GEM OF THE UNIVERSE

David Borcherding

Copyright (c) 1992

Woodstock Bach records his death fantasies is a small datpad he purchased en route to Yati. The palmtop computer sorts them automatically into one of three categories: Accidental Death, Murder, and Suicide. Accidental Death has the most entries (205), but Murder is a close second (199). Suicide lags far behind (45), and most of those are variations on a few themes.

The most recent entry is a Murder entry. He got the idea in the cab on the way from the downport.

      MURDER 199: The chiphead that shared my taxi decides I am worth
      robbing.  He breaks into my hotel room, and is halfway through my
      things when I return from dinner.  Using an implanted launch pistol,
      he blows my heart out.  I have enough time to write a last "I love
      you, Larrine" on the carpet, in blood.}

He isn't really being fair in that one, and he knows it. The chiphead had turned out to be a pretty nice guy, after he'd gotten to know him. A little odd, but then, they all are.

His name was the first odd thing. No, his hair was the first odd thing. It was a fluid, black mass dotted with microlights, a kind of model of the universe. The tiny white illuminators were so strong that the effect stood out even in full daylight. Woodstock couldn't help but stare, and soon noticed that the chiphead was staring back.

"Like it?" he said, shaking his head and causing the lights to dance wildly.

"Sorry."

"Sorry why? For noticing? Don't you think that's why I do it? I'd be pretty dumb not to want people to notice."

Woodstock hadn't said anything. Chipheads are a dangerous lot. The synapse-inhibitors, flatliners, and other drugs they do make them unpredictable. Say the wrong thing, and they're just as likely to vape your head as laugh. Woodstock hadn't wanted to die right then, not until he was sure there was no hope left for him and Larrine.

"My name's Richard," the other said, extending a slim, pale hand. When Woodstock took it, he was surprised by its warmth. It seemed to tingle with energy, perhaps having something to do with the lights. Perhaps some sort of weapon.

He dropped the hand as soon as he introduced himself, before this stranger named Richard could up the voltage. Turning to look out the window, he told himself he would not stare.

For the remainder of the ride, they said nothing more. Then, when the taxi reached Woodstock's hotel, Richard spoke.

"Why are you here?"

Not "Thanks for letting me share the cab," or "Have a nice vacation," but the question that had been on Woodstock's mind ever since he'd left his homeworld, Galondin. And one for which he had no answer.

Remembering it, he sits on his bed and wonders what Richard had meant. Had he known what Woodstock was thinking? As far as Woodstock knows, there are no psionic implants available. He doesn't know much about cybertech, though. Cybers are illegal on Galondin.

He pushes the thoughts aside and decides to go shopping. He skips the hotel gift shop and opts for the bright lights and bright colors of the shops on the street. They line the boulevard as far as he can see. Swahla's, Honest Blodgett's, Nuclear Ned's Powerhouse Bar & Grill, Chingteh's Casino.

He starts his buying odyssey at Swahla's with a very bright Yatiin shirt. On the back, a buxom dancing girl moves in the light. Next, he purchases a holographic paperweight with Yati afloat inside and "Gem Of The Universe" engraved in gold on a fauxwood base. He hums a requiem as he spends.

      SUICIDE 46: After spending all my credit, I starve to death in the
      streets of Yati, surrounded by bags on non-returnable souvenirs.
      Unless I die of pneumonia first from sleeping in the rain.}

He puts on the shirt and places the paperweight in one of its wide pockets. The weight stretches the shirt a bit, but it beats carrying around a bag all day.

While buying some Yatiin scene tiffs for his wallscape back home, he asks the clerk, a cute blond named whose nameplate says "Ayram," for the name of a good restaurant.

"Sheabin's is good, and it's just around the corner," she says, smiling a goddess' smile.

"Great. When do you get off?" It's reckless, but he's got nothing to lose.

Ayram smiles again, but this time it's not so wide.

"Sorry, but I've already got two jealous husbands, and they've made it quite clear that they don't want a third."

"I don't want to marry you," Woodstock says, "I just want to take you out for dinner. Consider it a very generous tip for such efficient service."

"Here's your receipt, sir," she replies, holding out the slip. "Thanks for the offer, but I really can't."

"No problem. You change your mind, just let me know, okay?"

She nods and smiles again, and Woodstock leaves. Out on the sidewalk, he takes a deep breath of the warm, floral scented air. Overhead, the sun shines in a cloudless cobalt sky.

So I failed, he thinks. So what. I'm here to have fun and I'm not going to let it bother me.

He turns the corner, finds Sheabin's, and goes in.

