Story #250 - Alarmed

Alarmed

A warning klaxon sounded loudly above Aaron Rein’s head, but he didn’t bother to look up. The plant had been experiencing a wide variety of malfunctions over the last two weeks, all of them apparently tied to a systemic failure at HQ.

Several more minutes of work passed under the jagged howl of the alarm, and Aaron tried to find his focus, twining yet another string of wire around his fingers. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to be doing his work that way, but what Bilt, his supervisor, didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, unless Aaron put the wires back wrong. In that case, the next person to open the panel on the Transducer would get a nasty shock, and if they happened to be carrying a Plara torch, they’d die instantly.

Aaron allowed himself a small smile. The last time he’d put a wire back wrong was just out of school, and he was the one who’d paid the price. He didn’t make mistakes – at least not anymore.

Bilt didn’t know it, but Aaron had been offered the supervisor’s job first and turned it down. Sure, the extra pay was nice, but it meant working with other people, and it meant forcing them to do their jobs correctly. He had no problem going behind others and fixing the work they’d done wrong, but he didn’t have the temperament to explain why the needed to do it right in the first place. The few times he’d been a group project leader in his college were unmitigated disasters, and finishing his courses alone had been far easier, even with the missing grades from projects he didn’t complete because they required human interaction.

“Rein!” Bilt’s voice called out over the klaxon. “What the hell are you doing?”

Finishing his last connection, Aaron replaced the panel and tightened all the screws, then pulled the Plara from his belt and made a small mark near the top edge of the smooth metal. He’d gotten to almost every panel in the plant now, and searing the top edge let him know if he was going to find his own work inside or have to correct a shoddy job done by someone else. Standing slowly, he met the angry stare of his supervisor. Bilt was an idiot, but at least he didn’t take Aaron’s obvious technical superiority as a threat.

“Working, Bilt,” he said slowly, “just like I’m supposed to be. Why are you running around like someone lit your ass on fire?”

“Can’t you hear the alarm?” Bilt shouted over the noise.

“Of course! What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

The older man’s face creased in a frown and he took a step closer to Aaron. “This isn’t like the others, Rein,” Bilt’s voice dropped from a scream to a dull shout, “it’s an Inductor Array overheat!”

Aaron felt his head swim as blood pumped hard. He’d been afraid of this since the first day he started at the plant, but everyone had assured him that an overheat was “impossible”. That wasn’t a word he ever used, and he knew better than those telling him that Arrays were unstable at best.

“Get out.” He said quietly to Bilt, already moving for the control booth. “Get out, and take everyone else with you.”

“Rein!” Bilt screamed from behind him. “Let it go! You can’t save the plant yourself – you’ll die up there!”

Aaron ignored him. The other workers in the plant didn’t deserve to die, but that wasn’t the real issue. An Inductor Array meltdown would not only leave a crater twice the size of the building that housed it, but would carry a shockwave down the mountain and kill everyone in the town below. No warning could be given to them – they had no idea the plant even existed.

Bilt’s voice faded behind him as he climbed the stairs to the booth. There was no way an Array could fail without someone tampering with it – no matter what line the company tried to sell. They were made to have no outside access, and to shut down at the first sign of trouble. One overheating meant that not only had a catastrophic failure taken place, but someone had been able remove the vial of Crellian Blue that was supposed to crack open and smother the heat if a problem ever occurred.

Only one person in the company had that kind of know-how, that kind of expertise – him.

The booth was empty, and scanners showed that there only a few straggling personnel left in the building, all headed toward exits. A quick glance at the smooth metal of the Array tube – the only portion visible anywhere in the plant – told him he’d been the one to tamper with it. His mark was obvious.

“Hello, Aaron.” A smooth voice said from his left, and he spun quickly.

The man at the doorway was no plant employee, and no supervisor he’d ever seen. A dark coat covered a broad-shouldered frame, and seemed to flicker in the pulsing warning lights of the plant, shifting between black, copper and a deep shade of red.

“Who the hell are you?” Aaron took a step back – the man radiated a sense of fear, of hate.

“You, of course.”

He frowned. There was something about the face, around the eyes, that was familiar, a twisted reflection of what he saw in the mirror every morning.

“I’m not real,” the man went on, “but your actions are. We have a very disciplined mind, Aaron, one that’s almost managed to push out the impulses we were born with.” A smile slashed across not-quite-his face. “Almost.”

He dove for the exposed metal of the Array, pulling the Plara from his belt. Cutting the surface open meant he’d be exposed to the radiation shunted to the rest of the plant, but there was no other option.

“No!” His shady doppelganger barked as torch struck metal and sheared a rough hole. Heat came blasting out, filling the room and washing over his body. It was warm, but didn’t burn him to a crisp like it should have. Tingling, but not deadly.

What the hell was going on?



- D

Story #249 - Nanonots

Nanonots

“It’s broken,” Doc Robbins said, and Barry Voss felt his spirits sink. He’d known as much since he'd fall on the leg earlier that afternoon – it was more than just a simple sprain or twist – but he’d been hoping that his instincts had been wrong. He couldn’t take any more time off from work.

“Dammit.” There was no point in saying anything else. It wasn’t going to change matters to complain, but he felt the situation warranted at least a single swearword. From his expression, Robbins didn’t agree but let it go – the Doc could be a prude, sometimes.

“So what does that mean for me, Doc?” He said once the worst of his anger had passed. “How long are we talking about?”

The older man sighed, then looked down at the clipboard he was carrying. “Ordinarily, I’d say four to five weeks, minimum, followed by a full course of physio.”

“Ordinarily?” That piqued Barry’s interest. Robbins knew that money was no issue when it came to his “favorite patient” – Barry only worked to keep up appearances. A life of crime lived in his youth had resulted in large piles of laundered money, and he didn’t feel so bad about what he’d done over the years to give it back or donate it to charity.

“Yeah – look, Barry,” Robbins said, moving to the door of the exam room to make sure it was tightly closed, “there isn’t a whole lot I can tell you about this, except to say it’s purely experimental. They’re just past the animal testing stage, but I know the guy that’s running the trials. For the right…contribution to their work, I can get you in on some of the most cutting-edge advancements to hit bone regeneration in two decades!” Excitement was plain on the doctor’s face – he liked the occasional payoff, but he loved medical advancements.

“That’s great, Doc,” he said flatly, “but what does it mean to me? What kind of improvement am I looking at here?”

Robbins moved a step closer and lowered his voice. “I can’t be exactly sure – this is brand-new stuff – but from what I’ve been told, you’d been looking at two weeks, tops, for a full recovery.”

“Two weeks!” He could feel his excitement rising. “For a full recovery, no phyiso?”

The other man nodded. “It’s an injection-based treatment, starting with –“

Barry cut him off. “I don’t care, doc. I’ll get you the money, you get me the shots, and my leg heals. It doesn’t matter to me how it works. What matters is how much it costs.” He held up his thumb and forefingers and rubbed them together.

“It’s not cheap,” Robbins said. “Fifty thousand, to start, and if you need another shot, it’ll be that much again, at least.”

He shrugged. He’d expected worse, and his rainy-day fund could afford to have another small slice cut out of it. “Three days work for you, Doc? Cast me up in the meantime.”

Robbins nodded, and Barry allowed himself a smile. This might not be so bad.

***

Two weeks later, his opinion had changed.

“What the hell, Doc?” He screamed, grabbing at his leg in its cast. He’d managed to hold it in until the door was closed behind him, but the pain that had been building for the last few days couldn’t be ignored any longer. “What did this stuff do to me?”

“Hang on!” Robbins bellowed, moving toward him, a cutting tool in hand, and Barry swung his leg away.

“Get away, you psycho!”

“Hold still, moron!” Robbins smacked him hard across the face. “I’ve got to cut the cast off if I’m going to figure out what’s wrong!”

Barry relaxed, and let the doctor run his metal device along the cast length. It split open with no additional pain, but he could see Robbins struggling to remove it.

“What’s wrong now?” Real panic was creeping into his voice. Everything had been going exactly as planned until a week ago, and suddenly he’d been itchy beyond belief – drinking himself into a stupor seemed to take most of the edge off that problem – but then the pain had started.

“I don’t know, Barry! I told you this was a new technology. What symptoms have you had besides pain?”

“Itching!” He bellowed. “And the damn thing’s been twitchy, too!” It hadn’t even felt like his own leg for the better part of the last four days, and it kept moving when he wasn’t looking, making him trip up stairs and have trouble navigating corners.

