Analog SFF, April 2010 (19 page)

"I represent the Koomban Empire."

"The who?"

"The Koomban Empire.” Moto stood up and took off his robe.

"Whoa,” Kent said. He didn't shove his chair back in shock, but his eyebrows did go up almost to his hairline.

Moto was, under the robe, a five-foot-tall red devil straight from a ‘50s tattoo. Red skin, potbelly, forked beard, pointy tail, horns, and all.

"Please do not jump to conclusions,” Moto said.

"Such as?” Kent asked in a voice that hardly shook at all.

"I am not a demon or devil, imp, or other manifestation of evil."

"You
are
a sales rep,” Kent pointed out.

Moto sat down. “Point taken.” He crossed his legs, showing off bristly goat feet. “I am an alien. A Koomban. Marketing studies quickly apprehended our unfortunate resemblance to supernatural beings held in ill favor. We concluded that we would not be judged kindly, or be particularly successful, were we to enter direct trade with your kind."

"Probably not,” Kent said agreeably, though he had a feeling that some people would gladly trade their souls for Turble. And the difference between some bottom-feeder car dealers and the forces of Hades wasn't that great, mostly coming down to less brimstone and more deceptive contracts.

"Our requirements for assaying trade vehicles are, by your habits, somewhat unusual."

"You mean telling what you want by sniffing the seats?"

Moto shrugged. “Ownership and use of a vehicle imbues it with traces that we can sense. For my kind, sitting in such a vehicle is similar to your sitting in a theater seat and watching a play or movie. We are choosy. Some movies have greater depth and interest than others. Still, we understand how the root of our desire for your vehicles might be misunderstood."

"I believe you're right.” Actually most people wouldn't care if they ate the seats and screwed the airbags if it meant getting a car that went a thousand miles per hour. But this wasn't the time to disagree with the man . . . or whatever.

"There is one point in our contractual agreement that may present some difficulty."

"And that is?"

"Buyers must swear loyalty to the Koomban Empire."

Kent sat up straight and scowled, as if just hearing about a delinquent lien or an admission that the car spent a few days at the bottom of a river.

"Now wait one minute, Moto. What do you mean by loyalty?"

The Koomban held up his hands. “It is nothing, really. Verbal boilerplate."

"Swearing loyalty to an alien empire is hardly nothing."

"Really, it is. The oath is strictly pro forma, not that dissimilar to the EULAs you agree to when commencing to use software."

"But you're an
empire.
You want us to swear
loyalty.
Are you guys at war or something? You want us to agree to pay tribute, or provide troops, or something like that?"

"Most certainly not!” Moto said, sounding offended.

"Then what does it mean?"

"Were we to become part of some conflict, and I assure you that is most unlikely, then your loyalty oath would bind you to being on our side. The best comparison I can make would be to the manner in which you are on the side of various sports teams."

"So . . . we'd have to root for you?"

"Yes. We would even issue you pennants and noisemakers. But we have not required such contracted enthusiasm in centuries."

"So . . . I'd have to swear this oath? Or would it be sworn by the buyer?"

"The buyer."

"Would a written declaration count?"

Moto's faint smile was devilish. “Am I correct in understanding a proposal to hide the declaration in the fine print of the sales contract?"

Kent looked him in the eyes. Yellow, slit-pupilled eyes. “You have a problem with that?"

After a moment Moto shook his head. “No, that would suffice."

Kent sat back, staring at the creature across from him and thinking hard. “So how many units are we talking about?"

"As many as you want. You provide suitable vehicles for us, we can provide Turbles—or at some point other models—in trade."

"How much should I sell the things for?"

Moto showed pointed teeth. “For what the market will bear, of course."

"What about the dangers of flying cars?"

"There are none. Our vehicles will automatically avoid other objects. Their inertial damping systems allow for evasive maneuvers that would destroy anything you can build and kill anyone riding inside. That system is robust enough that, were you to somehow fly one into the side of a mountain, the vehicle would be undamaged and the passengers would feel no more than a mild bump. There is no safer vehicle to be had anywhere."

