Escape Velocity: The Anthology by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

downpour.
           “ So?” the bus driver called. “You gettin’ off here, or what?”
           “ Not my stop! Not my stop!”
           They lurched ahead. The old man reached for the metal safety pole. He was suddenly beside himself with unreasoning dread. The knuckles with graying hair grasped the stainless steel pole even tighter. An unconscious fear of something he could not identify made him look around for a moment. However, there was only the rain and the damp and the growling of the bus.
           The Zozoian extinguished the geezer’s soul. Now he could begin to give the body the care it was due. If only the dice had rolled up something younger this time, he thought.
           He decided to go back to the seat and sit down, where he began a habit of talking too much, to nobody at all. Rotund drops pounded the roof harder than ever.
           The Zozoian brooded aloud. “Damn it to hell. Damn it to hell.”
           The babbling geezer mumbled away, his voice much wearier and heavier than before. He had only one thing on his mind: the girls were whores.

Sixes, Sevens
     
    Simon Petrie
     
    The visitor this time is a Gamma, slightly shorter in stature than a standard human; with a hide of felted grey fur, trending to light blue at the extremities and across the rump. Face shaped somewhat like a parrot’s, but lacking a beak: the eyes placed on the sides of the head in the defensive cast of the plains herbivore rather than our own more predatory, binocular, configuration. He – it is a he, though I don’t stare – enters the room, bearing a sealed tray of food samples and a whiff of fish oil and burnt metal. I meet his gaze, waiting for him to convey any messages he might have – are they ready to transport me to the Library? But he remains silent – tomorrow, then – and I thank him for the meal, which I have placed on the room’s sole piece of furniture, a plain chaise.
           He lingers, examining me by first one eye, and then the other. They are eyes of dark solitude and mystery. I begin to wonder at the continuation of his stay in this room, whose synthesized atmosphere is toxic, even corrosive to him as it is to all Cygnid lifeforms. Does he possess subcutaneous breathing apparatus or an unexpectedly large lung capacity? I do not know, but he is holding mouth and nostrils closed. He stands, lingering, one eye on me and the other on the room’s one, prominent, window: a rectangle of synthetic diamond. Then, in some fashion, he speaks, though the mouth stays sealed: “I share your pain.”
           The speech, in a gentle bass register, is measured, and probably as artificial as the atmosphere and the food on my tray. Human speech does not fit easily within the Cygnids’ various vocalization techniques. I am at a loss for response to this cryptic utterance.
           Even though we have been in contact with Cygnid society for the past fifty years, they retain a reputation as creatures who are aloof, subtle, and frustratingly patient. I meet his monocular stare for perhaps ten seconds, not finding any words with which to reply. The Gamma’s remark is at odds with my long experience of Cygnid communication and behavior. They are a species that shies away from emotive or personal observation. Then the connection is severed, and we both turn our heads. I look towards the window, he the door. Before he leaves, from some dermal pouch on his belly or thigh he produces a sachet containing a dark streamlined object, and this he places on the chaise, nodding towards it. Then he turns towards the window and bows with a quick, knifelike motion before leaving, the door scything shut behind him.
           I examine the sachet, a polymer blister that retains a topnote of Cygnid pungency, but which feels clean to the touch. Inside is a grey-black gadget of a type I have not seen before, about the size and shape of a coffee bulb. An accompaniment to the meal,