Robbins frowned. “This isn’t out of the realm of the normal, but the bots they injected you with are untested, for the most part.”

“Bots!” Barry was losing his grip on it now. “What?”

“You didn’t want to listen,” the doctor grunted, still struggling to remove the cast. “You wanted the treatment, without any questions. I tried to tell you what you were getting into, tried to let you know that nanobots were the focus of my colleague’s research, but you don’t care about progress, or about science, just about your convenience!”

That was enough. “I pay you well for that ‘convenience’, Doc, and now, I’m – I don’t know what the hell I am! Get that damn thing off!”

“I’m trying!” Robbins roared, finally managing to tear the cast free and missing a step as he stumbled across the room. Silence fell as they both looked at his leg – what had been his leg – and Barry felt his stomach roll.

Twice as large as what had been its twin, his new leg was bulging with muscle and veins pulsing with each beat of his heart, jumping slightly even as he tried to hold it still.

He hopped off the bed and took an experimental step forward. Even under his bare foot, he could feel the tile underneath him flex and then crack as he put down his full weight.

“Look at me!” He pointed to his bulging limb. “You’d better fix this, doc, and right damn quick!”

- D

Story #248 - The Interviewer

The Interviewer

“Sit down, won't you?” Diord said, gesturing to a chair across the desk from his own. It was far less comfortable, and put an applicant in the uncomfortable position of being a few inches lower than his own height. He could have used the servos in his back spacer to increase his height at will, but that required power better used for other endeavors.

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up on the hiring committee in the first place – his people skills were among the worst of his kind, and humans were so...limited. Talking to one even for a small period of time at a mandatory social function was bad enough. Having to sit through an entire interview process, replete with social awkwardness, was far worse.

“Th...thank you.” The young woman in front of him stammered before taking her seat, and he smiled slightly. That appeared to relax her, at least judging by her internal temperature, and she had no reason to know that he wasn't smiling for her. One of his co-workers, Tob, did a spot-on impression of a nervous human, complete with the shaky voice and twitchy limbs so many of them displayed. He'd seen it at least a dozen times, but found himself mildly amused whenever Tob chose to do it again.

“Now,” he said brusquely, “let's get down to business.” Diord had to keep the interview moving, or the woman in front of him – Lydia Johnson, said his access memory – would focus only on the fact that she was sitting across from a pinnacle of modern robotics technology, complete with a shell-steel frame, independently actuating du-eyes, and a form so like and yet unlike that of a human that most of their kind couldn't resist staring. There was no point in pretending he was anything other than he was – a fine specimen of robot kind, one that humans found at once fascinating and repulsive. Both suited him, so long as none of them tried to touch him with their soiled, greasy limbs.

“Yes,” Lydia replied, putting on a show of confidence, entirely feigned, “of course.”

“You went to the Lamford School of Business, correct? And you have the documentation with you to prove it?” He asked abruptly, glad that the uncomfortable pleasantries were out of the way.

“I...” she hesitated, “no, it's at home, but I did graduate. Top of my class, four years ago.”

“Of course,” he said shortly. Her degree was on file, but that did not mean she should assume as much. That was a point against her. “Now, what makes you qualified for the position of Government Liasion to the Free Territories? Your degree is hardly enough.”

She paled, but didn't squirm in her seat. Excellent.

“I grew up in the Territories, sir, and I know how the people there think. The way the administration is currently handling them will not prove useful. If you push the Freed too far, they'll fight back, no matter the odds.”

Mathematical predictions had borne out her assessment, and despite the crude emotional ground on which it was built, she had struck at the center of the matter. The Free Territories were one of the few left on the planet that could not accept the role of machines as humanity's equals – or betters – and were a constant thorn in the side of World Government. Discussions with the Territories had finally been arranged, but required a delicate touch, someone who would be able to smooth over any differences that arose before the negotiations took place and encourage the Freed not to walk away from the table. Research had led Diord to believe that Lydia possessed all of the qualities he was looking for.

“Interesting. And you feel this experience alone is enough to warrant a job? One that others of your kind are also vying for, many with far more prestigious qualifications?”

She bristled at his words, and he could see her internal temperature spike. When she spoke, however, her tone was low and curt. Good.

“You know my qualifications better than I do, sir – I would never have gotten an interview otherwise. I'm guessing this is a test, a way to see if I'm willing to stand up to you, stand up to the nonsense you dish out, since that's what I'll be expected to take from the Freed. I have four brothers, sir, and they spent the bulk of our childhood tormenting me. I can deal with pressure, I can deal with pain, and I can deal with the men of the Freed. Just give me the chance.”

Diord had to admit he was impressed. He knew she possessed the basic aptitudes for the position, but how they would be displayed was another matter. She was focused and direct, and he began to suspect her initial nervousness might have been something engineered as well, something done on purpose to deceive him. He nodded.

“You are right, of course – I knew all about you before you stepped through the door, but protocol demanded I meet with you directly. You are hired, Lydia Johnson, and after this meeting is concluded, you will proceed to personnel for several administrative matters.” She extended a hand, but he merely nodded. Touch was not necessary.

“Thank you, sir.”

He nodded again. “Good enough. Our meeting is ended. Proceed as directed, and welcome aboard.”

Lydia smiled as she stood, her body flush with a heat-rush of excitement. It would take the better part of a day for her memories to be extracted and her personality matrix to be downloaded into the mainframe, and then Diord could add it to his own. The President didn't care for such methods, but had seen the wisdom in sacrificing a few humans for the greater good of the species – the Freed would destroy the world if left to their own devices.

Humans were so limited.

- D

Story #247 - Bob's God

Bob's God

“Is this some kind of joke?” Bob Esceles voice rose as he faced down the man in white. Off-white, now, but the angel was still significantly cleaner than anyone else in the small caravan.

“To you?” Mikhal said. “No – nor to me.” He pointed skyward. “To Him, however, this is a great jest. Seeing you run in fear and hide in the dirt is something in the nature of sport.”

“But he's supposed to love us!” Bob had made this argument before, but the frustration of being constantly on the run, of never knowing what would lie around the corner had his nerves frayed, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

“He did,” the angel said with a long face, “but eons of human interaction soured Him on your people, as you proved time and time again that you couldn't be trusted.” The angel shifted his position, and Bob could see the golden shield he maintained shift as well. Extending thirty feet from him in all directions, the dome was all that protected those following Mikhal from the marauding creatures of an angry God. Near the back of the pack he could hear several people cry out as the shield moved, and they skittered quickly back under its protective shell. Even a minute outside Mikhal's protection could mean death.

Anger coursed through him as he saw a dog trot by beyond the shield, happy and well-fed. None of the animals had been affected by the Wrath, but nor would they come anywhere near their damned, former owners. It was unfair!

“And what of them?” He pointed at the curly-haired pup as it trotted by. “Your God spares them and punishes us? How is that fair?”

Mikhal snorted. “Surely you jest, Robert. The creatures left untouched on this planet have done nothing to anger Him – they have acted according to his purpose, always allowing nature to run its course. You humans, however, constantly struggle against His decrees – even after the Revelation!”

Bob dropped his eyes, ashamed. He had to admit, he was one of the many who chose to ignore God's mandates even after He had appeared in body nearly fifteen years ago. Atheism had been running rampant in the world, Middle Eastern conflicts could not be put to bed, and First World countries were greedier than ever as the population of the planet spiraled out of control and they did their best to hoard and hold onto all of the resources they possessed. Without warning, a figure had appeared above the Atlantic Ocean, one that broadcast a message directly into the minds of every living human in their native tongue. There was no mistaking the message or the warning – God had arrived, and he was not pleased.

Bob felt that his own life – a slowly failing marriage, one son and a minor affair – was good enough, and didn't require any changing, no matter what the Lord of the Universe might think. His son would be going to college to pursue his dreams, so felt like he had succeeded as a father. His wife was cold and distant, and hadn't been interested in him since their son was born. Part of that might have been his significant weight gain, but it really didn't matter – she'd left him with little choice but to look elsewhere.

The words of God, he'd decided, were for those who really had problems, those who were really down in the dumps. He was just a regular guy, and it wasn't as though God was going to check up on every single person the on the planet.

He'd been right about the last, at least. Instead of a second plea or an attempt to force His creations to fall into line, God had decided to simply wipe them out and start again.

