popular with the kids. I had not. By the time kids started coming I was halfway to pissed off hard ass. I wanted to ask how many times my name popped up, but I had a feeling I got inanimate objects named after me. And the security chief wanted back to Dave.
Before I could even try to make something up an urgent page came over the intercom. With a 'We'll finish this later' look he took off.
Saved by the bell.
# # #
Private quarters now, bedroom, living room. Same spectacular view. The doctor cleared me. I'm fine, really. I haven't had sex in 20 plus 500 years, yeah, I'm just FINE. I'm supposed to stay quiet and rest. I expected the security guy to come by to finish our conversation, but nobody bothered me all day.
It was the potato chips that did it. My favorite snack. Just another one of the things I lived without. I stood in front of the food slot hemming and hawing.
Milk and potato chips popped out.
Perfect.
I was on the fourth or fifth chip when I figured it out.
"Hello, Dave," I said, to the room in general.
"Colonel Christopher," the room answered. Dave. Dave was the only one who always used the full title, like we had all the time in the universe for five syllables.
"Where are you?"
"The avatar recorded the metallurgy of Aeon failing at a depth of 20,000 km. The avatar ceased to transmit at 6,000 kelvin, pressure at two megabars."
So, part of him was definitely dead.
"Why?" keeping it light.
"Without your strength and dedication the Earth-Saturn Expedition would not have survived. It was not necessary for you to ultimately sacrifice yourself due to the failure of the Aeon program."
There had always been the choice. Two could fly the plane. He could simulate my voice to activate the computer, duplicate my eyeball for the retina scan, mold his fingers to my fingerprints to activate the flight gloves. There was always the possibility that he was Evil Dave pretending to be Good Dave. We could trust him to go out alone in the last super-weapon in the Solar system, or I could take us and make sure the job got done.
I’m not big on trust.
The specs of a small ship started floating in front of me. You could see the lines of the space plane.
"This ship is registered for your use. Voice activated, I.D. 'Chris'. All is within mission parameters. You have been returned to top-flight physical functionality."
It was a beauty. I could reach out and touch it, rotate it on axis. It was a sweet idea. I was good at kissing those goodbye.
"No record of your recovery exists."
Everything went through computers here. A computer, a station, with this Dave program googleworming through it.
My bad.
"But there are people involved, too. They’ve met me."
"Seventeen, on a classified project. Ramuran pheromones block the long-term memory engrams of most humanoids. Within three days, recollections will be at minimum levels. This chamber is environmentally isolated. Please remain inside until 1300 hours tomorrow."
"Ramura-what?"
"Ramura, a planet in the Delta Quadrant. A reclusive species of humanoid, they produce a pheromone that breaks down associated stable master memory engrams."
A scientific explanation. Ick. I asked for it. It didn't sound like anyone was going to be harmed in the process.
"Technology will shortly develop from which it will not be possible to conceal this program," computer-voice concluded. "Task done. This program terminates."
The image of the ship faded. An identity chip dropped in the food slot, attached to my fuzzy dice key chain.
I sat on the bed.
This changed things.
A chime sounded. The door swooshed open. A woman stood there, wrapped in a hooded cloak. She dropped the cloak. She was wearing a very little something from my Boris Vallejo fantasies. And she was green. All over.
The Ramura thing isn't supposed to affect me. But I've written it all down because, well, I don't quite trust this, yet.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Thanks, Dave.
the end
SCHRODINGER'S PILOT by Carolyn Winifred
I’ll tell you this, but then I have to kill you.
Some things never die. Some things can’t be killed. Me, I died a little bit each day. Killing me was easy.
Twenty years planning my move. Twenty years watching him. When I'm about to take him, he gets me first. Cold-cocks me out of nowhere. I had the horror of knowing, two seconds before I hit the deck, that the worst possible thing had just happened.
# # #
"Don't try to talk." The universal constant of the calm, commanding doctor-voice.
I was trying to say, "Dave." Find him. Still on the station. Dangerous.
The mouth wasn't cooperating. And I couldn't see. Some goopy stuff was on my eyes. When I tried to raise a hand, I couldn't move, either. Before I became alarmed that this was any permanent state of affairs the doctor-voice came again.
"Relax. Two ccs -."