Two hours later, he finds himself at the allumer table. He's convinced that he's just had the best meal of his life. The Atlantan bluecrab legs were split and heavily buttered, and the body stuffed and basted with a slightly garlicky cream sauce. Fresh bread and an exotic salad filled what little space the crab had left, and he'd washed it all down with an expensive red wine called Brutezza.

He plans on spending the rest of the night gambling, making a big strike. He needs more credit so he can spend more tomorrow. It's the only thing that makes him feel better.

There are fourteen other players at the table, making it a full game. As soon as one drops out, another quickly takes his or her place. It's not long before the seat next to Woodstock opens up, and who should fill it but Richard.

He's still wearing the outfit he had on in the cab, a black synthskin jumper that matches his hair. His carry-on bag is over his shoulder, and the only other piece of luggage he'd had in the taxi, an instrument case, is missing. Woodstock wonders why he would leave one in his hotel room, and not the other.

Richard comes to the table with a fair-sized stack of chips. Apparently, his luck has been better than Woodstock's.

"How's the luck run here?" he asks as he sits down.

"Not bad, not good." Woodstock has fewer chips than when he started, but this round seems to be going his way.

Anje, the waitress, comes around regularly with free drinks for all the players. All except Richard, that is. Woodstock suspects that she's been ordered not to serve him. He looks around and notices the pit boss staring at Richard. An icy feeling stirs his gut.

Richard doesn't notice. While the rest of the table gets hammered on their free booze, Richard stays sober and keeps winning. His chips pile up, while everyone else's dwindle. Players begin to drop out faster.

What really gets to Woodstock is that the cyber doesn't even seem to care. Sure, when things are going right, you tend not to get flustered. But there's a unnatural calm about Richard, and Woodstock suspects he'd act the same even if he'd just lost everything. It's as if it's the game that's important, the fun, rather than the money.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The pit boss has suddenly appeared at Richard's elbow, with two large bouncers flanking him.

"Why?" Woodstock says, jumping up from his seat. "What's the problem."

"Relax, Woodstock. It's okay. I was just finishing anyway."

"Yeah, I bet you were, chip," the pit boss says. His nameplate reads Mr. Puppenase. "I bet you got a nice little program runnin' to beat this game, huh."

"No, actually I don't."

"Save it. Look, your kind ain't illegal here, but it ain't welcome, either. Now you can choose to leave on your own, or I can have Beni and Touch here escort you out."

Richard smiles, as if he's sharing an inside joke with an old friend.

"You're absolutely right," he says, and collects his chips. Woodstock collects his, too, and all five walk to the cashier's booth.

The cashier gives Woodstock his fifty credits, which he has her post to his account. As she counts through Richard's chips, Woodstock counts with her. His total is a hundred credits more than the money she hands to Richard. He starts to say this, but his friend silences him with a look and a smile.

"Thank you," Richard says, taking the cash. He peels off a fifty credit note and hands it back to her. "And this is for your trouble. Have a pleasant evening."

He turns from the booth and heads for the door, leaving Mr. Puppenase, Beni and Touch behind. Woodstock hurries after him.

      MURDER 200: I am beaten to death by two huge bouncers named Beni and
      Touch, because Richard has hacked them off.  My only crime is that I
      was with him.}

"They chizzed you, you know," Woodstock says, once they are outside. "You should have got a hundred credits more."

"Depends on how you choose to look at it. I think I chizzed them."

"You mean you really did have a calc chip in?"

"NO!" Richard's angry tone takes Woodstock by surprise. When he continues, he is calm again.

"How else can you choose to look at that situation, and say that I robbed them? Think about it before you answer."

They walk along in silence, Richard taking in the night sky, Woodstock staring at the ground in thought.

"You know," Richard says, "the body does funny things to help us think. When we try to remember something, we look up and to the right. When we try to create something new, like trying to think of a name for something, we look up and to the left. And when we are deep in thought, we tend to look down."

"Well, I was deep in thought, until you interrupted me," Woodstock says, casting an annoyed glance at his companion. "But what's your point?"

"My point is, everybody thinks in pre-established, age-old patterns. If people look up instead of down when they are deep in thought, maybe they'll find a new way of thinking about something. If they choose to think differently, they will."

"Anyway," Woodstock shrugs, "I can't think of how you beat those guys, unless you mean that you walked out with more than you walked in with."

"Exactly!"

"Richard, everyone does that! Yatiin casinos always let the players win, so that they spend it all, and more, in the Yatiin gift shops and such. Yati subsidizes the casinos for just that reason. You don't think they kicked you out because you won too much, do you? No way! They kicked you out because you're a -- "

Woodstock stops, catching himself before he actually says the words.

"I'm a what?"

"A, well, you know, a..."

"A what? A person?"

"No. A chiphead. Their term, not mine."