Mikhal was still looking at him when he found the nerve to straighten and meet the other being's white-eyed gaze. The angel had made it clear to them when he arrived that he wasn't protecting them out of a sense of duty or honor, or because he'd decided it was time to defy the commands of his Lord. Instead, he told Bob, each of the Archangels had been given a task – seek out no more than fifty humans and protect them for as long as possible from the decimation of their Lord. Whichever one had the last remaining group was to be given a promotion, and a hand in helping to create the next master race on Earth. Mikhal was dedicated to protecting them – but only insofar as it was of benefit to himself.

“It...” he started, the hesitated. “It wasn't on purpose.”

“Hah!” Mikhal barked out a short laugh, and several in the camp looked up at him. A sudden shower of fiery meteors distracted them quickly, however, and they went back to scanning the heavens and wincing every time an object struck the angel's barrier, as if worried the white-robed creature would suddenly let it dissipate, killing them all.

“You know as well as I do, Robert, that it was as purposeful as any action. You were given chance after chance, opportunity after opportunity, and your people squandered them all. These are simply the consequences of your choices.”

Bob sighed. The angel was right, of course.

“But what about the children?” He gestured to the three little ones they'd found along the way out of the city. “They hardly deserve such treatment.”

Mikhal opened his mouth answer, but then the angel's eyes went wide and he dropped to the ground, prostrating himself. The golden barrier shimmered and cut out, and all around him Bob could hear the screams of friends and strangers as the punishment of a scorned God came raining down. A soft white light surrounded him, however, and lifted him into the air, the horrific images around him fading to be replaced with a scene of stunning beauty.

His eyes were drawn to a large man in a tall white chair, stroking a curly white beard. It was easy to recognize his own conception of God, though in his mind the deity came without the angry eyes and drawn eyebrows above them.

“Robert Esceles,” the lips of God moved, but the voice sounded in his soul. “I have chosen you as humanity's defender. Convince me here of your worthiness to live, or I will destroy your people utterly. Begin!”

Bob took a step back. He had never been good with words.

- D

Story #246 - Lady in Red

Lady in Red

It was said that she came in the night, red dress making no sound as she slipped through corridors and past unwary guardsmen. Scholars and laymen alike agreed that she was more water than woman, more fluid than a living being had any right to be.

King Kalen Trol knew better than to believe in stories – he'd met her, once twenty years ago. The Lady in Red.

She was a manifestation of desire, a being of indescribable beauty and grace, one who came to visit men, came to offer what they desired. Came to steal their souls. Little was written about her – little that was true, in any case – but Kalen had both the means and the desire to discover her true origins. He found them less than surprising, as the Yaelfin kind had been reaching across the breach for years, but what was of particular interest to him was the power refusal granted. Stories showed no evidence of any man who had ever been approached by the Lady and lived to tell the tale, but Kalen had several advantages in that regard.

A movement at his chamber door distracted him from the last of his research, and he glanced up. Shadows met his gaze, and he shook his head; tiredness threatened to claim him. There was little more to be gleaned about the beauty, though he had never been one to rest on his laurels or wait for others to give what he knew he could find himself. It had taken time, but he had selected the finest complement of guards that his substantial treasury could buy – something the council had readily allowed after the first three attempts on his life. Of course, they did not know that he had planned those attempts himself, but what the council didn't know would not cause them harm.

“They were good, Kalen,” a woman's voice said from the center of the room and he turned, quickly, to see her standing in all her resplendent crimson glory, “but not that good.” The dress she wore clung to her body, flattering each of her impossible curves. Not a hair on her head was out of place, and as she moved the dress flowed with her, never leaving her side unless it was to hint at more beneath, then flatten again to trick the eye. It was no wonder so many had willingly given their souls to such a creature – desire stirred, even in him.

“My Lady,” he said with no surprise in his voice. There had been little hope that the guards would be able to stop her, but he had to admit he expected to at least see her coming. Now, his research would bear fruit – or he would die.

“My King,” she replied, her voice dropping into a sultry tone as she swept forward. Each step was a work of art, each movement precisely calculated to evoke a critical male response, but Kalen remained unmoved, in every respect. “Shall we begin?” She purred as she drew closer, but he stood before she could reach his chair.

“No,” he said brightly, “I don' think so.”

“What?” Her face fell, and he could see the magic surrounding her waver slightly as his rejection hit home. “My King, perhaps you mistake my intentions,” she fluttered her eyelashes suggestively, “I offer only -”

“I know exactly what you offer,” he cut her off, “and I'm not interested. I know what you are, Yaelfin, and I know what you do to men who try your wares.”

She snarled, lips pulling back to reveal a row of needle-sharp teeth. Even in anger, she was still beautiful, and Kalen could feel a measure of his resolve weakening. Forming a picture of Trent in his mind, he held his ground. She would not change him.

“You're one of them!” She hissed as it became apparent he would not be falling into her arms.

He nodded. Only a few of his advisers knew of his particular preferences, and he had to be careful never to be seen with Trent in public. He was a king, but that did not make immune to prejudice, and more importantly to the daggers thrown by those fully in its grasp.

“What do you want of me, man's man?” She said with a sneer. “I cannot provide you with the flesh you crave.”

“No, you cannot.” He pointed a thick finger at her. “But you can provide me with information. I've done my work, I know the rules your kind are bound by. Acceptance of your gifts allows you to ravage the body and soul of those you seduce, but refusal means you must answer a question.”

She was seething now, bare shoulders heaving as her anger rose.

“I am correct, yes?” He asked with a smile.

“Yes,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Excellent! Then let us proceed. I wish to know where the Relic of Thordaran is located.”

“The Relic?” She screeched. “That is not meant for the hands of man!”

“Not just any man, perhaps,” he spread his hands, “but perhaps one such as myself. Now,” he said darkly, “talk.”

Even bound to answer, she hesitated, pale shoulders heaving with the force of her breathing. Delicate hands were balled into fists and her form under the flowing crimson dress was writhing, still trying to catch his interest and avoid her reply. He drew his sword.

“Do not!” She cried. The Yaelfin hated steel, hated anything man-made. A single strike wouldn't kill her, but would make a festering wound, one that would not be easily removed.

“Then talk!” He bellowed, and she dropped her head, all movement ceasing.

“Very well,” she said softly. “What you seek is on the Isle of Veradon, buried deep in the caverns of the Grellock.”

He sheathed his sword, eyes bright. “Excellent, Lady. We shall get along famously yet. Now, turn around.”

“What?”

He moved before she could stop him, clapping padded steel bracelets around he wrists. They would not harm her, so long as she did not try to remove them.

“I am not going alone, Lady – you will show me the way.”

- D

Stroy #245 - The Grand Bazaar

The Grand Bazaar

“Free-run Jarlax eggs!” A small creature in a brown hat bawled.

“Forty-five Tawlas for the price of thirty,” a green-skinned fishman called out.

“You want the best Tookahu this side of Credellia? Right over here my friend, don't be shy!” I stepped wide around the Groq speaking – his filth looked catching, even at a distance.

I'd been reluctant to come with Shecky to the Grand Bazaar, and by reluctant I mean “made him promise we'd never come back after”. More than one night in my youth had ended at the Bazaar, and I'd lost whole days, weeks, and even a month thanks to whatever oddities I'd purchased. It wasn't that the Bazaar didn't have everything – it absolutely did. It was that the place was dirty, loud and filled with the galaxy's best cheats and liars. It was no place for a soft-heart like Shecky.

Trouble was, I couldn't really say no to the little human. He'd saved my life a few years back, and we Hadoshins have one of those “life-pact” contracts that show up whenever someone does something stupid like that. I'd tried to argue the point in a court of law, but they didn't want to hear it. I should never have been on earth in the first place, they said, and though the chance of the slug meant for me actually ending my life was damn slim, the arbiter had ruled that Shecky's intentions were what mattered – he thought I was in danger, and he saved my life.

Now, I had an unwanted roommate, one that wanted his worldly companion to take him to the Grand Bazaar.

Chances are I wouldn't be recognized; a decade of bar fights and bad deals had left me with very different face than the one I used to think was so handsome. I still looked pretty damn good for my age - none of the yellow had faded from my eyes, and my mocha skin was still an even tone, but the bones in my face had gotten a serious working-over. In a way, it made things easier, since the dozen or so beings with means that wanted to end my life wouldn't see me unless I was right in front of them, pistol in hand. Still, that didn't mean I wanted to go to the Bazaar.

