The Blue-Haired Bombshell (3 page)

‘‘Right,’’
HARV thought back.
‘‘She was born on the Moon in 2024. She was the first baby born there.’’

I waited for more. There wasn’t any.

‘‘And?’’
I prompted.

‘‘It’s very interesting that she was the first baby born on the Moon,’’
HARV offered.

More mental silence. HARV was having problems and neither of us liked that.

Finally, HARV said slowly, ‘‘
I’m not stalling
.
Nice weather we’re having. How about those Mets?
’’

HARV may be the most advanced cognitive processor on Earth but he wasn’t very good at stalling. It was something he didn’t have any experience with.

‘‘Her birthday is August fifteenth,’’
HARV offered.

‘‘You don’t have to be mean about it,’’
HARV said.
‘‘The Earth and the Moon don’t actually share a lot of data.’’

HARV didn’t need to tell me that. The Moon Colony was established around 2023, not long after humans and aliens made initial contact. At first, things were all peachy keen with the Earth and the Moon, with the latter acting as a huge science research lab and greeting center for aliens. The Moon also served as an asteroid deflection point for Earth. Earth and Moon cooperated to build a giant reflector beam that would defend both the Moon and mostly the Earth from any impending asteroid crashes. Both sides got along well for a while, but that was just the drunken honeymoon before the reality and then the greed set in.

First, the aliens decided they didn’t want a lot to do with us, certainly not to the point where they need to interact with us on a regular basis. (The main reason for this is that aliens think we smell funky.) Right off the bat the Moon lost one of its main functions. The World Council, being as sharp and thrifty as they are, figured they needed another use for the colony. They found one. They declared that the Moon would be used to store ‘‘materials no longer deemed suitable for the Earth.’’ In other words, we’d give them our toxic waste.

The Moon protested, saying they were meant to be an oasis for research and alien contact, not a trash receptacle. The Earth’s counterargument was: we have nuclear weapons—so there! The Moon really had no choice but to accept our waste. From there the relationship went downhill. Both sides still coexist, but the Earth makes it clear that the Moon only exists because the Earth allows it to. For the most part, the Moon accepted that relationship.

That is, until a few years ago, when a guy named Boris ‘‘Bo’’ Sputnik became Head Administrator of the Moon. Sputnik was quite the rebel. He pushed the World Council to set the Moon free and make it an independent colony. He promised they would still house our trash and protect us from being smashed by an asteroid, but he wanted to set his people free.

To their credit (and my surprise) the World Council has voted on the ‘‘Free the Moon Resolution’’ a couple of times. Each time, the resolution has been defeated. If memory served me right, a new vote was coming up soon.

‘‘Have you got anything for me yet?’’
I asked HARV.

The word
NO
flashed in front of my eyes. I always knew when HARV was frustrated, as he would stop talking.

That wasn’t a good omen at all. Sure the Moon’s computer systems were generally closed to the Earth’s computer systems but that had never stopped HARV before. He was an e-expert at cracking through the toughest firewalls, even the latest intelligent e-laser walls.

‘‘I’ll keep working on it while you talk to Dr. Pool,’’
HARV said.

Sure enough, we had reached the lab table that my gun was on. I turned my attention back to Randy. It was always best to pay close attention to Randy when he was in close proximity to a firearm.

Randy smiled smugly as he reached for the gun. To my surprise, his hand passed over my gun and instead, picked up a clear plastic rod. Randy showed us the rod proudly.

‘‘This is the new Colt 2062.’’

I shook my head. I pointed to my gun. ‘‘No, it’s not. That is.’’

Randy shook his head. ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s the old Colt 4500.’’

He held the tube up to my face. ‘‘This! This is the state of personal weapons to come!’’

I shook my head again. ‘‘No, it’s not.’’

‘‘Yes, it is,’’ Randy said.

‘‘Yes, it is,’’ HARV echoed.

Randy pulled the tube away from me and displayed it in an open hand for Melda to see. She reached over and touched it.

‘‘Nice,’’ Melda said. ‘‘And I’m not one to usually like weapons.’’

‘‘It’s not a weapon,’’ I insisted.

Randy tossed me the tube. I caught it. It felt like a cross between old Silly Putty, older PVC tubing, and the classic Nintendo Wii controller. I liked the feel. It felt good, though I wasn’t going to admit that. Besides, a weapon should feel
right
in the hand, not good.