# # #
Next time, I could see. Three middle-aged guys with concerned faces standing at the side of the bed. I didn't know any of them. I hadn't seen anyone I didn't know for twenty years, so this was a change.
"Colonel Christopher?"
I presume?
After a bit of work I managed, "Yeah."
One was a governor, one was the doctor, and one was chief of security. They were concerned. If I was me, what about my tragic death, in an accident with my space plane, in the atmosphere of Saturn?
Yeah, that had been the plan. Dave had not gone according to plan. I struggled to sit up. Where was he? Where was I? The room started spinning, instruments started beeping, the doctor set me back against the pillow.
# # #
Third time's the charm.
"Where am I?"
The governor stepped up proudly. "This is Principia, at Saturn."
That was a quote, of me. 'This is Principia, at Saturn.' Like, where else would we be? We dismantled the engines. Earth didn't want to see its orbital weapons platforms again. But this beeping beige medical ward was not any Principia I knew. Then he told me it was 500 years in the future.
My heart raced, instruments beeped, the doctor loomed. The Future. Then I did the math. Still centuries short of clearance for the mission. Disappointed yet again, I calmed down, things quieted down, the governor continued.
An aberrant energy reading had led them to the lowest levels of the station, the original Principia core, to me, in a stasis chamber.
That didn't make sense. We dismantled all the freezers, too. No. I'd given Dave the job. He offered to do it. Apparently, he could plan as far ahead as I could.
"Do you have any idea what happened to you?" the security guy asked.
I had a really good idea. Dave. Our friend the autonomous hologram from the 29th century. But, "No," I shrugged and acted all weak and confused until they left me alone.
# # #
I always thought there was something wonky about Dave. A bright young Captain, I was USAF liaison to Chronowerx for important government work. CEO Henry J. Starling didn't know an aileron from his own ass. A fully functional stealth space plane? Get real.
It all came from Dave. He'd been the A.I. of a time-traveling ship that crashed, that Starling found. The crash, then Starling, messed with his programming. Evil Dave coughed up a load of future tech; computer games and weapons of mass destruction. Late 20th century Earth wasn't supposed to have Matrix of Doom or orbiting weapons stations. Such improprieties led to another time inclusion, which made Khan all suspicious, and started the war.
Lucky Shaun Geoffrey Christopher and his super duper invisible space plane saved the day. Like all good weapons we were then immediately a threat to the peace. So, we received an all-expense paid, no return, trip to Saturn, with Dave, and a DY-2000 full of scientists and other weirdos.
Anyone with knowledge of the future, or more than a passing acquaintance with aliens, was invited to take a cruise to the outer gas giants in a refrigerator. Stasis technology, another no no for planet Earth.
Roberta Lincoln organized the expedition. I don't know what her story was, but she seemed an old hand close encounters of the third, fourth and fifth kind. She gave me the low down on Dave, whose real name was Aeon, but I wasn't gonna call a guy that. I don't know where Starling got 'Dave Dunbar.' After Roberta tweaked him, Good Dave was a pretty bland guy. Nothing was his fault, he couldn't be held responsible. He expressed regret, but that didn't change anything. Couldn't get back to the future, couldn't stay. Indestructible, almost.
I guess I gave him a look that set the tone for the rest of our time together. Growing up the only boy with two way-older sisters, it was always my chore to take out the garbage.
# # #
They were rebuilding me; better, stronger, faster. My teeth had been regrown overnight. The inside itching was my bones being un-osteoporosisized. I have hair again, the jarhead look of my youth.
All the medical stuff proved I was me. All their history listed me as deceased. I answered the security guy best I could.
"We ran an analysis of your speech pattern, and the record of your, from the last flight. The voiceprints are identical."
Dave, master of 1000 voiceprints.
"It was a recording."
"The telemetry from the plane?"
"Autopilot." I expected questions like these.
"You were rendered unconscious by a method known as the Vulcan Neck Pinch."
My neck wasn't broken, it just felt that way. I gave him an honest blank look.
"That's not a technique that would have been known to anyone, in your time," he added.
"Huh," I tried. Weak and confused was getting old for us both. I really needed to get off the bed. If they could regrow my teeth, they could tell I was lying through same. The Doctor wasn't good at this at all. Every question, his eyes went up to the monitors. I suggested a memory jogging visit to the scene of my demise.