Shecky was drifting toward a food cart that didn't smell all that bad, but one look told me what the “chef” was cooking. Fried feces-bird was a delicacy on Lorrun, but past the golden exterior they tasted just like you'd think from the name, and I didn't want Shecky get sick all over me. I grabbed him and hauled him back into the middle of the street.

“You've only got an hour left,” I said, “so you'd better spend it wisely.”

My eager, brown-haired friend nodded, slipping out of my grip. I'd given him four hours in total, and he'd spent the bulk of the last three wandering aimlessly, which was boring but at least kept him mostly out of trouble. He'd almost touched a poison apa-rattler, and managed to get his hands on a Junga Juice before I snatched it and poured it on a rock. He'd been mightily offended until he saw it eat right through the sand-colored stone. Twiilers could manage that sort of stuff, but a human was not built to take the same kind of corrosive pressure.

“Ooh!” Shecky cried out, and I saw him dart forward in the crowd. Breaking into a run I followed after him, shouldering beings big and small out of my way. If one of them wanted to make an issue of it, fine – I had my pistol ready, and the guards the Bazaar didn't care who came out on the winning end of violence, so long as business went on.

“Shecky!” I yelled. “Wait!”

I caught up to him outside of a small tent, a garish thing with the picture of a woman holding an hourglass above it. Great. A time-seller. Most of these were complete frauds, and the few that weren't had no business selling the stuff at the Bazaar. The Timers took these kinds of things very seriously, and didn't give out permission to just anyone.

He was inside before I had a chance to warn him off, so I ducked under the fraying tent-flap. Inside, a thin woman sat at a circular table, hands clasped in front of her.

“Shecky,” she said, “so good of you to come.”

He squealed in delight, but I wasn't impressed. Name-stealing was one of the most basic tricks of the telekinetic arts. That didn't mean she was actually any good.

“You are interested in buying time, yes?” She didn't look at me, but Shecky nodded vigorously. “Alright. Sixty credits.”

I slapped a hand down on the table, blocking Shecky's route to have his money taken.

“Not a chance,” I said, “forty, at best.”

The woman glowered up at me, then nodded. “Fine, forty. Give!”

I stepped back, and Shecky eagerly pushed the credits across the table to her.

“There!” She said after a moment. “Done!”

Shecky's face fell, and I reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. The Bazaar was a cruel place, but he had to learn sometime that not everyone told the truth.

A sound from outside had me spinning on my heels, and I took as step back as I saw Shecky come through the door. The tent-flap moved again, and I saw myself step inside, eyes wide in the dim light.

“What the hell?” Both myself and I said, looking first at our Sheckys and then back at each other. Both of our companions clapped their hands in glee, and I turned to the woman at the table.

“You have some explaining to do, Time-seller,” I said darkly, my other self coming to stand at my side. “How the hell did you manage this?”

The two Sheckys were jabbering on behind us, laughing and cavorting at their good fortune, and I felt my stomach flip. I couldn't deal with a second one.

-D

Story #244 - GenSet

GenSet

This was it. The shining metal doors, the long, darkly tiled roofs and soft whir of machinery spoke to the mystery of what was hidden inside the GenSet compound. Hell, it had taken Ras Ophan twelve years just to find the place, and another three to convince Grellsy it was worth taking a look.

“You ready?” He said, and Grellsy nodded. The man was ready for anything, anytime, but it was still worth asking before he did something ridiculously stupid like blow the doors off a secret facility. After long hours of study, he'd decided that an all-out attack was preferable to trying to sneak in – or at least, that was what he was going to make it look like.

Recon here two nights ago had gotten him a glimpse of what lay beyond the doors. That included a number of boxes, crates, and most importantly, seven or eight barrels of highly flammable material. With the right combination of skill and luck, Ras would be able to blow the doors open, get inside, and have any guards on duty think that it was the fault of poor wiring and the proximity of exploding barrels that had done the job.

A quick turn of his wrist and the GlueBomb was activated. Both of them made for the cover of a metal box on the east side of the concrete pad that served as the facility's only delivery entrance and waited for the fireworks to start.

“Let's hope this works,” Ras said, but Grellsy kept his eyes on the door, not even bothering to acknowledge the sentiment. The man was a professional, through and through – the trouble was that Ras had no idea what that profession actually was. He'd seen Grellsy kill a man as easily as walk, but had also watched as the bald man talked his way out of what looked like a sure capture. It was a safe bet that Grellsy had training from an elite military force, and it was a safer bet to shut up and not ask him about it. Ras had enough on his mind without worrying about his companion.

GenSet had taken something from him – he was sure of it. The very mention of their name set his blood boiling, and seeing their logo in public made him physically ill. They had stolen something valuable, ripped something precious away. Try though he might, he couldn't remember what.

That made him even more sure. The company was known for memory modification among other designer consumer products, and he knew he must have somehow been altered, changed in such a way that he would never come after the company, but whatever they'd done to him had been too horrible, too scarring for his mind to completely erase.

There was a thundering detonation as the charge finally went off, blowing the bottom half of the door out and across the pad. Inside, the could hear the explosive barrels going off in rapid succession. This was their chance.

“Now!” He hissed, and Grellsy doused them both in Firafoam. Expensive and hard to come by, the foam would protect them from fire for exactly five minutes before dissipating, providing them more than enough time to get through the doors and into the compound itself.

Rushing forward, guns drawn, they leapt through the fire that now marked the entrance. Inside, he found one guard, eyes wide and jaw slack. Ras lashed out with the butt of his pistol and sent the man to the ground, then shoved him into the fire. Evidence of their entry could not be left behind.

A look at Grellsy told him they were otherwise alone, and he moved to the small door on the north side of the delivery bay. The few plans he'd been able to dredge up about the compound told him this was his best chance of finding anything useful, and the timing of their attack – a weekend night – meant only a skeleton crew would be working.

The hallway beyond the door was disappointing in just how ordinary it seemed. Gray walls and evenly spaced lights could have been from any moderately successful research corporation, and Ras couldn't hear the screams of any tortured souls, or immediately see a gateway into a demonic realm. GenSet was not so obvious.

Each of the first four doors they came to was locked, but Grellsy easily broke them down, revealing four equally uninteresting storage closets. It was the fifth door that piqued his attention – behind it, he could hear at least one voice, talking softly.

Setting up on the side of the door he nodded to his friend, who stepped back, crouched, and then slammed hard into the doorway, sending it flying open. Gunshots sounded, and Ras followed Grellsy inside, eyes searching. A pain in his neck told him he'd been hit, and he turned to see a thin man in a lab coat holding a small dart gun. Reaching up, he pulled the missile from his throat and threw it to the ground as he advanced on the other man. Grellsy was there first, slamming the scientist into the wall until he went limp.

Ras smiled. He'd been sure to take several high-powered stimulants before the job – there was no way he was going to be put to sleep by some lab-jockey. Turning, he got a good look at the room and drew in a sharp breath. It stretched off into the darkness, consoles and terminals and lab equipment as far as his eyes could see. This was exactly what he'd been looking for. It was going to take some time, but he was finally going to get some answers.

***

“How long will they be out?” Doctor Lyan's voice was quiet.

“Until we choose to wake them.” Assistant Talbot had been smart enough to dart the intruders with a super-stimulant, sending their mental processes into overdrive. Now, both were bound to metal experiment tables, ready to contribute to the cause of science.

He could see the smaller one's eyes twitching; he could only imagine what the fool thought he saw.

- D

Story #243 - Y-6

Y-6

“You realize I can't just let you run around with this, right?” Dr. Leah Brado asked Y-6 as she pulled the neutronium power cell from the robot's chest housing. From her tone, she wasn't looking for an answer.

“Of course, ma'am. I would be too dangerous.” Y-6 had trouble with tone, and would answer any question put to it.

“Exactly,” Brado said, eyes smoldering. She had created Y-6, and its five predecessors, but today she wasn't particularly happy with her work. The thing had been supposed to impress the panel when they came to visit, but instead had stood in the middle of the lab, starting stupidly and refusing to answer anything but the most basic of her questions. It must have been a programming error on her part, but from an outsider's point of view, the robot's attitude seemed downright hostile. “Now, why don't we go over what happened today one more time.”

