“A drink would do nicely.”
Cantrell poured them each a glass. Dashaud removed his gloves.
“Something wrong with your hands?”
“Not a thing.” He explained his recent augmentation.
“Nice. So now you’re a super surgeon. I guess that’s what it takes these days.”
“Takes?”
“To hold the line. Keep the robots at bay. Personally, I’d take one of them over a human. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Better outcomes. Steadier hands.”
Dashaud glanced at his own. Steady as a rock.
“Had one once,” said Cantrell. “Did a great job.”
“How was its bedside manner?”
“Very professional.”
Dashaud could imagine. Now and then he toyed with becoming a veterinarian. Maybe the time had arrived.
“Can we get down to business?”
“Sure thing.”
He was surprised to learn that Cantrell did not own the HUBIES.[3] Had somehow missed the law declaring that ownership was a crime, while using was not. A strange disconnect, not unheard of in the annals of ethics and morality. Use alone was problematic for the vast majority of people. There was a fine line, some said no line at all, between use and abuse.
“So what does this mean? You’re lending them?”
“Sharing,” said Cantrell. “Passing them along.”
“For a price.”
“Cost plus expenses.”
“No profit?”
“Lots of profit. Just not monetary.”
Dashaud was pleasantly surprised. “That’s very generous of you.”
“I have what I need. As long as I can keep inventing things. Making them, then making them better. Doing my part. Giving progress a nudge. Step by step. Circuit by circuit. Forward, out of the dark ages, into the new age.”
“What’s the new age?”
“Science, Doctor. Intelligence. Rational thinking. Our age. Yours and mine.”
Dashaud raised his glass. “To intelligence.”
“So you’re using them for research,” said Cantrell. “I won’t ask what, but I’m curious. Does Dr. Gharia happen to be involved?”
“Gunjita Gharia?” He kept his voice level.
“That’s the one. Your old boss.”
“I haven’t spoken to her in nearly a century.”
“Really? A whole century?”
“Half a century. Fifty years at least.”
“You worked in her lab.”
“Briefly.”
“You left.”
“People do. It’s expected. This was all very long ago.” He was ready to move on.
But Cantrell had his teeth in it. “What was she like?”
“I barely remember. Smart. Successful.”
“Like you.”
“It was that kind of lab. Competitive. Highly prized. People killed to get into it.”
“Was it hard? Working side by side with her? Elbow to elbow. Two superstars, sharing the spotlight.”
“I was her student. Hardly a superstar. She mentored me.”
Cantrell nodded. His attention seemed to wander.
“I worked in a lab once,” he said. “I had a mentor, too. He stole my ideas. When I complained, he got rid of me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I got blacklisted.”
“How awful.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Not at all.”
Cantrell gave him a sly, conspiratorial look, as though he recognized a kindred spirit, a comrade in arms. “She got rid of you, didn’t she?”
Dashaud was speechless.
“We’re not so different,” Cantrell added.
Dashaud felt otherwise, as though a gauntlet had been tossed. “I got an offer from another lab. A very generous offer. She told me to take it. She was doing her job.”
“Told you, or asked you? Forced you maybe?”
“She guided me. That’s what mentors do.”
“I was told, too. I wasn’t asked. I wasn’t thanked. I was coerced.”
For Dashaud, an old wound, long since healed. He’d hated her for a time, but for a much longer time had understood the wisdom in what she had done, and admired her for it.
He would not stand idly by while her reputation was dragged through the mud.
“She gave me an option.”
“The HUBIE lab?”
“Wasn’t called that then. But yes. There was a core group. It was a good move.”
“Good? Career, Dashaud. Career. May I call you Dashaud?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Best thing that could have happened. Trust me on this.”
“Look. Abel. May I call you Abel?”
“My friends call me Spud.”
“Spud then.”
“Like the potato. I built a satellite when I was a kid. A little one, with a tiny hollow space inside. Named it Sputnik, in honor of … well, you know what. Later on, I changed the name, in honor of its first payload. Know what it was?”
“A potato chip.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Listen, Spud. Just to be perfectly clear. I’ve got no ax to grind. No grievance. Dr. Gharia’s the best there is. She’s in a class by herself. I’ve got nothing but respect for her.”
Cantrell looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“What secret? There is no secret.”
Cantrell made the motion of zipping his lips.
Dashaud felt the blood rise. He had an urge to rearrange the man’s face. This came as a surprise to him, as the days of uncontrolled impulses and outbursts were behind him. Far behind, or so he thought.
Cantrell was not a small man, but Dashaud Mikelson towered over him, and was half again as broad. His fists were like hams. His chest and biceps strained against the seams of his shirt.
He eyed the man, considering his options. Age and experience had taught him the value of restraint. Now he was young, with a young man’s sense of indignation and urgency, and a young man’s refusal to be straitjacketed.
He raised his hands, feeling mighty and righteous, intent on wringing the man’s neck.
Cantrell froze, then went for his gun. Quick, but not quick enough. Dashaud got to him first.
It was over in a second.
“Hey!” Cantrell yelped. “You’re crushing me.”
It was true. Dashaud had him pinned in a fierce, manly, beefcake embrace.
“Let me go!”
Dashaud released him. “So how did it taste?”
Cantrell gave him a wary look. “How did what taste?”
“The chip. When it got back.”
Puzzlement. Suspicion.
Dashaud grinned. “Crisp?”
“Is this a joke?”
“Salty?”
“You’re messin’ with me.”
“Cosmic?”
Cantrell’s wariness deepened. All at once he broke into a grin. Then a laugh. Here was the brother he’d never had. Fate, or foresight, had brought them together. The HUBIES, whom he’d faithfully nursed, were theirs together. He and Dashaud were their custodians. Their guardians. He and Dashaud: inextricably bound.
“Out of this world,” he said.
–FIVE–
…I may have seemed somewhat strange
caring in my own time for living things
with no value that we know…[1]
Human beings were not meant to float, so naturally everyone wanted to, Cav included. You could do it on Earth with injectable micropackets of supercharged helium. He’d tried these on a couple of occasions. What he got was a roller coaster ride. One moment up (as it were), then up higher, then flat on his back. He preferred something smoother and more predictable.
He’d dreamed about a voyage into space since boyhood. It was relatively easy to book a trip, which was not to say cheap. Somehow he’d never gotten around to it. Now here he was, living the dream, but late in the game, on the downslope of life, well past his prime. A missed opportunity, and a reason for regret.
3
A word of apocryphal origin. 1. An acronym for Hybrid Usable Body in Idiosyncratic Encephaloid State; alternatively, HUman Boosted Inhalation Experiment; 2. An insult, a slur; 3. A tribute, an accolade, an expression of esteem, as in “She hubied herself for the cause”; 4. Brainless and stupid; 5. An anagram for SHIEBU, goddess of perfume and good deeds; 6. A portmanteau of “hubris” and “boobie.”