Asimov's Science Fiction: September 2013 by Penny Publications
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #452
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(exclusively hetero and with dialogue in incomprehensible English), pop music
(GENRE: Swahili guitar rumba),
and a very, very large collection of old text-only books in English. In the home folder was a text file named Bill.
BILL—REMEMBER HOW MAD TINA WAS ABOUT THE SLINGSHOT? GLAD SHE NEVER MAN-AGED TO CRUSH YOUR SPIRIT. HERE'S ANOTHER "SLINGSHOT," IN CASE YOU NEED ONE. YOU PROBABLY DON'T, IN WHICH CASE PLEASE FORGIVE THE IMPERTINENCE. WHEN YOU'RE MY AGE, GROWN MEN SEEM LIKE BOYS. THIS IS THE ONLY COPY, SO IF YOU DECIDE IT'S TOO HOT, JUST DELETE AND FORGET.—YUEN
That was the one thing she'd needed to know: that there wasn't another copy of the illegal library on some other gadget wedged in a crack at the cabin, tagged as a cotton T-shirt. She would erase the books, run over the phone with the car, and then erase the car's memory so that it wouldn't have incriminating video left from its interior safety cameras. Erasing the memory on your own house or car could be considered incriminating (Voorhis versus Todd, 2086), but it was a perfectly natural thing to do when you didn't want the clerk at the rental agency to ogle your cleavage after you returned the car.
Was the phone tagged? She popped up an interface, and a yellow rectangle appeared, hovering in the air above the old phone: SLINGSHOT.
Hell.
Fari hated the image of herself as Bill's mother, Tina, taking away his dangerous toy. The old battle-ax. If Lancelot had had a mother like her, he would have ended up as a nearsighted clerk.
Bill and Shona were surprised when Fari suggested a jaunt to Tanzania.
"Why?" Bill asked.
"It sounds interesting from Yuen's travel journal," Fari said. "We could see how it's changed since then."
"I've only been to Africa once," Bill said, "for that company picnic."
"Sure, why not?" Shona said. "We could be back in time to see the sun rise again here."
Before they left, Fari put the phone in her duffel bag.
The sign said Kilimanjaro Backpackers' Hotel. Bill and Shona looked dubious, but Fari insisted on going in and asking the price of a room. In the dimly lit little lobby, she put her bag down by the door next to a ratty sansevieria and stood in line at the counter, where the clerk was helping a couple of Japanese kids who looked like they needed a bath and were having the time of their lives. She winked up an interface and subvocalized to it to locate her bag.
HIS AREA DOES NOT HAVE A TAG NETWORK.
LOCATE VISUALLY.
NO EYE AVAILABLE IN THIS AREA.
Bingo, a completely dumb building.
After an hour in the transatlantic tube and another thirty minutes from Dakar to Mombasa, Shona felt like a sardine with a hangover. A gimlet in a plastic martini glass on the final leg to Moshi got her just a little pickled again, and she decided that the pickle jar was a much more comfy place than the sardine can. But by the time they were walking down the main drag, with Billy pointing out Kilimanjaro through the clouds, she felt as though she were pregnant with triplet baby pickles, who were doing jumping jacks on top of her bladder. The hotel Fari found was dirty and not air-conditioned, but Shona gave the thumbs up and rushed upstairs to her own room. The toilet seemed dumb as a brick, which was actually a bonus since she didn't know whether the xylecisan she'd popped the night before was illegal here.
Shortly, someone knocked. "Come in."
Billy entered with Fari in tow. Fari closed the door behind them, looking furtive. Furtive, that was promising. Billy usually had a tendency to be a boring boy scout.
"We've got something here you should see," Billy said, holding out a palm-sized plastic box.
Shona took it and looked it over. "What is it?"
"An old phone."
"Yuen's?" She tried to pop up her tag interface. NETWORK NOT FOUND. The building must be dumb. "It's got the files on it?"
"Yep. Eleven million books." Billy showed her how to work the old-fashioned touch interface, and she flipped randomly through some titles.
