Future Crimes Read online

  FUTURE CRIMES

  Edited by

  JACK DANN AND GARNER DOZOIS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FUTURE CRIMES

  Copyright © 2013 by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois.

  Cover art by Getty Images. "Woman Surrounded by Network of Grids and Lines (Digital Composite)" © 2003 by Zap Art.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  ISBN: 0-441-01118-7

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-112-2

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS MADE FOR PERMISSION TO REPRINT THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL:

  "The Dog Said Bow-Wow," by Michael Swanwick. Copyright © 2001 by Dell Magazines. First published in Asimov's Science Fiction, October/November 2001. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "A Scraping at the Bones," by Algis Budrys. Copyright © 1975 by Conde Nast Publications, Inc. First published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, May 1975. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "The Retrieval Artist," by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Copyright © 2000 by Dell Magazines. First published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, June 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Time Bum," by C. M. Kornbluth. Copyright © 1953 by C. M. Kornbluth. First published in Fantastic, January/February 1953. Reprinted by permission of the author's estate and the agents for the estate, Curtis Brown, Ltd.

  "Mercurial," by Kim Stanley Robinson. Copyright © 1985 by Terry Carr. First published in Universe 15 (Doubleday). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  'Taking the Piss," by Brian Stableford. Copyright © 2002 by Dell Magazines. First published in Asimov's Science Fiction, May 2002. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Death of Reason," by Tony Daniel. Copyright © 1992 by Bantam Doubleday Dell. First published in Asimov's Science Fiction, September 1992. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  PREFACE

  For thousands of years, an evolutionary arms-race has been going on between the guardians of the Law and those who want to break it. Usually, the criminals are a step or two ahead, thinking of clever new ways to Get Away With It—until the Law catches up with them, quite literally, and closes the clever new loopholes they've opened with new methods and techniques.

  In the last hundred years, this arms-race has dramatically escalated, as new technologies have given surprising new weapons to those on either side of the Law—cars and airplanes on one hand, making it easier for criminals to get away, fingerprinting and DNA testing and instant worldwide communications, on the other hand, making it harder for them to avoid capture or identification.

  Some of the battlefields didn't even exist only a few decades back. Forty years ago, there was no such thing as computer crime (because there was no such thing as computers, at least in the forms we know them today)—but there was also no such thing as the use of computers to investigate crime, either, a task at which they have proved awesomely effective.

  So you win some, and you lose some. Take two steps forward, and then a step back.

  And you ain't seen nothing yet!

  As technology continues to increase in sophistication and power, so the opportunities to use that technology for crime will increase. In the high-speed future just ahead, we're likely to see crimes that don't even exist yet, as hightech criminals come up with whole new categories of crime that nobody has even thought of yet, here in the opening days of the twenty-first century—and the evolutionary arms-race will continue to escalate as well, at a faster pace than ever before, as the Law scrambles to come up with new ways to frustrate those bizarre new crimes and bring even the most technologically sophisticated criminals to justice.

  So open the pages of this book, and let some of the world's most expert dreamers show you what the ancient game of Cops and Robbers is going to look like in the future, when high-tech identity theft, mutant con men, cyborg Mafia dons, murderous inventions, sinister Group Minds, people who kill for apartment space, sophisticated art thieves operating on the blazing surface of Mercury, and many other now-unknown crimes (including futures where you could be breaking the law by urinating . . . or by being late for work!) are the things that must be combated by the equally high-tech detectives of the future. So break out your spacesuit and your Virtual Reality set, your time-shuttle, your laser gun, and your faithful robot Watson, and get ready to solve some science fiction mysteries that are literally out of this world—sometimes way out. The game is afoot! Enjoy!

  (For more speculations about future crime of one sort or another, check out our Ace anthologies Hackers, Clones, Nanotech, and Genometry.)

  THE DOG SAID BOW-WOW

  Michael Swanwick

  Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980, and in the twenty-three years that have followed has established himself as one of SF's most prolific and consistently excellent writers at short lengths, as well as one of the premier novelists of his generation. He has several times been a finalist for the Nebula Award, as well as for the World Fantasy Award and for the John W. Campbell Award, and has won the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the Asimov's Science Fiction Readers Award poll. In 1991 his novel Stations of the Tide won him a Nebula Award as well, and in 1995 he won the World Fantasy Award for his story "Radio Waves." In the last few years he's been busy winning Hugo Awards—he won the Hugo in 1999 for his story "The Very Pulse of the Machine," another Hugo in 2000 for "Scherzo with Tyrannosaur," and his third Hugo in 2002 for the story that follows. His other books include his first novel, In the Drift, which was published in 1985, a novella-length book, Griffin's Egg, 1987's popular novel Vacuum Flowers, a critically acclaimed fantasy novel, The Iron Dragon's Daughter, which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and the Arthur C. Clarke Award (a rare distinction!), and Jack Faust, a sly reworking of the Faust legend that explores the unexpected impact of technology on society. His short fiction has been assembled in Gravity's-Angels, A Geography of Unknown Lands, Slow Dancing through Time (a collection of his collaborative short work with other writers), Moon Dogs, Puck Aleshire's Abecedary, and Tales of Old Earth. He's also published a collection of critical articles, The Postmodern Archipelago, and a book-length interview, Being Gardner Dozois. His most recent book is a major new novel, Bones of the Earth. Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Marianne Porter (son Sean left for college). He has a website at.

