Free Asimov's Science Fiction: June 2013 by Penny Publications Page B

with this captain. These citizens were to come to terms on tiny matters of babies and fees paid for those babies, and where their people could travel, and where the other passengers could not.
    Pamir already possessed the famous snarl.
    "You're stranger to me than most aliens," said the novice captain, finishing his first Mist-of-Tears. "If I try, I understand an extraterrestrial's thought process. But if I look at you and try to figure you out, I get tangled. I end up wanting to scream."
    The archaic was drinking rum. Maybe it was the taste in the old woman's mouth, or maybe it was his words. Or perhaps she enjoyed the music coming from an exotic instrument. Whatever the reason, she offered a smile, and then looking down at the swirling dark liquor, she told the glass, "Scream. You won't hurt my feelings."
    "You're dying. Right in front of me, you are dying."
    The grin lifted. "And you feel for me, how dear."
    "A hundred years isn't enough time." Pamir wouldn't scream, but he couldn't sit comfortably either. "I know what you people believe, and it's crazy. Religious, scared, mad, foolish, shit-for-brains crazy."
    "I'm one hundred and forty years old," she said with her slow, careful voice. Then, after a weirdly flirtatious wink, she added, "I personally believe in modest genetic engineering, ensuring good health and a swift decline at the end."
    "Good for you," he said.
    She sipped and said nothing.
    The young captain ordered another round. Their bartender was a harum-scarum, gigantic, covered with scales and spines and a sour temper, ready to battle any patron who gave her any excuse. Pamir felt closer and much warmer toward that creature than he did to the frail beast beside him.
    "There is another way for you," he told her.
    A little curious, the old woman looked at him.
    "Employ limited bioceramic hardware. A single thread is all that you'd need. Thinner than a hair, planted deep inside that fatty organ of yours, and you could spend one hundred and forty years learning everything quickly and remembering all of it. Then you'd die, just like you want, and your family could have their funeral. A ceremony, an ornate spectacle, and your grandchildren could chop the implant out of your skull. Maybe they could pretend it was a treasure. Wouldn't that be nice? They can drop your intellect into a special bottle and set it on some noble high shelf, and if they ever needed your opinion, about anything, they could bring you down for a chat. That's the better way to live like a primitive."
    Cheerfully, almost giggling, the old woman said, "I am not a Luddite."
    Pamir hadn't used the word, and he didn't intend to use it now.
    " 'Archaic' isn't an adequate word either," she said.
    "What's the best word?" he asked.
    "Human," she said instantly, without hesitation or doubt.
    Pamir snorted and leaned forward, wondering if this unfriendly back-and-forth was going to help their negotiations. Probably not, he decided. Oh well, he decided. "If that's what you are, what am I?" he asked.
    "A machine," she said.
    He leaned back, hard. "Bullshit."
    The old woman shrugged and smiled wistfully.
    "Is that the word you use? When we're not present, do you call us cyborgs?"
    With a constant, unnerving cheeriness, she said, "Cyborgs are partly human, and you are not. Your minds, and your flesh, and the basic nature of your bones and brains: Everything about you is an elaborate manifestation of gears and electrical currents with just enough masquerading in place to keep you ignorant of your own nature."
    "I don't like you," said the young captain.
    "Try the rum," she said.
    He played with the mirrored hat on his head.
    Then she said, "But as you helpfully pointed out, I shouldn't be around much longer. So really, what can my opinion weigh?"
    Theory claimed that hyperfiber would make a potent fuel. But every theory involved modeling and various flavors of mathematics and usually a fair share of hope. Truth demanded tests, which was why Pamir dropped a