"And they run on water."

A nod. “About one gallon for every ten thousand miles."

"How about repairs?"

"They are largely self-repairing. Only tires and wiper blades would need to be replaced. We are not certain that the eight-track will be viewed positively by many, and it may have to be replaced."

"Warranty?"

"Ten years, bumper to bumper, with generous terms for trade-backs."

There had to be other questions—important questions—but Kent couldn't think of them. Only one left: “So how would we seal a deal?"

"A simple handshake for now, followed by a one page contract. So you find our offer interesting?"

"I guess.” Kent sounded unsure, still slightly reluctant. Pure salesmanship.

Moto peered at him for several seconds, stroking his forked beard, then said, “Did I mention that you would get to keep the Turble you just tested? A second one would be provided as payment for any vehicle you might take."

"Like that Escape? You seemed to take a shine to it."

Moto ducked his head. “It too is an exceptional vehicle."

Kent leaned forward. “What say I give that car to you? Personally."

"That would be . . . most kind and generous."

"So would Blue Sky Motors becoming your exclusive dealer."

Moto stared at him. After a moment he smiled.

Kent smiled back.

Alien to one another, but each understanding the other perfectly.

Kent walked Moto—once again robed—out into the lot. In Moto's hand were the keys to the Escape, and in his hand were the keys to the Turble. The rain had let up to a light but steady drizzle.

"I shall return in two nights,” Moto said as he opened the small SUV's door. “We can then commence the exchange of more vehicles."

"Works for me. Come after closing. Nine thirty or so."

"That is agreeable.” Moto climbed inside, closed his eyes a moment, sighed. “Remarkable vehicle.” He removed an object about the size of a cell phone from inside his robe, placed it on the dash.

"Drive happy,” Kent said cheerily, closing the car door.

The Escape rolled forward a few feet, then suddenly leapt straight up, and was gone from sight in just a couple seconds.

Kent stood there, staring up into the sky for almost a minute, then went back inside.

First thing in the morning he'd turn Julio loose on the Turble, trying to find out what made it tick. If the tech was beyond him, he knew of two people, regular customers, who might be able to help. One was a retired rocket scientist, the other an unemployed physicist.

The list of bases to be covered was daunting. He had to figure out what to charge for a Turble, who to offer it to, and how best to make that offer. He had to find out what made that Escape so irresistible so he could start acquiring tradeworthy tin. He was going to need new security, new advertising, more lot space, and a plan for dealing with media and government attention when news of his new line broke.

But for now, it was time to lock up and head home. Maybe take a detour or two for some more Turble drive time.

He was whistling the theme song for their commercials,
Nothing But Blue Skies,
as he crossed the lot.

Back inside the Turble he inserted the key, turned it on, took hold of the wheel.

"All hail the Koomban Empire,” he said with a laugh, then put the vehicle in drive and rocketed merrily into the night.

Copyright © 2010 Stephen L. Burns

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The Latest Thing may not be what you think....

The tinkle of the bell caught Rick by surprise. It had been hours since anyone had come into his store. He'd cleaned and dusted the shelves so many times in the last few weeks that there was nothing left to do, so he had settled in behind the cash register with a
Discover
magazine and had happily lost himself in an article about nanofabrication units. Apparently they were the wave of the future in retail.

His customer was a gray-haired man in his late fifties or so, round-nosed and red-cheeked from the cold. Five-eleven by the measure on the doorframe. Rick didn't know why he still checked; the police would look at the video rather than trust his estimate if the guy turned out to be a robber. Old habits were hard to break, though.

The gray-haired man looked over at Rick, then around at the shop. What does he see? Rick wondered. A neighborhood convenience store with character or a cluttered mess of outdated junk?

The customer headed for the personal hygiene aisle. Probably staying at the Holiday Inn just down the block, forgot his toothbrush or deodorant, and didn't want to pay the hotel shop's outrageous prices.