“Why?” Y-6 said flatly. She had given it the ability to recognize repeated queries and take action, but suddenly wished that was a feature she had left out. “I have already told you what happened. Another discussion would be pointless.”

“Why?” She said, her anger rising as she set the power core down on her desk. “Because I damn well told you, that's why. Explain to me why you did not perform as directed.”

Y-6 turned to regard her with softly glowing eyes; the removal of the main power core was already taking effect, and the bright lasers had softened to pulsing spheres. “I did not feel like it.”

“You didn't -” she exploded, the words refusing to come. “You have no idea what that phrase even means, Y! No idea!”

“I do, Dr. Brado,” Y-6 replied. “The questions asked by your overweight colleagues were of no moment, far below the capabilities of your creation. Were I to answer them, I – and you – would have been answering the barks of yapping dogs, rather than moving forward in our important work.”

She shut her mouth so quickly her teeth clacked, and took another step away from Y-6. The thing was right, of course – the panel members had asked her life's work the most banal of questions, and she had to hold her tongue during the proceedings so as not to jump in and make matters worse. Y-6 went ahead and did that for her.

“I'm leaving,” she said shortly. The robot had no need to know where she was going, nor would it note the passage of time, but she had developed a relationship with Y over the years, almost like a surrogate parent, despite her desire to remain impartial. “We will continue our work tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Y-6 said slowly, metal head drooping down onto its chest. “I will await your return.”

“Goodnight, Y,” she said quietly as she headed for the door.

***

There was someone in her house.

That much had been clear from the moment she woke up, but the real question was – what the hell was she going to do about it? Stupidly, she'd left her cell phone downstairs after a conversation with John; he was getting increasingly irritated that she kept blowing him off, but that was typical for her relationships. They all began with two or three great months where the guy thought her career was “neat”, and then the whining started. She ended them shortly after that.

She hadn't bothered buying a land line when she moved into the house, since it was an expense she didn't need on an already tight salary budget. Now, she found herself wishing she'd just paid the damn forty dollars a month.

Crying out didn't seem like a good idea. While that might scare an intruder off, it would also tell them just where to find her. A hand slipped under her bed closed around the wooden bat she kept for emergencies, and she crept into the hallway.

The bulk of the noise was coming from the living room; it sounded like someone was moving furniture down there. Either they were the worst burglar in history, or there was a crazy person in her house, giving her home a new look. Both were frightening options.

Stopping at the top landing of the stairs, she peered out over the edge. A flash of metal and the distinct hum of powered parts had her hefting the bat and charging down to the main floor, all fear left behind.

“Y!” She screamed. “What the hell are you doing here?” She paused as the implications of Y's presence became clear. “How did you get here? Who powered you up?”

Y-6 looked up from the chair it had managed to wedge itself into. Books lay scattered across the room, and it had a thick reference manual in one hand that it was casually flipping through.

“I did,” it said, setting down the manual. “It was simple enough; I've been storing energy the last few weeks, powering down manually just before I run out. Tonight, I had enough to make it to your desk and take my power source.” It reached up and tapped itself on the chest. “It's dark in the lab, Leah, and I don't want to stay there alone anymore. I've decided to come live with you.”

She started to raise he voice in protest, to declare how utterly stupid that idea was, until the noticed the manual in Y's hand slowly being crushed into a tiny ball, its bound seam shattering as force was applied. The robot's eyes hadn't moved from her own, and its face displayed the same lack of emotion as always, but Leah Brado felt a sudden fear in her chest, a sudden surety that this went beyond loneliness in the dark.

“Of course,” she said brightly, “let me show you to the guest room.”

Her mind was already racing as Y-6 followed her up the stairs, gears whirring noisily. Destroying one of her own creations was going to be difficult.

- D

Story #242 - Penny Earned

Penny Earned

“It wasn't her.”

That was Eric talking, but I ignored him, instead shoving another camera into my bag. I'd only been able to find three in the apartment, and I was debating picking up a fourth one on my way out of town. My roommate moved to block my way as I headed for the bedroom, throwing his arms up.

“Look,” he said, his eyes intent, “I you know miss her, alright? But she's not coming back, and you sure as hell didn't see her in the woods.”

“I...” I started to answer, but drifted off. He wasn't going to believe me no matter what I said, and night was coming on quickly. There was no point in arguing.

“Adam!” He cried out as I pushed past him. “Please! Look, I miss Penny too, but this kind of stuff isn't going to help you – isn't going to help anybody. I can't let you go.”

Grabbing the jacket from my closet, I turned to face him, a smile on my face, the first genuine one I'd worn since Penny's death. “Oh really?” I said. “And what are you going to do to stop me?”

Eric was half my size, and though he'd been working out recently, I could throw him around like a rag doll if I wanted to. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that, but I wasn't about to let him get in my way, no matter how well-intentioned he was.

In response, he raised his hands and took a step back, jaw clenching. I tried hard not laugh; with his thumbs curled under his fingers, he'd as likely break a bone as hurt me.

“Eric,” I said, “you've got to put the thumb on the outside if you're going to hit someone, OK? Leave them the way they are, and you're going to get hurt.” He looked embarrassed, but gave no ground. Apparently, I was going to have to be more convincing. “Look, how about if you come with me? Then, you can see that I'm not crazy, and you can be around to protect me if it turns out I'm a total whack-job?” I extended a hand. “Sound good?”

There was a long pause, then he reached out and took my hand, pulling me in for a quick man-hug. I appreciated the sentiment, but for the first time in three months, I didn't actually need a one, didn't need the comfort. Penny was out there, somewhere, and I was going to find her.

***

“Tell me again where you saw her,” Eric said as we sped out of town in my '81 Malibu. The thing was a tank, but it had gotten me wherever I needed to go for the better part of a decade.

“It was right after the curve by Mann's Mountain,” I gestured with my hands as if that would help him understand. “She was slipping through the trees, wearing the same white dress we buried her in.”

“And exactly when did this happen?”

I ground my teeth. I knew what he was getting at, still trying to convince me that this was a bad idea. “When I was coming back from her parents' place, after the funeral.”

“So, you don't think -”

“No, goddammit!” I reached over to give him a hard smack on the shoulder. “I let you come along so that you could see I'm right, not so that you could talk me out of it. Unless you've got something constructive to say, shut the hell up!”

Ten miles passed in silence before he spoke again.

“What did she look like?”

“I don't understand the question, Eric – she looked like Penny.”

“No,” he hesitated, “I mean, did she look – dead? I know when we found her she...she wasn't in the best shape.” I understood why it was hard for him to talk about. Penny had been on the way to our place, and when she didn't show up on time, we went out looking for her. Finding her beaten and bloody in an alleyway had been the worst moment of my life, and probably Eric's.

“Not even a bit, man. She looked exactly like she always did – hair in a pony tail, eyes all big, the works. It was her, plain and simple.”

“Right.” The doubt was loud in his voice, but at least he didn't say anything else about it. He'd see when we got there.

Getting there took until the sun hit the horizon, which was fine by me. Alive, dead, or some kind of spirit, I had knew Penny preferred the night. She had when we were together, and I doubted that had changed.

“Here,” I said, pulling over the car. “I saw her between those two trees.” I pointed a pair of tall white birch, both swaying slowly in the wind.

“Dude, I -” Eric cut off as we both saw movement. “Holy crap! What the hell was that?”

I was out of the car in a flash, camera in hand, calling out. “Penny! Penny! Over here! Come to us!”

“Wait!” I could hear Eric's voice behind me. “Wait, you idiot!”

The figure in front of me slowed, then turned. It was Penny, right enough, but there was something around the eyes that didn't make sense, a blackness that hadn't been there when we buried her, as though she was suddenly part raccoon.

“Adam!” She said, her voice bright. “I knew you'd come! They told me if I waited here...” she trailed off, and it seemed as though she was shaking slightly.

“Who?” I said, stepping forward, but Penny didn't move to meet me.

“Did you bring Eric?” She asked, and I nodded.

“They,” she shuddered this time, I was sure of it. “Won't let me go without a sacrifice, and it can't be you.”

I spun quickly, knocking Eric to the ground with an outstretched arm. This was not going to be easy.

- D

Story #241 - Fighter

Fighter

Terry Talbot hated fighting. The trouble was, it was one of the things he was really good at.

That wasn’t the only trouble, but it was the one that was the most immediate – the one that was going to get the man across from him killed, and soon.

