Excerpt


“Nearly complete damage between the second and third thoracic vertebrae. Layman’s terms, son, you’re looking at paraplegia for life.”

“Shouldn’t the doctor be telling me this?” said Arch.

“Oh, he’ll be in soon enough with the proper diagnosis,” the suit said. “I’ve arranged to have a few minutes with you before that.”

“To gloat?”

The suit laughed an insincere laugh. “Of course not. So cynical! I’m here to offer you participation in a clinical trial. You’re familiar with lanxisol?”

“A little,” Arch said. He’d seen alarmist media reports, but hadn’t put much stock in them.

“Well, there’s a newer derivative we’re developing–lanxisol centlin. It promises far more potent benefits with fewer side effects. We’ve got the chair of the Senate Democratic Caucus breathing down our neck to get it approved so his little brother can walk again. That’s where you come in.”

“Don’t mind him,” the bartender said. “The Withdry family’s always been a boil on our collective asses.”

“I beg your parton?” William Withdry said, stumbling from his chair. “Say that again, you toadsucking waterserver!”

“What, the part about your grandfather being hung for stealing horses?” said the bartender. “From the only ranch in the territory? As I recall, they found him from a monogrammed kerchief he left at the scene–why, yes, that’s right, the Withdrys came in all foppish from back east looking to make a fortune and quickly slithered back into the dust.”

“You’re trying my patience, old man,” William said, swaying a bit on his feet.

“Or maybe you meant your pappy, the great filibuster, who got himself down to Mexico to earn himself a fortune to replace the one his pappy shat on,” the bartender roared. “Spent two years in a Mexican jail after his men deserted him, and your mammy had to sell everything you owned to make bail!”

A pistol was in William’s hand. “Them’s fightin’ words,” he growled.

A shotgun was in the bartender’s. “Oh, you hear that from a real poke, Billy? Where’d you be without this place, anyhow? Blind from your momma’s moonshine?”

The Adele-Deerton-Osborn Heights district wasn’t very populated, but the state representative it offered was highly coveted due to the low number of registered voters and relatively lax residency requirements. It was, in effect, a pocket borough in the making. The region had changed party loyalty a few times, and was competitive between Blue Dogs and Republicans.

For geographical convenience, especially as many of the tiny communities could barely handle local elections (so say nothing of the many absentee ballots) most poling was done at Adele-Deerton-Osborn Heights (ADO) North, in Adele, and ADO South, in Deerton. Wags had noted for a long time that either place represented a key electoral choke point, and that a savvy campaigner might be able to tip the election one way or another by exploiting the lay of the land.

This is the story of how Annabelle Greer did just that.

Over time, the names had gotten garbled. Nobody could be sure what had happened between system migrations and transcription errors; the Orynally line might have had an altogether different name when it began 133 iterations ago.

The foreman fiddled with his controls. “Ready for transmigration. Please signify final consent.”

Orynally 133 raised a trembling arm and pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner.

“Processing,” the foreman said. His job could easily have been automated, but the powers-that-be felt that it was necessary to humanize the process; his robotic delivery seemed to belie that assertion. “Accepted. Prepare for transmigration.”

Wires were inserted into Orynally 133’s seventeen dermal data ports, and consciousness drained away with a sudden, cold wave, like jumping into ice water.

“IOM?”

“Trade term,” Toyohara said. “Soybeans from Indiana, Ohio, and Michigan. High in protein, best in the world. Big in the futures and commodities markets.”

“Fair enough,” Masterson replied, “but what’s that got to do with the crash?”

“Haven’t you been watching the weather in your country?”

“I come from California,” said Masterson. “We don’t have weather, we have smog.”

Toyohara smirked. “Bad winter, early frost, late crop and small. People were gambling on a good yield; lost their shirts.”

“They’re coming!” Jan shouted, panicked. “Hurry!” She’d gotten the storm shutters down over most of the windows.

“I can’t!” Chrissy cried from the front. The first undead was at the edge of the parking lot, with hundreds behind.

“Why not?”

Chrissy turned around, her eyes bloodshot from terror and tears. “It’s a Danny’s restaurant! Open 24/7! They didn’t put any locks on the doors!”

Jan armed herself with a fillet knife from the grill. “Sweet mother of mercy.”

In theory, the Pskov-Lindberg drive was elegant and simple. Every star and galaxy in the universe was in motion, and by adjusting the vessel’s position in time, but not space, vast distances could be covered in a fraction of the time needed for normal space travel.

The calculations were exceedingly complex, but the popular press rendered the Pskov-Lindberg “geting there before you left.” A normal spacecraft would struggle to pass 20 km/s even with a gravitational assist, while the universe is expanding at nearly 80 km/s. At 80 km/s, it would take 16 years to reach Proxima Centauri. But by shifting 16 years backward in time along the correct trajectory, a Pskov-Lindberg drive could make the trip instantly and arrive well before it left.