  Here he takes us to a colorful, curious, and eccentric future to spin a swashbuckling, slyly entertaining adventure that shows us that certain kinds of con games will probably go on forever, and that con men will probably always be with us—no matter what they look like.

  The dog looked as if he had just stepped out of a children's book. There must have been a hundred physical adaptations required to allow him to walk upright. The pelvis, of course, had been entirely reshaped. The feet alone would have needed dozens of changes. He had knees, and knees were tricky.

  To say nothing of the neurological enhancements.

  But what Darger found himself most fascinated by was the creature's costume. His suit fit him perfectly, with a slit in the back for the tail, and—again—a hundred invisible adaptations that caused it to hang on his body in a way that looked perfectly natural.

/>   "You must have an extraordinary tailor," Darger said.

  The dog shifted his cane from one paw to the other, so they could shake, and in the least affected manner imaginable replied, "That is a common observation, sir."

  "You're from the States?" It was a safe assumption, given where they stood—on the docks—and that the schooner Yankee Dreamer had sailed up the Thames with the morning tide. Darger had seen its bubble sails over the rooftops, like so many rainbows. "Have you found lodgings yet?"

  "Indeed I am, and no I have not. If you could recommend a tavern of the cleaner sort?"

  "No need for that. I would be only too happy to put you up for a few days in my own rooms." And, lowering his voice, Darger said, "I have a business proposition to put to you."

  "Then lead on, sir, and I shall follow you with a right good will."

  The dog's name was Sir Blackthorpe Ravenscairn de Plus Precieux, but "Call me Sir Plus," he said with a self-denigrating smile, and "Surplus" he was ever after.

  Surplus was, as Darger had at first glance suspected and by conversation confirmed, a bit of a rogue—something more than mischievous and less than a cut-throat. A dog, in fine, after Darger's own heart.

  Over drinks in a public house, Darger displayed his box and explained his intentions for it. Surplus warily touched the intricately carved teak housing, and then drew away from it. "You outline an intriguing scheme, Master Darger—"

  "Please. Call me Aubrey."

  "Aubrey, then. Yet here we have a delicate point. How shall we divide up the . . . ah, spoils of this enterprise? I hesitate to mention this, but many a promising partnership has foundered on precisely such shoals."

  Darger unscrewed the salt cellar and poured its contents onto the table. With his dagger, he drew a fine line down the middle of the heap. "I divide—you choose. Or the other way around, if you please. From self-interest, you'll not find a grain's difference between the two."

  "Excellent!" cried Surplus and, dropping a pinch of salt in his beer, drank to the bargain.

  It was raining when they left for Buckingham Labyrinth. Darger stared out the carriage window at the drear streets and worn buildings gliding by and sighed. "Poor, weary old London! History is a grinding-wheel that has been applied too many a time to thy face."

  "It is also," Surplus reminded him, "to be the making of our fortunes. Raise your eyes to the Labyrinth, sir, with its soaring towers and bright surfaces rising above these shops and flats like a crystal mountain rearing up out of a ramshackle wooden sea, and be comforted."

  "That is fine advice," Darger agreed. "But it cannot comfort a lover of cities, nor one of a melancholic turn of mind."

  "Pah!" cried Surplus, and said no more until they arrived at their destination.

  At the portal into Buckingham, the sergeant-interface strode forward as they stepped down from the carriage. He blinked at the sight of Surplus, but said only, "Papers?"

  Surplus presented the man with his passport and the credentials Darger had spent the morning forging, then added with a negligent wave of his paw, "And this is my autistic."

  The sergeant-interface glanced once at Darger. and forgot about him completely. Darger had the gift, priceless to one in his profession, of a face so nondescript that once someone looked away, it disappeared from that person's consciousness forever. "This way, sir. The officer of protocol will want to examine these himself."

  A dwarf savant was produced to lead them through the outer circle of the Labyrinth. They passed by ladies in bio-luminescent gowns and gentlemen with boots and gloves cut from leathers cloned from their own skin. Both women and men were extravagantly bejeweled—for the ostentatious display of wealth was yet again in fashion—and the halls were lushly clad and pillared in marble, porphyry, and jasper. Yet Darger could not help noticing how worn the carpets were, how chipped and sooted the oil lamps. His sharp eye espied the remains of an antique electrical system, and traces as well of telephone lines and fiber optic cables from an age when those technologies were yet workable.