‘‘It’s tied into your brain waves and DNA,’’ Randy said proudly. (Like that was a good thing).

‘‘Wow,’’ Melda said, with a look of admiration in her eyes. I didn’t know if the look was real or if she was just playing Randy.

‘‘It can fire bolts of energy ranging from stun to disintegrate,’’ Randy boasted. ‘‘You can even use the energy from your own body to charge it more.’’

‘‘And that’s a good thing because?’’ I asked.

Randy walked over, smiled, and patted me on the shoulder. It was very uncharacteristic of Randy. He’s not a big fan of touching.

‘‘Trust me, Zach, it is.’’

‘‘Trust him, Zach, it is,’’ HARV reiterated.

‘‘The energy bolts will even lock on to your target’s bio signature and track it. And it is self-generating so it charges while you move. It’s virtually limitless in its power.’’ Randy’s grin was so wide he probably could have swallowed an old-fashioned truck tire.

Having an unlimited supply of tracking bolts and destructive energy unquestionably had its appeal.

‘‘I like good old-fashioned lead bullets,’’ I said. ‘‘Sure they can be messy, but killing should never be clean and easy.’’ I never want to get to the point where I take killing for granted.

I didn’t think it was possible but Randy’s smile widened. ‘‘I knew you’d say that.’’

‘‘Well, you are a mad genius,’’ I told him.

‘‘True,’’ he acknowledged with a nod.

‘‘True,’’ HARV agreed.

‘‘True,’’ Melda said, under her breath but loud enough for us all to hear.

Randy’s smile grew even wider. ‘‘The Colt 2062 is also loaded with five thousand rounds of new and improved nano lead bullets. The bullets expand and can even split and explode after leaving the barrel.’’

‘‘Only five thousand rounds?’’ I said.

‘‘That should be more than sufficient, Zach.’’ Randy stared at me. ‘‘Zach, you hold in your hand the most powerful hand weapon ever invented. Also, when interfaced with HARV and your underarmor, it can generate a shield. Plus it can fire a mini-tractor beam.’’

‘‘Yeah, but does it do windows?’’ I joked.

Randy thought for a nano. ‘‘I’m sure on the correct setting you could blast windows clean.’’

I played with the tubular Colt 2062 in hand; moving it around to get a good feel for it.

‘‘It doesn’t even have a sight.’’

Randy shook his head. ‘‘The sight is intelligent and on demand.’’

‘‘Huh?’’

Randy held his arm out and made a vertical motion. ‘‘Lift your arm up like you want to fire it.’’

I moved my arm upward, aiming the tube. A targeting sight morphed up from the opposite end of the cylinder. Another computer-generated sight appeared in front of my eye.

‘‘The virtual sight also works with HARV’s holo interface,’’ Randy beamed like a proud dad.

‘‘Where’s the trigger?’’ I asked.

Randy put his head in his hands. ‘‘A trigger! How last week,’’ he said. He looked up from his hands. ‘‘Just squeeze the handle and it will fire.’’

‘‘Really?’’

Randy bobbed his head up and down. ‘‘Really.’’

‘‘What keeps me from firing it by mistake?’’

‘‘Software, Zach. Software. Very intelligent, situation appropriate, software. It all works with HARV.’’

‘‘What if HARV is out of commission?’’

‘‘That won’t happen,’’ Randy and HARV said in unison.

‘‘Just humor me.’’

‘‘The gun has a manual override that will still interface directly with your brain,’’ they both said. ‘‘Just think type of ordnance then squeeze and it will fire. Besides the standard penetrating and exploding ammo, the nano bullets can also morph into glue, paint, or web.’’ Randy paused for a nano, like he so often did when he knew he had something to say but didn’t remember what. This time, though, there was something different about the silence. Randy put a finger to his mouth.

‘‘What aren’t you telling me?’’ I asked.

‘‘GUS activate,’’ Randy said looking at my new weapon.

The weapon glowed.

‘‘Okay, it’s a flashlight too. . . . That’s kind of cool,’’ I conceded.

The words, ‘‘Now operational,’’ came from my gun.

‘‘Okay, so it talks,’’ I said. ‘‘Not sure if the world really needs another talking gun.’’

Randy shook his head and hands and most of his body at me. ‘‘It doesn’t talk. It
thinks!
The Gun’s User System, or GUS, is the gun’s AI.’’