FRANCE TO
(GENRE: Swahili guitar rumba),
and a very, very large collection of old text-only books in English. In the home folder was a text file named Bill.
BILL—REMEMBER HOW MAD TINA WAS ABOUT THE SLINGSHOT? GLAD SHE NEVER MAN-AGED TO CRUSH YOUR SPIRIT. HERE'S ANOTHER "SLINGSHOT," IN CASE YOU NEED ONE. YOU PROBABLY DON'T, IN WHICH CASE PLEASE FORGIVE THE IMPERTINENCE. WHEN YOU'RE MY AGE, GROWN MEN SEEM LIKE BOYS. THIS IS THE ONLY COPY, SO IF YOU DECIDE IT'S TOO HOT, JUST DELETE AND FORGET.—YUEN
That was the one thing she'd needed to know: that there wasn't another copy of the illegal library on some other gadget wedged in a crack at the cabin, tagged as a cotton T-shirt. She would erase the books, run over the phone with the car, and then erase the car's memory so that it wouldn't have incriminating video left from its interior safety cameras. Erasing the memory on your own house or car could be considered incriminating (Voorhis versus Todd, 2086), but it was a perfectly natural thing to do when you didn't want the clerk at the rental agency to ogle your cleavage after you returned the car.
Was the phone tagged? She popped up an interface, and a yellow rectangle appeared, hovering in the air above the old phone: SLINGSHOT.
Hell.
Fari hated the image of herself as Bill's mother, Tina, taking away his dangerous toy. The old battle-ax. If Lancelot had had a mother like her, he would have ended up as a nearsighted clerk.
Bill and Shona were surprised when Fari suggested a jaunt to Tanzania.
"Why?" Bill asked.
"It sounds interesting from Yuen's travel journal," Fari said. "We could see how it's changed since then."
"I've only been to Africa once," Bill said, "for that company picnic."
"Sure, why not?" Shona said. "We could be back in time to see the sun rise again here."
Before they left, Fari put the phone in her duffel bag.
The sign said Kilimanjaro Backpackers' Hotel. Bill and Shona looked dubious, but Fari insisted on going in and asking the price of a room. In the dimly lit little lobby, she put her bag down by the door next to a ratty sansevieria and stood in line at the counter, where the clerk was helping a couple of Japanese kids who looked like they needed a bath and were having the time of their lives. She winked up an interface and subvocalized to it to locate her bag.
HIS AREA DOES NOT HAVE A TAG NETWORK.
LOCATE VISUALLY.
NO EYE AVAILABLE IN THIS AREA.
Bingo, a completely dumb building.
After an hour in the transatlantic tube and another thirty minutes from Dakar to Mombasa, Shona felt like a sardine with a hangover. A gimlet in a plastic martini glass on the final leg to Moshi got her just a little pickled again, and she decided that the pickle jar was a much more comfy place than the sardine can. But by the time they were walking down the main drag, with Billy pointing out Kilimanjaro through the clouds, she felt as though she were pregnant with triplet baby pickles, who were doing jumping jacks on top of her bladder. The hotel Fari found was dirty and not air-conditioned, but Shona gave the thumbs up and rushed upstairs to her own room. The toilet seemed dumb as a brick, which was actually a bonus since she didn't know whether the xylecisan she'd popped the night before was illegal here.
Shortly, someone knocked. "Come in."
Billy entered with Fari in tow. Fari closed the door behind them, looking furtive. Furtive, that was promising. Billy usually had a tendency to be a boring boy scout.
"We've got something here you should see," Billy said, holding out a palm-sized plastic box.
Shona took it and looked it over. "What is it?"
"An old phone."
"Yuen's?" She tried to pop up her tag interface. NETWORK NOT FOUND. The building must be dumb. "It's got the files on it?"
"Yep. Eleven million books." Billy showed her how to work the old-fashioned touch interface, and she flipped randomly through some titles.
FRANCE TO
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