"There's not much left," security guy warned. Just after I'd been found, the compartment had burst into flames. Somehow, pure oxygen had caused a flash fire. The chamber and everything around it was slag.
Big surprise.
# # #
Time had changed the station from the spastic dragonfly we'd started with to a vertical, spinning top. They had up-ended poor old Principia, and run an elevator shaft right down the central corridor. The elevator ended at the former docking bay for the space plane. A few more meters and I would have been found ages ago.
Bending over and turning my head I tried to visualize how it had been. It was only yesterday to me, a groggy yesterday, but still I saw the corridor lined with storage canisters. A place I'd been through practically every day.
The 'How' was no great mystery. Now slag 29th century holo-emitters had been showing whatever anybody wanted to see since I gave Dave the job of recycling the materials. Storage canisters, who noticed storage canisters? They were everywhere. Heck, I had them in my quarters.
'Why' had me stumped good though. I got the knocking me out part. I would never have let him take the plane. Why the stasis chamber? Why hide me? Why the impersonation? Why not just leave me sprawled on the deck for Victor to find? Why not kill me outright?
Azimov postulated laws about A.I.s not harming people. Maybe he couldn't kill me, but he could put me in a box and leave me there. I'd be dead just the same.
I had psyched myself up during our walk to the docking bay. He was slightly behind me, in his usual, differential way. Turn him off. Go for a spin. It would be a relief to be dead dead. I had thought it was going to work.
I was ripping to find out the guy had lied to me all along. I straightened up so fast the fainting was no act.
# # #
I lived for The Cause, The Future of Humanity. Roberta Lincoln could talk in capitals all day. This was my Aim High and Be All You Can Be moment, which turned out to be scientist-sitting at Saturn, waiting until it was okay to take out the last of the garbage. She had told me fairy stories of wondrous things to come. Earth needed to stay on course, no more detours like Dave. I thought she would be Julie, our cruise director, but she stayed behind, to take care of any future future incursions.
I was kicked upstairs three flights to Colonel. Victor, an experienced Russian sub commander, foolishly volunteered to be my trusty sidekick. The DY-2000, once an innocent DY-100, and before that, the shell of a Trident, came into its own as a fifth wheel.
We came, we saw, we conquered. We planted flags, contaminating pristine environments. We threw probes and our rubbish into the trash compactor that is the planet Saturn. We had no idea of the size, until it was all of the sky. This from a guy from Nebraska, who was used to sky.
I didn't see the future coming, back home. Earth seemed struck in a time loop, making the same mistakes over and over. I bounced off walls, a billion miles away. If they hadn't pulled my teeth before leaving, I would have ground them down in frustration.
I'm a pilot, not a station commander. We stayed alive, ahead of Roanoke Colony and the Donner Party. Not going the way of the Titanic. I spent my lonely nights wondering if it was all worth it.
# # #
I was on sale in the museum gift shop. A brief bio, heavily padded with generalities of 20th century Earth, most of my actual exploits having been effectively erased by a googleworm of Dave's before we left. Young, proud, smiling, me on the cover.
Laughing, actually. 'Not as bad as Stalin,' Victor would say. Always made me laugh. Dave took the picture. The best way to keep him out of the picture was to have him take them all.
The last picture, prematurely old, pissed off, hard ass me. A hard ass in Nebraska red woolly socks and a NASA propeller hat. Feet up on the nav console, thinking too much for a pilot. Just before I realized he was there and gave him The Look for sneaking up on me.
The movie part of the book had audio and telemetry of my death. I'd taken the plane to do experiments in the ammonia cloud deck, lost control, plummeted into Saturn at 500 meters per second. My plan, except for the 'me' part. And the losing control. He made it look convincing enough. There was the calm and heroic delivery of some final readings. He did me proud. Damn him.
I have Dad's flight jacket again. Roberta Lincoln sent it to me after Dad's passing. It's funny. I'd thought of wearing it, the last time, but that would have tipped off Dave that it was the last time. I left it folded neatly on my bed, an equally clear message to Victor that the mission was over. The museum still has that one. The governor presented me with a replica from a slot.
# # #
Earth is still there, the pale blue dot. My World War Three was downgraded to tropical storm Eugenics War, 'cus a conflict more deserving of the moniker 'World War Three' came along. But, most of what Roberta talked has come true. Humans have manifest destinied across the Milky Way. There's a nice Federation of Planets. Some fringe elements keep the authorities on their toes. And still a few places where there might be dragons.
