Robert Sawyer - Calculating God

A Wreed was in the way; Cooter knocked him over. With the alien splayed out and flailing around, the sharpshooters apparently couldn’t clearly see Cooter.

I was in shock; I could feel J. D.’s blood dripping down to my neck. Suddenly the Wreed who was still standing flew up into the air. I knew it had been wearing a device to help it walk comfortably under Earth’s gravity; I hadn’t realized that it was strong enough to let him fly.

The other Forhilnor kicked the large gun, sending it spinning farther out into the Rotunda. Cooter continued to scramble toward it. The Wreed who had fallen was pulling himself to his feet. Meanwhile, the flying Wreed had now risen three meters off the ground.

Cooter had made it to the gun and rolled onto his side, shooting up into the darkened balconies. He pumped the trigger repeatedly, spraying out an arc of lead. The bullets hit ninety-year-old stone carvings, sending debris raining down upon us.

The other Wreed took to the air as well. I tried to get behind one of the freestanding wall segments that partially defined the edges of the Rotunda. Hollus was moving quickly — but going in the opposite direction, and soon, to my astonishment, she had reached the taller of the two totem poles. She flexed her six legs and leapt the short distance from the staircase onto the pole, wrapping her various limbs about it. And then she started shimmying at a great clip up the totem. Soon she was out of sight; she could go all the way to the third floor. I was glad she was apparently safe.

“All right,” shouted Cooter in his accented voice, as he aimed the submachine gun at Christine, the second Forhilnor, and me in turn. His voice was edged with panic. “All right, y’all. Nobody move.”

There were cops back in the vestibule now, cops up on the balcony, two Wreeds flying around the Rotunda like crazed angels, one Forhilnor standing on one side of me, Christine standing on the other, and the corpse of J. D. exsanguinating all over the marble starburst of the Rotunda’s floor, making it slick.

“Give it up,” said Christine to Cooter. “Can’t you see you’re surrounded?”

“Shut up!” shouted Cooter. He was clearly at a loss without J.D. “Just shut the hell up.”

And then, to my astonishment, I heard a familiar two-toned bleep. The holoform projector, which, as always, I had in a pocket, was signaling that it was about to come on.

Cooter had backed under the overhang of the balcony; he could no longer see the sharpshooters, meaning they could no longer see him. An image of Hollus wavered into existence, full-blown, almost indistinguishable from the real thing. Cooter turned around; he was panicked and didn’t seem to notice that the missing Forhilnor had suddenly rejoined us.

“Cooter,” said the Hollus simulacrum, boldly stepping forward. “My name is Hollus.” Cooter immediately aimed the submachine gun at her, but the Forhilnor continued to close the distance between them. We all started falling back. I could see that the police in the vestibule were confused; Hollus had apparently interposed himself between them and Cooter. “You have not shot anyone yet,” said Hollus, the words like the beating of twin hearts. “You saw what happened to your associate; do not let the same fate befall you.”

I made motions with my hands that I hoped the others could see in the dark: I wanted them to fan out so that none of us were along the same line that connected Cooter and Hollus.

“Give me the weapon,” said Hollus. She was now four meters from Cooter. “Relinquish it and we will all depart from here alive.”

“Back off!” cried Cooter.

Hollus continued to approach. “Give me the weapon,” she said again.

Cooter shook his head violently. “All we wanted to do was show you aliens that what these scientists were telling you wasn’t the truth.”

“I understand that,” said Hollus, taking another step forward. “And I will gladly listen to you. Just give me the weapon.”

“I know you believe in God,” said Cooter. “But you haven’t yet been saved.”

“I will listen to anything you wish to say,” said Hollus, inching forward, “but only after you relinquish the weapon.”

“Make all the cops leave,” said Cooter.

“They are not going to leave.” Another six-legged increment toward the man.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot,” said Cooter.

“You do not want to shoot anyone,” said Hollus, still advancing, “least of all a fellow believer.”

“I swear I’ll kill you.”

“You will not,” said Hollus, closing the gap even more.

“Stay back! I’m warning you!”

The six round feet moved forward again. “God forgive me,” said Cooter and —

— and he squeezed the trigger.

And bullets erupted from the gun —

And they entered the Hollus simulacrum —

And the force fields that composed the simulated body slowed the bullets down, retarding their motion more and more, until they emerged from the other side. They continued to fly across the Rotunda, traveling another two meters or so in parabolic paths that brought them clattering to the stone floor.

The simulacrum moved forward, reaching out with its force-field arms to grab the submachine gun by the muzzle, which surely was now so hot that no flesh-and-blood being could have managed to hold it.

The real Hollus, upstairs, presumably on the third floor, yanked her arms back, and her simulacrum, down here in the lobby, yanked its arms back, too. And Cooter, startled that the being he’d just filled with bullets was not dead, let go of the gun. The avatar spun around and quickly retreated.

The police surged in through the vestibule and —

It was unnecessary now. Totally unnecessary.

One of the cops squeezed off a round.

And Cooter staggered backward, his mouth a wide, perfect “O” of surprise. He hit a wall segment and slumped down in the dark, a trail of blood like a claw mark following him to the floor.

And his head lolled to one side.

And he went to meet his maker.

The cops questioned Christine and me for hours, but they had let the four aliens immediately return to the mother-ship so that Barbulkan’s wound could be treated. I finally took a cab home — thirty dollars, with tip — and was up for another two hours telling Susan all about what had happened.

“My God,” she said, over and over again. “My God, you could have been killed.”

“Hollus saved me. She saved everyone.”

“I’m going to give that great big spider a huge hug if I ever get the chance,” said Susan, smiling.

I smiled, too, and kissed her. But I was exhausted by this point — absolutely bone-weary. My vision was blurring, and I felt lightheaded. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I said, “but I have got to get some sleep.”

She nodded, kissed me again, and we headed up to our room.

I slept until 10:00 Monday morning. The shootout had occurred too late to make the morning papers, but Susan told me that both Breakfast Television and Canada A.M. had led with the story. She’d stayed home from the office to be there for me when I awoke. Ricky was already off to school by the time I crawled out of bed.

I finally managed to make it into the ROM by noon. Fortunately, since it was indeed Monday, the museum was closed to the public, giving the facilities division a chance to clean things up; they were still mopping the Rotunda’s marble floor when I got there. Meanwhile, Jonesy and all his preparators were in Garfield Weston Hall, salvaging everything they could from the shattered shales. Several paleontologists were flying up from the Smithsonian, too, to lend a hand; they were expected before the end of the day.