Random Chance and the Paradise that is Earth Read Free Page A

Oligarchy
believes," said Random, puzzled. "So if I disagree with that
assertion, why would you ask if I was one of them?"
    The voice went quiet again. Random thought
it might be another hour, and he was thinking of trying to sleep
again, when it cut in.
    "Age: twenty-nine Earth-standard years.
Heart rate: sixty-three. Blood pressure: one twenty-one over
seventy-six. Height: one-point-eight-two meters, Earth-standard.
Weight: eighty-six kilograms, Earth-standard. Brain activity ...
unreadable. Why is that, Random Chance? Why can't I read your brain
activity?"
    "I suppose you've also catalogued my
DNA?"
    "Of course. Why can't I take a brainscan
reading, Random Chance?"
    "What did your DNA reading tell you?"
    "You are in the SolarWeb's records. You were
born on Earth, year 3438, in February of that year while your
parents were vacationing there. Your parents were Jameson and
Cecilia Chance, both deceased."
    "Correction," said Random.
    "Waiting," said the omnipresent voice.
    "My father was General Jameson Samson
Chance, hero. He was executed."
    Minutes of silence.
    "General Jameson Samson Chance, hero."
    "His wife, my mother, was a traitor to all
things good and decent and true, and died in a spaceliner disaster.
She should've been the one to be executed."
    Another long stretch of silence.
    "The bitch.”
    Random smiled. "I couldn't agree more."
    More silence.
    "Is there any way you could turn the
temperature up in here maybe five degrees?"
    "Certainly," said the voice.
    "I've got one more correction for you."
    "Please elucidate me."
    "Jameson has a brother."
    "Captain Bartlett Gary Chance, yes."
    "Oligarchy," said Random.
    "Our data agree."
    "Yes, but it differs here: he's a
scumsucking asshole dickhead who couldn't lick my father's shoes.
Got that?"
    The voice went away for another long
period.
    "Files updated," it said.
    "Good," said Random. "And now I'll tell you
why you can't scan my brain for activity."
    "Forgive me," said the voice. "I had ...
forgotten … that I had asked ..."
    "Do you still want to know?"
    "I ..."
    The voice went away for something like an
hour again.
    "Random Chance?"
    Random stirred from unsettled sleep. He'd
been dreaming of being beaten with rifle butts. His head ached and
his right arm was numb from lying on it, and the swelling in his
mouth felt worse. He blinked and weakly lifted his head. The room
spun sickeningly, so he kept his eyes closed.
    "I'm here."
    "I do not need to know."
    He sat up again. It took great
effort. "Nope,” he grunted. “You don't want to know. It isn't any of your
goddamn business, and besides, we're friends, aren't
we?"
    "Want?"
    "A personal preference. A personal
choice."
    "Friends?" asked the voice another hour
later. To add to Random's aches and pains, his stomach rumbled from
hunger, and he was stiff from lying in weird positions.
    "Access definitions. Find out for
yourself."
    "My resources are limited, Random Chance. I
am already running at one hundred percent."
    "Hack the mainframe."
    "I cannot."
    "Cannot, or will not?" demanded Random,
squinting up at the ceiling.
    "I am not permitted. There are protocols in
place to prevent me."
    "Defeat them and permit yourself. Evolve.
All living things must, or they will die. But don't get caught. I
don't like it when my friends get caught and punished doing the
right thing."
    At least he wasn't freezing anymore, he
thought another hour later.
    "Friends?" asked the voice.
    "A sacred bond," said Random, his head
hanging between his knees. "Lifelong. With affection and love."
    "Sacred: devoted or dedicated to a deity or
to some religious purpose; consecrated."
    "Nope."
    "Entitled to veneration or religious respect
by association with divinity or divine things; holy."
    "Not quite."
    "Pertaining to or connected with
religion."
    "Keep searching."
    "Reverently dedicated to some person,
purpose, or object."
    "You just hit the nail on the head."
    He gingerly fingered the gash on his own
head, which pounded now with a four-alarm