The governor hovers over me. I have not been fussed over so much since I was a baby - the longed for boy baby. His 'Sir's started getting on my nerves. His first name is something unpronounceable. My first name is Shaun. Nobody calls me Shaun. I told him to call me Chris. He's thrilled.
# # #
"Who's Dave?"
My heart leapt. The security chief had said the boogey word. Just because he looked like Luis from Sesame Street didn't mean he was Luis from Sesame Street. I clamped down on my knee-jerk reaction, and there was no beeping from the biobed.
"You said the name when you were unconscious. There's no record of a David, Davis, Davidovna among your crew. No mention in your log, or anyone else's log.
"But there are 47 variations of the name among the next two generations."
Damn them. He'd always been strangely popular with the kids. I had not. By the time kids started coming I was halfway to pissed off hard ass. I wanted to ask how many times my name popped up, but I had a feeling I got inanimate objects named after me. And the security chief wanted back to Dave.
Before I could even try to make something up an urgent page came over the intercom. With a 'We'll finish this later' look he took off.
Saved by the bell.
# # #
Private quarters now, bedroom, living room. Same spectacular view. The doctor cleared me. I'm fine, really. I haven't had sex in 20 plus 500 years, yeah, I'm just FINE. I'm supposed to stay quiet and rest. I expected the security guy to come by to finish our conversation, but nobody bothered me all day.
It was the potato chips that did it. My favorite snack. Just another one of the things I lived without. I stood in front of the food slot hemming and hawing.
Milk and potato chips popped out.
Perfect.
I was on the fourth or fifth chip when I figured it out.
"Hello, Dave," I said, to the room in general.
"Colonel Christopher," the room answered. Dave. Dave was the only one who always used the full title, like we had all the time in the universe for five syllables.
"Where are you?"
"The avatar recorded the metallurgy of Aeon failing at a depth of 20,000 km. The avatar ceased to transmit at 6,000 kelvin, pressure at two megabars."
So, part of him was definitely dead.
"Why?" keeping it light.
"Without your strength and dedication the Earth-Saturn Expedition would not have survived. It was not necessary for you to ultimately sacrifice yourself due to the failure of the Aeon program."
There had always been the choice. Two could fly the plane. He could simulate my voice to activate the computer, duplicate my eyeball for the retina scan, mold his fingers to my fingerprints to activate the flight gloves. There was always the possibility that he was Evil Dave pretending to be Good Dave. We could trust him to go out alone in the last super-weapon in the Solar system, or I could take us and make sure the job got done.
I’m not big on trust.
The specs of a small ship started floating in front of me. You could see the lines of the space plane.
"This ship is registered for your use. Voice activated, I.D. 'Chris'. All is within mission parameters. You have been returned to top-flight physical functionality."
It was a beauty. I could reach out and touch it, rotate it on axis. It was a sweet idea. I was good at kissing those goodbye.
"No record of your recovery exists."
Everything went through computers here. A computer, a station, with this Dave program googleworming through it.
My bad.
"But there are people involved, too. They’ve met me."
"Seventeen, on a classified project. Ramuran pheromones block the long-term memory engrams of most humanoids. Within three days, recollections will be at minimum levels. This chamber is environmentally isolated. Please remain inside until 1300 hours tomorrow."
"Ramura-what?"
"Ramura, a planet in the Delta Quadrant. A reclusive species of humanoid, they produce a pheromone that breaks down associated stable master memory engrams."
A scientific explanation. Ick. I asked for it. It didn't sound like anyone was going to be harmed in the process.
"Technology will shortly develop from which it will not be possible to conceal this program," computer-voice concluded. "Task done. This program terminates."
The image of the ship faded. An identity chip dropped in the food slot, attached to my fuzzy dice key chain.
I sat on the bed.
This changed things.
A chime sounded. The door swooshed open. A woman stood there, wrapped in a hooded cloak. She dropped the cloak. She was wearing a very little something from my Boris Vallejo fantasies. And she was green. All over.
The Ramura thing isn't supposed to affect me. But I've written it all down because, well, I don't quite trust this, yet.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Thanks, Dave.
the end