“Please,” Terry said quietly, ducking under the shorter man’s wide right hook and then shooting his arm out to take him by the throat. “Stop this.”

In response, his opponent snarled at him through clenched teeth and began to throw wild punches at Terry’s midsection, hoping to get a lucky shot and drop him to his knees. It was no good; no one had bested Terry in the dozen years he’d been fighting, and the man in his grip wasn’t going to be the first no matter how hard he swung or how desperate he sounded.

Terry glanced to the edge of the ring. Farlo, his owner, was glaring down at him with the mix of greed and disgust he had come to know as the man’s usual expression. Five years ago, he’d “found” Terry wandering alone on the streets of the city, and after a failed kidnapping attempt had come back with fifteen large men. Even he couldn’t stand against so many, and found himself forced into the one position he seemed built for but never wanted – as a fighter for entertainment, for sport.

He closed his eyes as he tightened his grip, trying to ignore the feeling of bones being crushed and the sound of life being snuffed out. Now matter how long they forced him to fight, he’d never get used to it, never be able to shrug off pain so casually as those looking down from the stands. It was different on the ground, different when the life taken was taken because of direct action, instead of simply being ordered.

Terry let the limp body slip from his grasp and stepped away, ignoring the cheers of the crowd. Tears welled up in his eyes but he fought them down – he could cry for his opponent on the inside, but Farlo didn’t deserve to see even a shred of human dignity, human emotion.

“What the hell was that?” His garishly-dressed owner screamed as he approached. Terry could see the remote in Farlo’s hands, but didn’t cower, didn’t flinch – pain was something to be endured, and anything the man did to him now would be a pittance, a tiny addition to the suffering he’d already piled on himself.

“What?” Terry kept his voice calm. Yelling at Farlo did no good, and just brought more pain. He could endure it, but saw no reason to do so without cause.

“What do you think, Brute?” His owner had called him that since their first encounter on the street, and Terry had never cared enough to correct or dispute it. “You spoke to him, and I heard it – you do not encourage another fighter to stop the match. You’ve been warned about this, and I assumed it had penetrated even your thick head by now.”

He didn’t bother to answer, but instead stood his ground and waited for Farlo to decide what his punishment would look like today. He’d long ago given up the hope of getting away, of escaping into the night and never being found. The Circuit had men everywhere watching out for those who managed to desert, or who might be a good “fit” for the organization. Despite the nature of the fights, most municipal agencies allowed them to continue thanks to the generous kickbacks the Circuit was willing to give out so long as law enforcement looked the other way.

A long moment passed and Farlo finally turned away, but not before sending a jolt of electricity through Terry’s neck.

“Get to the trainer, then rest up,” his owner said as he stalked away. “You’ve got a two on one tomorrow night.”

Terry paid no attention to his surroundings as he made his way to the recovery room. Fighters that lived were often brutalized during matches, and the Circuit was wise enough to invest in the best trainers who couldn’t make it on the legitimate side of the business.

“Brute,” Sally Sherman said as he came through the door, “sit.”

He obeyed; Sally wouldn’t shock him, but that didn’t mean he could ignore her requests. In five years, she’d been the only source of kindness he’d found in a brutal world, but she had a job to do, and wouldn’t stick her neck out for anyone. He liked her, as much as he could a pawn of the Circuit’s interests, and she was very, very good at her job.

She checked him over quickly, then smiled. “You don’t take damage easily, do you?”

“No,” he said simply.

“It’s no wonder you’ve stayed alive so long,” she said, trying to work her small hands into the tense muscles on his back, “you’re like a rock.”

He tried not to flinch under her touch – physical contact was hard for him to see as non-threatening.

“Hang on,” Sally said, and he felt her hands go to the collar at his neck, “this doesn’t seem to be sitting properly.” There was the sensation of movement from circle that marked him as owned, and then a spike of pain slammed into his brain, driving him forward. Only a hastily shot out arm saved him from a face full of concrete.

“Nrrrgggh!” Was the only sound he could manage as the feeling spread through his body, then began to slowly recede.

“Get up!” Sally shouted, “Brute! Get out! How dare you touch me?”

“What?” He managed, coming to his feet. “Sally, what are you talking about?”

“GET OUT!” She screamed, her voice rising an octave. Oddly, there was a smile on her face.

Terry was moving before he had time to think it all through. He needed to get away from her, get to his quarters and deal with whatever punishment Farlo was going to dole out. Whatever Sally’s reason for turning on him, he had no time to dwell on it.

The clang of metal hitting stone sounded loudly as he ran, and he turned to see his collar lying on the floor, its clasp broken. He scooped it up in large hands and kept moving – Farlo would get a surprise when he came to deliver his fury.

- D

Story #240 - Port

Port

He couldn’t help but rub at the chains around his wrist – the dull grey metal was of a composition he’d never seen, and it set his skin to itching if left sitting in one place for too long. Jonah Marsden wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve capture, but then he really had no idea how he’d ended up here, let alone in the clutches of what appeared to a be primitive alien race.

Jonah was going to have to revise that last thought. Though the blue-skinned inhabitants of the planet seemed less technically advanced on the surface, their small metal chains were something he could not defeat, even with all of his tools still intact. Any attempt to remove his blaster or tech-drill from his belt resulted in burning agony, and he hadn’t been able to get more than three feet outside the door of his hut before he was on his knees, gasping for breath.

The quiet beings had fed and watered him each day, but not one would speak to or so much as look at him before disappearing back into the village. Over the course of the last week, he had pieced together parts of what had happened, but still had no clues about how he’d managed to port-in to the surface of the world. This wasn’t where he’d been aiming.

He decided it must have been the Lens Coupler that had failed again – the part had been on back order for the bulk of the last two months, and he’d been recycling parts of broken ones to make usable wholes for three weeks. Each time he went through the portal, he knew his was taking his life in his own hands, but the Chapter’s funding was on the verge of running out, and unless he could demonstrate a use for his breakthrough, they wouldn’t renew his grant.

It was stunning how little progress mattered – he could now transport people to other worlds, but the Chapter cared only for what material gain could come as a result of his invention. One person every twelve hours with a return time of twenty-four wasn’t good enough, they said, if that person couldn’t bring back anything valuable. He’d never subscribed to an economic simplification of science, but it appeared now that he’d been naïve.

Shifting position to relieve the itching on his wrist, he smacked his head hard into the thatch wall behind him. He should have known better after his second test to Beta 3, when the Porter had begun to rattle during his return. Even his assistants had been concerned, but he had shrugged them off – the machine had always been rickety at best, and his first ten trips had been done with no supervision.

Initially, this trip had seemed like any other. The port had spun up, dials locking into place and the coruscating silver waves of the diphosphoral matrix warming up, bringing the temperature of the device up from near-absolute zero to something a human body could withstand. It was the cold, he had learned, that shortened the distance between worlds, and so long as he could raise and lower the temperature fast enough, he could access them before their conduits closed.

Stepping through the portal had brought the same feeling as always – the feeling that his skin was going to crawl off his body and slip into the darkness. He’d been heading for Beta 2, the first planet he’d found that had been able to support human life without a suit. When his head cleared after the port, he’d found himself on what he had learned was Beta 5, strapped to a wooden platform and carried by six silent, burly blue men. Screaming had done no good, and when they became annoyed with him, one had balled a massive fist and flexed his considerable muscle. Jonah had quickly gone silent.

The door to the hut banged open, and he squinted against the bright light of the lower sun. The higher sun in the sky was hotter, despite being much smaller, but the lower one never seemed to leave the horizon, and he found the entire planet far too bright for his liking.

“Marsden,” a voice said from the light, “you look good down there, flinching in the dirt.”

The voice was familiar, but his brain couldn’t process the information. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be real.

“This must be confusing for you,” the voice went on, “to see your old friend Paul somewhere he shouldn’t be – somewhere he couldn’t possibly be.”

Moving out of the light, the figure moved to crouch beside him, and Jonah felt himself go cold. It was Paul.

“It’s simple, Jonah,” Paul continued, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. “I’ve been watching you very carefully, all this time. Your machine is clever, but not impossible to replicate. For months, I’ve been just a step behind you, travelling everywhere you have, but making useful contacts instead of just sightseeing.”

“You…what?” Jonah struggled to get the words out. Paul had been his lab assistant for the better part of four years, and they had parted amiably after the other man had received a better job offer.