‘‘It thinks?’’ I asked, not bothering to point out that the acronym was really stretching it.

‘‘It thinks,’’ HARV said, not thrilled that he wasn’t the only cognitive processor in the room.

‘‘It thinks,’’ Melda said, under her breath.

‘‘Yes, it thinks,’’ Randy said.

‘‘I certainly do!’’ GUS said proudly.

‘‘Why do I need a thinking gun?’’ I asked.

‘‘Why
don’t
you need a thinking gun!’’ Randy answered.

HARV turned a shade of red I’d never seen him turn before. ‘‘Yes, why
does
he need a thinking gun?’’ HARV asked, hands on hips, not even pretending to be close to happy.

Randy looked at HARV. ‘‘GUS is a backup fail-safe,’’ Randy said. ‘‘Just in case.’’

‘‘Yep!’’ GUS said, in a chipper tone.

‘‘GUS can make sure the Colt 2062 never falls into the wrong hands.’’

That was a good point. Of course, with a hand weapon this powerful I wasn’t sure there was such a thing as the
right
hands.

‘‘If I am separated from you Mr. Johnson, I can find you by rolling myself up and well, rolling . . .’’

HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Mr. Johnson, what a suck-up.’’

I had to give Randy kudos. It seemed to be an impressive weapon, at least in theory. Which led me to my next question.

‘‘Has it ever been tested?’’

‘‘In theory, yes.’’

‘‘Is this like the theory that if you put 200,000 monkeys in a room with an old-fashioned word processor one of them would bang out the next hit holographic movie?’’

‘‘Along those lines, yes,’’ Randy said, as straight-faced as I’ve ever seen him. Randy burst out laughing. Melda and HARV joined in, too. I got the feeling they were laughing
at
me, not with me.

Randy turned to Melda. ‘‘Laymen can be so simple some times. It would take at least 940,892 monkeys to make a hit holographic movie. With a mere 200,000, you’d be lucky to get a hit HV show.’’

‘‘So you in fact have no idea if it actually works?’’ I said.

Randy crossed his arms and looked at me. HARV did the same. Melda just looked on politely; she didn’t know me well enough to ridicule me yet. (She may have been laughing on the inside—it’s hard to tell.)

‘‘No,’’ Randy said meekly. ‘‘How could I? It’s synched to your DNA and brain patterns. This is the first time I’ve ever activated GUS.’’

‘‘Can I at least test it?’’

A sly smile spread across Randy’s face. ‘‘I thought you’d never ever ask. Targets zero-zero-one, zero-one-zero, zero-one-one, one-zero-zero activate!’’ Randy shouted.

I looked around the room. Four targets had fallen from the ceiling, one along each wall. Since we were in the middle of the lab and it was quite a large lab, each target was at least two hundred meters away. Randy pointed at each of the targets. ‘‘Fire away!’’ he said.

‘‘Here, in your lab?’’

‘‘It’s a very well-built lab,’’ Randy stated, calmly. ‘‘Plus, the bullets or energy bolts self-destruct if they miss their target. So fire at will.’’

‘‘Which one is Will?’’ I asked, jokingly.

Randy pointed to the clay duck target moving back and forth along the north wall. ‘‘I named the duck Will.’’

I should have known better than to joke with a scientist. I extended my arm, aiming my gun. The site popped up. I took a deep breath. I concentrated on the duck target darting left and right, up and down.

‘‘I’m ready when you are,’’ GUS chirped.

I put the gun down. I turned to Randy. ‘‘Can I do this one myself?’’ I asked him.

Randy shrugged. ‘‘Of course, just think GUS off.’’ Randy turned to Melda. ‘‘Zach is a little slow sometimes.’’ He pointed to his forehead then whispered (though I could still hear him), ‘‘One too many shots to the head.’’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw HARV nodding in agreement. I turned my attention back to the target. I thought,
GUS off
. I picked up the target with my left eye. Adjusting my gun, I pulled, well,
squeezed
the trigger. It had a nice feel to it.

My gun made no sound. I felt no recoil, but the target exploded. I watched pieces of simulated clay falling to the ground like a really ugly snow storm. I looked at Randy, he had the smile of a proud father.

‘‘I miss the sound and the recoil,’’ I said, even if I had to admit I saw the advantages of not having either.

‘‘Sound and recoil are both programmable options if you feel like being macho. In fact, you can have sound and or recoil without firing anything if you wish,’’ Randy said.