Rick turned back to his magazine. Nanofabs. A single unit could churn out anything from electronics to a two-by-four. Anything that had a digital template, anyway, but practically every new product was being introduced digitally as well as traditionally. The process hadn't been certified for food yet, but that was sure to come. Nanufactured products were identical to the original template right down to the molecular level. A block of cheese was a block of cheese, whether the carbon and the hydrogen went through a cow or a fab.

Rick wondered if this technology could make small stores competitive again. If he could buy templates and pay the same royalty as Wal-Mart, then he could sell products for the same price and reap the same profit. No shipping costs or price gouging for low volume. And no inventory sitting idle on shelves for months at a stretch. One guy with a nanofab could sell every product in the world out of a store no bigger than his largest item.

Well, okay, you'd need a raw materials tank. You could get carbon and oxygen out of the air—and help cut global warming in the process—and hydrogen and more oxygen from the water tap, but you'd need iron and silicon and who knew what else. That's where the small shop owner would still be at a disadvantage, but it was a much smaller disadvantage than what he faced now. Or maybe it would be no problem at all. There was, after all, a dumpster in back.

He looked up as the customer approached. Toothbrush. Make that toothbrushes. The guy must be buying for an entire family. And he was definitely from the hotel: he still wore a badge on his jacket that said, “Hi, my name is:” with “Gary” written in bold Sharpie in the white box.

"Find everything you need?” Rick asked.

"Did I!” said Gary. “You have any idea how hard these are to find anymore?"

Rick took a brush from his outstretched hand.
Reach
, medium, compact head. It had purple rubber grippy lines running up the handle. “Looks like the same thing I've been carrying for years,” he said.

"Better stock up, then,” Gary said. “Because I haven't seen one in a store for quite a while. I think the company's quit makin’ ‘em. Toothbrushes nowadays are all fancy, with wear indicators and bristles sticking out every which way. And twice as big. Ever notice how everything has gotten fatter in the last few years?"

"Tell me about it,” Rick said. “I've had to change my shelving to accommodate it."

Gary set his hoard of toothbrushes on the counter. Four of them. Rick rang them up and the guy paid cash, which Rick ran through the counterfeit scanner before counting out his change. He wondered what would happen if you used a nanofab to make money? It would be the same as the original right down to the molecular level. His scanner wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Except for the serial number. The scanner already checked those against an online database. You'd have to be pretty clever to assign each bill a new number that wasn't in service somewhere else. Rick wondered if it was even possible to modify a template to that degree, assuming you could get a template for a hundred-dollar bill in the first place. Was there some kind of scanner for solid objects? And maybe a 3D Photoshop program to tweak them after you'd scanned them?

Gary thanked him and headed out the door with his prizes. Rick settled in to read the rest of the article. He got through the whole thing without another interruption.

Six months later a gleaming new nanofabrication unit filled the front half of his store. The racks of magazines and shampoo and toothbrushes had all gone into the back, soon to wind up in the raw materials hopper if things went according to plan. It was a gamble, but with business down so much, he hadn't really had much choice. Now he could sell a pair of shoes or a TV or a case of paper for the same price as anybody else. His corner shop wasn't just a convenience store anymore, it was a
convenient
store, right downtown but offering the same deals as the box stores out in the boonies.

All that remained of the old store were the food and beverages. Those still weren't approved for duplication. Apparently it had something to do with farm subsidies and milk price supports, though Rick suspected those would go the way of the dodo soon enough.

In the meantime he was doing a brisk business in, well, just about everything. The novelty of it probably accounted for the first few weeks of sales, but the convenience and the bargains brought people back. Business grew until the fab was running nonstop, pouring out products as fast as people could punch the buttons and Rick could fill the hopper with raw materials. He couldn't quite bring himself to toss everything into the bin, so he saved one of each old product, more as a memento than with any hope of selling any of it. Maybe he could put them in a museum someday: the last macro-manufactured products ever made.