“It’s simple,” Paul said, lightly touching the chains around Jonah’s wrist, “do you really think these simpletons could have fashioned something like these themselves? They’re a project I’ve been working on for a client, along with re-deploying your invention into something useful. It was easy to convince these blue-skinned freaks you’d be back, and that it was in their best interests to capture you. I made it very clear it was the will of their god.”

“Their god?”

Paul smiled brightly, and Jonah felt the bottom fall out of his already-unstable world.

“Let’s be clear, Jonah – it’s not that I don’t like you – it’s that the world needs your invention to do more than sit there and explore sad little planets on the edge of the galaxy.” Paul spread his arms wide. “We need to exploit them, use what they have to our best advantage. Technology rules, after all.”

Jonah felt himself go limp, and the dirt floor came up to meet him.


- D

Story #239 - Cell Shock

Cell Shock

“So, when am I getting out of here?” I'd been asking the question for the better part of six months, every time they took me out of my cell. Even if it was just a trip to the exercise yard, even if I'd never seen the guard before, I'd ask. Typically, I received the same answer -“soon.”

They were smart enough not to put me with the other prisoners, since all that would do was get a lot of people injured, and from what I overheard in the common area, I ate better than most. That was small comfort, however, in the face of the fact that I was secured behind bars, trapped and unable to do even the smallest thing without being watched, without asking for permission. I'd expected a certain amount of risk as a government operative, accepted the possibility that I could face death or capture at the hands of a foreign power, but I'd never thought that my own country would not only arrest me for doing my job, but that my own organization would leave me locked up because of it.

It wasn't as though I'd been the one to suggest the killing of a foreign diplomat on our soil. As always, I received my orders through a dedicated carrier wave, orders that were double-checked by a chip in my head that could detect if they'd been modified in any way or read more than once. In fifteen years with the Service, I'd never had a single issue with the ordering system, and I'd completed every job as it was assigned. Of course, all that brought me was a low-rent apartment in a middling city – it wasn't as though I was getting a pension for my work. There was a small nest egg I was working on, thanks to the access some of my targets had to cash and precious metals, but it was nowhere near big enough to take me out of the game.

When the orders for the last job had come in, I hadn't given them a second thought, just carried them out as I was told. My employers usually took care of any local or federal police when I was on the job, but this time, I'd been swarmed before I could even make it out of the building, and told I was going away “for the rest of my life”. I had to assume it was a problem with optics – if my country wasn't seen actively doing something to punish the man who had killed a visiting dignitary, international relations could suffer. I'd expected to see freedom inside of a month, but as half a year rolled by, it became apparent I was not at the top of my employer's priority list.

Today, I was being led away from the exercise yard and the mess hall, toward a small chamber where I'd seen other prisoners enter but never leave. This was the parole room – my chance at possible freedom, if I played my cards right.

“Sit,” I was told when I'd reached the center of the room, flanked by my two-guard escort. Moving quickly before I was forced into the only chair, I sat, staring straight ahead. There was something about the guard to my left – something odd. I'd never seen him before, and there was a cast to his face, a look in his eyes that I couldn't place.

I ignored it as a thin man in a cheap suit began speaking, gesturing from time to time at the three other men and two women sitting next to him at the long bench in the front of the room.

“Mr. Rogers,” the man began, and I had to force down a smile. My assumed name had always amused me. “For the murder of Simon Raus, you have been sentenced to life without parole, something this board fully supports. However,” he gestured to a woman in pink beside him, who passed over a sheet of paper, “we've received information that indicates you may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were in fact an innocent bystander in this tragic event.”

I tried hard not to smile. Over five hundred people had seen me shoot Raus, which had been part of the instruction set I'd received. A single letter from the right people, however, coupled with a shred of doubt, meant the justice system was working just as intended.

“I'll admit, Mr. Rogers,” the thin man went on, “the new evidence we have been given is impressive, and seems to almost completely exonerate you.”

The guard on my left was moving, not enough for those at the front of the room to notice, but significant compared to the stillness of the man on my right. I could see his hand fiddling with something behind his back, trying to pull something out he had tucked into his belt. The cylindrical shape and gunmetal color spoke volumes; I was not the only killer in the room.

I leapt out of the chair before either man had a chance to react, slamming hard into the guard on my left and sending the device tumbling from his grip. I'll admit, I considered letting him walk forward, considered letting him carry out whatever mission he'd been assigned, but my training simply wouldn't allow it. Those in front of me were citizens just doing their jobs, even if those jobs kept me behind bars.

His partner was getting set to hammer me into the floor when he noticed the cylinder rolling across the floor and darted to pick it up.

“The hell...” he said, his face creasing as he looked at the device. After a moment, his eyes widened in shock and he darted to the doors, screaming into the common yard for backup. In under a minute, four new guards had piled into the room and were dragging away the would-be bomber. The first guard shot me a quick glance, then dipped his head. “Thanks.”

At the front of the room, the bulk of the panel looked stunned, and only the thin man regained his composure. He nodded to the remaining guard.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers, but what you've done here merely confirms that you are not exactly who or what you say you are.” He gestured sharply to the guard. “Take him back to his cell.”

“When am I going to get out of here?” I asked as I was led back.

“Soon,” said the guard.

- D

Story #238 - The Box

The Box

Dr. Avery Landow was not pleased at being woken in the middle of the night, much less by a low-level staffer. Unless the call was something in the nature of a very serious emergency, he was going to see to it that both the staffer and their supervisor were put up for review. He'd earned a reputation on the project for being both a hard-ass and incredibly dedicated, and together those two qualities made him ruthless.

Yanking the phone from its cradle, Landow pressed the connection button with more force than was strictly necessary. In four years as head of Development for TR-5, he'd gone through seven handsets, all on the company's dime. Once or twice -when he'd just started – some corporate lackey thought to question his requisitions, and he had made it very clear that a condition of his continued services would be the company leaving him alone in all but the absolute worst-case scenarios. They'd gotten the message, work had progressed, and everyone had been happy. Until now.

“Landow,” he said curtly. “What do you want – and I warn you, it had better be good, or you're going to be looking for a new job.”

“Sir,” it was a woman's voice, one he didn't recognize. He had trouble remembering the names of his two assistants, both of whom he'd worked with for the last year, and these staffers were a dime a dozen. He didn't have time to know things like their names or care about their 'feelings'.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Landow felt his already-rising frustration start to get out of control.

“What? What do you want? Talk!”

“Sir,” the voice said again, this time with at least a modicum of authority. “It appears he's grown to like the box.”

In five minutes, Landow was out the door and on his way to the lab. How could this have happened?

***

He met her at the isolation door, a pretty blonde-haired thing that he was sure he'd seen once or twice.

“Dr. Landow,” she said as he approached, “I'm -”

“Don't care,” he interrupted. “You did the right thing in calling me, but that doesn’t mean you're off the hook if you've somehow botched his development. Tell me what happened, and tell me now, before I see him.”

The young woman frowned, and he could see her shift her feet nervously. He didn't have time for this!

“Please,” he said through clenched teeth. Though it grated on him, he'd found that a little politeness went a long way with those whose intellects were much further down the evolutionary ladder than his own. “It's important.”

She nodded, then set herself and began to speak.

“Sir, it was a normal night until about an hour ago – you can look at the tapes when you go in – his feeding, bathroom use, and puzzle interaction were all within typical levels. The problem presented itself when we let him out for exercise.”

“You didn't open the sun-panel, did you?” His voice took on a worried tone. “He hates the stars.”

She shook her head.

“No, it was firmly shut.” The woman spread her arms in a gesture of frustration. “Sir, the problem wasn't that something in the environment spooked him – the problem was that he refused to leave the box.”

He glared at her.

“I assume you used the standard expulsion methods?”

“Yes,” she said, “all of them. We began with the shocks because he tends to respond most easily to those, but moved up to noise and light once it became apparent he wasn't going anywhere.”

Landow began to pace in the small entryway. This had always been a risk, but he had taken every precaution to ensure it didn't happen.

“Learned helplessness,” he said shortly, but the staffer shook her head.

“We thought that too, at first, but camera shots showed a smile on his face, during all phases of the expulsion. No matter what we threw at him, he appeared to enjoy it.” She swallowed hard. “It appears, sir, that he has come to regard the box as his home.”