  These last he viewed with particular pleasure.

  The dwarf savant stopped before a heavy black door carved over with gilt griffins, locomotives, and fleurs-de-lis. "This is a door," he said. "The wood is ebony. Its binomial is Diospyros ebenum. It was harvested in Serendip. The gilding is of gold. Gold has an atomic weight of 197.2."

  He knocked on the door and opened it.

  The officer of protocol was a dark-browed man of imposing mass. He did not stand for them. "I am Lord Coherence-Hamilton, and this—" he indicated the slender, clear-eyed woman who stood beside him— "is my sister, Pamela."

  Surplus bowed deeply to the Lady, who dimpled and dipped a slight curtsey in return.

  The protocol officer quickly scanned the credentials. "Explain these fraudulent papers, sirrah. The Demesne of Western Vermont! Damn me if I have ever heard of such a place."

  "Then you have missed much," Surplus said haughtily. "It is true we are a young nation, created only seventy-five years ago during the Partition of New England. But there is much of note to commend our fair land. The glorious beauty of Lake Champlain. The gene-mills of Winooski, that ancient seat of learning the Universitas Vridis Montis of Burlington, the Technarchaeological Institute of—" He stopped. "We have much to be proud of, sir, and nothing of which to be ashamed."

  The bearlike official glared suspiciously at him, then said, "What brings you to London? Why do you desire an audience with the queen?"

  "My mission and destination lie in Russia. However, England being on my itinerary and I a diplomat, I was charged to extend the compliments of my nation to your monarch." Surplus did not quite shrug. "There is no more to it than that. In three days I shall be in France, and you will have forgotten about me completely."

  Scornfully the officer tossed his credentials to the savant, who glanced at and politely returned them to Surplus. The small fellow sat down at a little desk scaled to his own size and swiftly made out a copy. "Your papers will be taken to Whitechapel and examined there. If everything goes well—which I doubt—and there's an opening—not likely—you'll be presented to the queen sometime between a week and ten days hence."

  "Ten days! Sir, I am on a very strict schedule!"

  "Then you wish to withdraw your petition?"

  Surplus hesitated. "I . . . I shall have to think on't, sir."

  Lady Pamela watched coolly as the dwarf savant led them away.

  The room they were shown to had massively framed mirrors and oil paintings dark with age upon the walls, and a generous log fire in the hearth. When their small guide had gone, Darger carefully locked and bolted the door. Then he tossed the box onto the bed, and bounced down alongside it. Lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, he said, "The Lady Pamela is a strikingly beautiful woman. I'll be damned if she's not."

  Ignoring him, Surplus locked paws behind his back, and proceeded to pace up and down the room. He was full of nervous energy. At last, he expostulated, "This is a deep game you have gotten me into, Darger! Lord Coherence-Hamilton suspects us of all manner of blackguardry."

  "Well, and what of that?"

  "I repeat myself: We have not even begun our play yet, and he suspects us already! I trust neither him nor his genetically remade dwarf."

  "You are in no position to be displaying such vulgar prejudice."

  "I am not bigoted about the creature, Darger, I fear him! Once you let suspicion of us into that macroencephalic head of his, and he will worry at it until he has found out our every secret."

  "Get a grip on yourself, Surplus! Be a man! We are in this too deep already to back out. Questions would be asked, and investigations made."

  "I am anything but a man, thank God," Surplus replied. "Still, you are right. In for a penny, in for a pound. For now, I might as well sleep. Get off the bed. You can have the hearth-rug."

  "I! The rug!"

  "I am groggy of mornings. Were someone to knock, and I to unthinkingly open the door, it would hardly do
to have you found sharing a bed with your master."

  The next day, Surplus returned to the Office of Protocol to declare that he was authorized to wait as long as two weeks for an audience with the queen, though not a day more.

  "You have received new orders from your government?" Lord Coherence-Hamilton asked suspiciously. "I hardly see how."

  "I have searched my conscience, and reflected on certain subtleties of phrasing in my original instructions," Surplus said. "That is all."

  He emerged from the office to discover Lady Pamela waiting outside. When she offered to show him the Labyrinth, he agreed happily to her plan. Followed by Darger, they strolled inward, first to witness the changing of the guard in the forecourt vestibule, before the great pillared wall that was the front of Buckingham Palace before it was swallowed up in the expansion of architecture during the mad, glorious years of Utopia. Following which, they proceeded toward the viewers' gallery above the chamber of state.

  "I see from your repeated glances that you are interested in my diamonds. 'Sieur Plus Precieux!" Lady Pamela said. "Well might you be. They are a family treasure, centuries old and manufactured to order, each stone flawless and perfectly matched. The indentures of a hundred autistics would not buy the like."

  Surplus smiled down again at the necklace, draped about her lovely throat and above her perfect breasts. "I assure you, madame, it was not your necklace that held me so enthralled."