Tests with unmanned drone ships and laboratory animals were promising, but the world government was under immense political pressure and cut corners. The first hundred Arks–Pskov-Lindberg equipped starships with volunteer colonists–were constructed and launched before a single human test had been performed. The science community fretted over the lack of radio traffic from the worlds selected for colonization–which should have arrived years before the Arks departed–but could not prevent the launch.

What happened next took centuries to reconstruct. Through a combination of factors, the Arks arrived at their destinations not 20-30 years before their departure, but 20000-30000. The Arks were in fact assumed destroyed until the advent of the Higgs drive in the next century, when astonished surveyors reported contact with humans speaking an unknown language. The Arks had survived, with their descendents were now spread across the most desirable colony worlds with thousands of years of independent biological and cultural evolution.

Inevitably, conflicts broke out between the settlers arriving on fast, safe Higgs spacecraft and the people they came to call Arkers.

In a land that appears on no map
Is a tower with no doors or windows
In the tower with no doors or windows
Is a room with no entrances or exits
In the room with no entrances or exits
Is a box with no keyhole or lid
In the box with no keyhole or lid
Is a treasure without value or worth
In the treasure without value or worth
Is the rule of the breadth of the land
In the hands of a worthy man

It was a silly saying, Masaka mused, one that had been passed down from tongue to tongue so that it no longer rhymed in any language. But even today, in a world of automobiles and cellular telephones, many of his countrymen believed the old riddle that predated even the arrival of Islam. Many a village sage had laid the failure of government after government and the succession of coup after coup on the lack of that paradoxically worthless treasure.

Masaka didn’t believe the legend, but he believed in propaganda. That is why he had brought in archaeologists and surveyors to scour the records, aerial photographs and–if need be–the dunes themselves to locate a structure that matched the description of the legend well enough to pass. He’d taken time out from the tiring routine of personally interrogating and executing political enemies to review potential sites before selecting a site in the al-Qabs dune sea.

The tower was a relic of an abandoned trade route, and any entrances or exits it once had were obscured by sand. Masaka had his men dig an entrance from beneath. There was indeed a room, partially formed by rubble, with no ingress or egress. Masaka had his men tunnel through decorative limestone–ignoring the protests of the Western archaeologists. And in that room there was a stone object choked with rubble that could be charitably described as a box. Masaka removed the rubble personally; a bit of period papyrus subtly altered by his hirelings was tucked in his sleeve just in case.

What he hadn’t considered–what even the riddle was silent about–was what would happen should an unworthy man open that container with neither hinges nor keyhole.

He found out soon enough.

“Well, putrefaction had pretty well set in by the time we were able to run our tests,” Schoenberg said, “but we were able to identify the substance found on the victim’s hands and under her fingernails.”

“Excellent,” said Maier, putting aside her paperwork. “Let’s hear it.”

“It’s chrysophanic acid, also known as rumicen and a host of other lay names,” Schoenberg said, laying a folder with the results on Maier’s desk. “It’s a yellow crystalline substance extracted from rhubarb, yellow dock, sienna, and other related plants.”

“So we cross-check our victim with known rhubarb farmers?” Maier said. “Somehow I doubt that’s going to get us anywhere.”

“It’s used in the treatment of skin diseases, mostly by herbal nuts. You tend to see it used to treat psoriasis, eczema, and the like by people who are allergic to the standard treatments or–more often–granola-shitting hippies.”

“That’s awfully square of you, Detective,” Maier laughed. “Weren’t you born during the Summer of Love?”

“Yeah, to a military family. My family never wondered why the national guard opened up on the flower power set; we wondered why they stopped.”

“I don’t think you quite understand,” Thomson said.

“I should say I don’t,” replied Manderley. “You’re waving a piece of ancient paper with mucky-muck scribbles on it and somehow expecting this layman to intuit what it is that’s got you hot and bothered”

Thomson sighed. “This is hieroglyphic script, roughly contemporaneous with the Narmer Palette.” Seeing the blank look on Manderley’s face, he quickly added “The oldest hieroglyphics we know of.”

“Sound like it might be valuable,” Manderley conceded. “Sell it and see that I get my cut as financier.”

“No, no!” Thomson cried. “Narmer was the first pharaoh, who united upper and lower Egypt and transformed a loose confederation of tribes into a nation-state. Most of his cities remain lost to us, including the military outpost at Ut and Narmer’s capitol at Thinis.”

“I’m still leaning toward selling it,” said Manderley. “I think I could sniff out a buyer that could keep us fully funded for a year–more if it’s private and not a museum.”

“Then you’d be about as savvy as the people in Twain’s story that burned mummies for locomotive fuel. This papyrus was located in a dig that appears to be the ruins of the Ut outpost. It contains an exact map to the location of Thinis.”

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