"You heard them say this?"

"No, but what did you think they meant by 'your kind'?"

"If you didn't hear them say it, it's your term."

"Richard, really, it's not."

"Doesn't matter," Richard says, his hair imitating the night sky, "because I'm not one."

"That's a good way to approach it. Refuse the label. Fight the prejudice by not being angered by it."

"No, Woodstock, you don't get it. I'm not cyberenhanced. There is no silicon in this body." As if to prove his point, the lights float up out of his hair and begin to dance in the air.

"What," Woodstock says after a moment, "are those things?"

"Just a miracle."

Woodstock stares at the dancing lights, then starts walking stiffly across the street towards a bar called Tough N' Eddie's.

"I need a drink," he calls over his shoulder, but Richard is right behind him.

Four hours later, they're in Jaeiou's Groundzero Lounge, having been kicked out of three others. Everything in the bar is chrome, and red and orange lights glare off all the surfaces. Each table is surrounded by a hush field, and can be programmed for whichever kind of music the customers desire. Woodstock and Richard have chosen nothing, so everything is silent. The only outside noise that intrudes comes when the waitress enters the field to take their order or bring them drinks.

Sitting in this haven of silence, they have talked about many things. Woodstock has learned that Richard has just come from Onyx, and is a wandering minstrel, a synthar player that plays when and where he gets the chance or the inclination. He would play now, but his instrument has been stolen.

"I was trying to explain to the desk clerk that I really had made reservations two weeks ago, and that they must have made an error. While I wasn't looking, someone walked off with my synthar."

"Did you tell the police? Did you ask the clerk if he'd seen anything?"

"She, and no she hadn't. And the police weren't very helpful either."

Woodstock knows why. Everyone on Yati thinks, as he thought, that Richard is a chiphead. In fact, Woodstock isn't sure what Richard is. After the incident in the street, they never talked about it. He needed a few drinks first, which he now has, and so he asks.

"What the hell are you, Richard?"

"I told you. A musician."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm just a person, just like you. Just like the pit boss and the cashier and the desk clerk and the police. People, every one of us."

"Except you're the only one who has dancing lights in his hair." Woodstock downs the last of his Nixx, and signals the waitress for another.

"I told you, it's just a miracle. No big deal."

"No big deal, huh. Just a miracle."

"You've got it! You really are a quick study, you know. Most people take a few lifetimes to learn the commonality of miracles." He smiles his placid smile again, the one that is starting to get on Woodstock's nerves. It's a smile that seems to say "I have a secret, and I'll only share it with you if you're nice to me."

"I've got it? I don't even know what the hell you're talking about!" He realizes he is yelling, and grins sheepishly at the waitress who's just entered the field to give him his drink.

"Look, Woodstock. Miracles are everyday things. Life is a miracle. This table is a miracle."

"How is this table a miracle?" Woodstock examines the chromed fixture. It isn't even an attractive design.

"Think about it. This table is made up of millions of molecules. Tiny little things we can't even see, and yet they are holding up this glass." He raises his glass, which has only water and a slice of Deluran candyfruit in it, and then sets it back down with a loud clink. "What gives those little things the strength to do that, hmm? Why doesn't the glass just sink right through it, like it would if this table were made of water? As a matter of fact, why doesn't it just pass right through it as if it were air? Air is made up of molecules, too."

"I dunno." Everything Richard is saying makes sense to Woodstock, but he writes it all off to the Nixx.

"Me either." He picks up the glass again, then drops it from about four inches over the table. It passes right through.

Woodstock quickly looks under the table, amazed. What is even more amazing is that the glass is just hovering in the air as firm as if it were sitting on the table.

"For that matter," Richard says, looking under the table with Woodstock, "Why does it pass through air? If a table molecules can hold it up, why can't air molecules?" He grabs the glass and sets it back on the table. This time, it stays.

"Once you start questioning the why of reality, you realize that nothing is real."

"Oh fuck," is all that Woodstock says, and lets his head fall hard against the very real table.

      MURDER 201: Richard convinces me that I can pass through solid
      matter, and tells me to step in front of a speeding gravcab to prove
      it.  I am so drunk, I believe I can.  The gravcab reminds me that I
      can't.

"What is that?" Richard leans across the table to look at the datpad.

"My death diary." He shoves it across, and his friend picks it up. After reading a few entries, he shoves it back with a frown.

"Woodstock, why are you here?"

"You asked me that at the hotel."

"And you never answered."

"Ah, yes. Well, the short version is that I was dropped by a woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with." He slugs down the rest of his Nixx, and signals for yet another. He's beginning to think that Richard is right about this whole reality thing. He feels like he is floating.

"So you came here to forget her, and fantasize about death."

"No way can I forget her. We're soulmates. We're meant to be together."

"No you're not." Richard smiles again, and Woodstock fights the urge to break his teeth.

"How would you know? You don't even know her."

"If you two were soulmates, don't you think she would realize it too? Since she doesn't, you aren't."

"Oh, I forgot. You know everything."

"When you get past your pain, you'll realize it's true."

The bartender enters the hush field, bearing Woodstock's drink. He sets it down in front of Woodstock, but his eyes are locked on Richard.

"Don't you think it's about time you chummies hack out?" He's a big man, and his stance and eyes are threatening.

"Dammit, I am tired of getting thrown out of bars. My friend here is a human being, just like you and me. What the fuck is your problem?" Woodstock manages to get to his feet, but he's having trouble staying there.

The bartender looks at him, then stares at Richard again.

"I don't count cyboys as being the same as you and me."

"You know what you are?" Woodstock starts. Before he can finish, Richard stands and grabs his arm.

"We were just leaving. Sorry about the trouble."

"Trouble? You ain't seen trouble yet, pal," Woodstock shouts. The heavy paperweight in his pocket is making it difficult for him to keep his balance.

"Come on, Woodstock." Richard pulls at his friend's arm.

"Better listen to your chum, cyberlover." The bartender takes a menacing step towards them.

"Cyberlover? You overdeveloped, glandular freak. You wouldn't know a true implant from a... a..."

"Come on, Woodstock."

"From your own, steroid-shrunken willy!" Woodstock grins broadly and looks at Richard, proud that he is able to finish the insult in such a grand manner. When he looks back, it's just in time to see the fist.

The next thing he knows, he's in the dark. At first, he thinks he's dead. Then he feels the hand that is still on his shoulder.

"Richard?" He looks over, and sees the lights in his friend's hair. "Where are we? Why does it smell so bad?"

"We're in the sewer below the bar." That answers both questions.

Woodstock looks down and sees nothing. He does, however, begin to feel the slippery ooze soaking through his shoes and pants legs.

"How?"

"Well, it's the funniest thing. Remember our talk about molecules before? Seems they decided not to hold us up at just the right time."

Woodstock starts chuckling and slowly builds into a full- scale guffaw. Soon Richard joins in, and they laugh together until the sewer is filled with their echoes.

He wakes up on the steps of The Night Fantastique, a local pleasure palace. Someone is shaking him gently, telling him he has to leave. He sits up, groggy but not hung over. Every detail of the previous night is clear in his head. Every word spoken still echoes as if it's just been said.

He searches his pockets to make sure everything is still there. Next to the paperweight, he finds a folded napkin.

      It was a pleasure to spend the evening with you.  I am sorry we did
      not get the chance to finish our conversation, but the authorities
      insist that I leave.  I hope we got far enough along for you to
      figure the rest out.  I am sure we will meet again, if we choose to.
      Until then, take care.

      -R

Woodstock stares at it for a moment, then re-folds it and places it back in his pocket. He hails a cab and takes it back to his hotel.

After a quick pass through the sonic shower, he packs and touches the comm link.

"Front desk," says a polite, female voice.

"This is room 1342. I will be checking out immediately. Could you please send someone up for my bags?"

"But Mr. Bach, you are still registered for five more days."

"And I imagine you'll credit my account for that, won't you?"

"If you choose."

"I do. Thank you." He touches the link again and silences it.

Sitting down at the room's data terminal, he brings up the hourly departure schedule for the starport. There's a ship going back to Galondin, one heading for Onyx, and a third heading for Etherea, one of the outermost planets of the Imperium. He logs a ticket for Etherea as the porter arrives for his bags.

On the way to the starport, the gravcab passes Swahla's. Something in the window catches Woodstock's eye, and he has the taxi stop.

"How much for the synthar in the window?" he asks the clerk. It is a man this time, perhaps one of Ayram's jealous husbands.

"A fine instrument, sir. Not many -- "

"Look, I'm in a hurry. The meter's running on the cab there. How much?"

"Five hundred credits."

He crosses to the window, lifts the synthar and its case out of the display.

"It's used. See, there's a custom's sticker still on the case." And sure enough, it's the Onyx Customs Bureau. "I'll give you three hundred, that's all. No dicking. Like I said, my meter's running."

The clerk nods, and Woodstock hands him his credit chip. He also gives him the paperweight.

"What's this?" The clerk eyes it with suspicion.

"Gem of the Universe. I'm returning it. It's flawed."

Dave Borcherding was born, raised and, regrettably, still lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. He writes mainstream fiction and science fiction, and has a novel in progress (PANGAEA). He is also a freelance writer for Writer's Digest Books.

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