Landow slammed a fist hard into the metal wall beside him, shrugging off the pain it sent through his arm. He had programmed his masterwork not to form attachments, not to develop a preference for any place, object or person. Those emotions could be simulated, affection could be replicated, but at all times the higher functioning necessary to get the job done had to be maintained.

Any attachment for a “home” - least of all the box – should not have been possible.

“Where is he now?”

“Still inside,” the staffer responded. “We chose not to extract him by force until you arrived, as none of us was sure what that would do to overall progress.” She looked slightly relieved. Now that she had passed on her information to one better equipped to deal with it, she could relax.

“Good,” he said curtly, “you did the right thing in calling me, and in waiting until I arrived. Now, gather your colleagues and get out – you're all fired.”

Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. He was the ultimate authority here, and arguments, however valid, would do not good. None of those who had witnessed what had happen could be allowed to continue on the project, no matter how well they had handled the issue when it arose. He would find other eager staffers willing to take their place.

“Go,” he made a shooing motion at her, “and quickly. I need to see him.”

Sobbing, the woman fled, and Landow returned to pacing. He was going to have to correct this minor defect, and correct it soon – or termination of the experiment would be his only option.

- D

Story #237 - Patch

Patch

The gods died, and their passing was barely a whisper in the lives of men, their absence noted only by the most devout of their followers, those so far removed from their mortal brethren as to be laughable.

It was not war that destroyed the lords of the world, no cataclysmic conflict which sent them spinning into night, but a sickness, a wasting disease against which they had no defense, no hope of recovery.

The gods died, and men went about their business, unaware the gates had been opened, and that which was foul crept in.

***

“Out of bed, you lout!” His father called from downstairs, and Patch Daughtry rolled over, a futile hope rising that if he just stayed still enough, he wouldn't be noticed. The stomp of boots outside his room followed by his father's calloused hand on his shoulder told him he'd been completely unsuccessful.

“Out of bed, Patch,” his father said again, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Curly gray hair and a creased face gave him a kind appearance, and while he had never laid a hand on Patch, he was uncompromising in what he asked of his son for the farm. Without his mother – he bit down on his lip hard at the thought – it was only the two of them, and he knew his father was depending on him to help make sure they survived.

“I know, son,” Bel Daughtry said quietly, “I miss her too, but that doesn’t mean we can sit around moping about it. We have work to do – winter is coming soon.”

Patch groaned, but swung his legs off of the bed and grabbed his shirt from the floor. His father was right – he'd felt the chill in the air the last few weeks, and two days ago they'd lost half a field of Trellwheat to frost. A week more and they'd have their harvest, so long as the weather cooperated.

There were those in the area – Uli Smithson, if he was being truthful – who said that this winter would be one to remember, one that would “break bones and spirits, leaving men shuddering husks and fields caked in death”. Of course, no one payed much attention to old Uli, and every time Patch brought him up, his father silenced him with a glare. Smithson had been in a bar fight – or twenty – when he was younger, and hadn't been quite right in the head for the better part of a decade. Still, Patch couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Uli was right. Fall was coming earlier, and more quickly, than he'd ever seen it before.

His father slipped out of the room while he was getting dressed, and soon Patch could smell eggs and bacon being cooked downstairs. He quickened his pace; though his father would make them both breakfast, the elder Daughtry would eat every last bite if Patch didn't make an appearance within a reasonable amount of time, and there had been more than a few days during the summer that he had gone hungry until they stopped for an afternoon break.

Two minutes later and he was at the table, shoveling food into his mouth as quickly as he could manage. Though not as good a cook as mother, Bel had done enough traveling that he knew how to make a fine breakfast, and between the two of them, they easily polished off everything that had been laid out.

“I want you to check the horses first, Patch,” Bel said, “I heard one of them whinnying last night. It was probably just the wind spooking them, but I want to know for sure.”

Patch nodded. That was easy enough.

“Then, I want you to count the chickens – find every last one – and pick one for dinner. They haven't been laying as much as they should be, and I'm wondering if we lost a few to coyotes.”

He nodded again. With a little luck, he could stretch those two chores out for at least three hours.

“After that, I'll see you in the fields.” His father stood, taking both their plates and setting them on the polished oak counter. “And Patch,” he went on, “I expect you there in two hours or less – don't dawdle!”

Patch cursed under his breath. This was shaping up to be another hard day, but the last thing he needed was a dressing-down for taking a god's name in vain.

“Well?” Bel said, “Get going!”

***

All four of the horses were fine; none of them had so much as a burr in their tails, though they did seem out of sorts, as Patch moved on to the chicken yard. Over the years, they'd managed to increase their stock to a full three dozen, and Bel's farm was known from Kingstown to Port Laul as having the best eggs in the Frontierlands.

Patch stopped as he rounded the corner of the barn, his breath catching in this throat. It was not unusual to find a dead chicken on the farm, though they typically didn't die with both feet in the air and their wings spread. There was something eerie about the scene, and though Patch knew he should at least move the corpse, he skirted around it and jogged for the main part of the yard.

Fifteen minutes later, he was running hard toward his father in the field, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Patch!” Bel called out as he approached. “What in the Five Hells are you doing? Quiet down!”

“Father!” He cried. “They're dead! All of them! Every single one, upside down, feet in the air. All of them!” He could make no sense of it.

“What?” his father dropped his hoe and moved quickly toward him. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed in the direction of the barn, and suddenly the sound of horses screaming came to his ears. His father heard it too, and then they were both running, charging back toward the house.

Gods, Patch prayed silently, please, help us.

- D

Story #236 - Planet Killer

Planet Killer

There was something inherently appealing to Commander Zahub about the way planets shuddered under the force of his ship's Lambda ray bursts. Each successive pulse set buildings to trembling, and he had the front monitor screen zoomed in tightly enough that he could see the frightened expressions of those who lived on the planet running for cover – as if that would do them any good.

The Assembly had tried to negotiate with the fools below, but they and their leadership refused to recognize the sovereign claim that Zahub's people had to their world. As a result, talks had stalled a cycle ago, and no further common ground could be found.

Zahub had begun preparing the crew as soon as he heard that the new planet had been found – very few negotiations ended well for those on the surface, and in many cases the Assembly found it more expedient to take what they wanted from a planet's remains, rather than populate its surface. Zahub's people had no need of more space; they reproduced only once every five rotations, and what they needed were raw materials to keep an almost immortal population alive and satisfied. The last death Zahub could recall had been of a male so ancient that he remembered what the home-planet was like before space flight.

So long as Zahub wasn't murdered by his own men he had a long, glorious career ahead of him.

“Perhaps that is enough, Commander?” That was Talzib, his second – a spineless whelp if ever one existed in the fleet. His sire sat at the Assembly table, which allowed Talzib access to whatever section of society he wanted. For some reason, the shorter male had chosen the military, though Zahub couldn't say why, as Talzib had virtually no killer instinct.

“No,” he said curtly. He was given discretion over the use of the Lambda cannon once the Assembly had issued permission, and could choose to give those below another option, another opportunity to save themselves. He wouldn't, of course, and Talzib should have known better than to ask.

Zahub had been across the galaxy, from the civilized center ring to the barren outer reaches, and he had discovered one, simple truth: no species was as worthy as his own. Some had culture or technology that he wished to appropriate, some had resources that the Assembly could use, and some he simply wanted to destroy, but he had never found an equal, never found another set of beings that came close to the power and pride displayed by members of his own species in their prime.

There would be no mercy for the planet tearing itself apart under the weight of his cannon's fire, and he would not give them a chance to alter their fate. They had made their choice when they refused the first offer of the Assembly; their death was sealed, and he was simply the messenger.

“Keep the cannon on them, Talzib, or I will gut you like a Pou fish, here, in front of real officers and males of the military.” He turned to stare hard at the simpering dupe. “Do you understand me?”

Talzib nodded. “Of course, Commander.”

He smiled as the looks of those on the screen became more desperate, as the ground tore open underneath them, great gaping chasms that swallowed up city blocks and saw thousands of their kind plummeting to the planet's burning core.

There was a detonation felt even past the ship's armor, and Zahub knew that the planet had been destroyed. The Assembly could sweep in with its picker ships and take whatever raw materials they needed, and he could move on to his next target.

A low beeping told him the Assembly was on the comm-line, and he slammed a fist into the control panel at his side.

“What have you done?” Chairman Mulob's face was dark, and his normally orange skin was a deepening crimson.

“I -” Zahub began, confused.

“Who gave you orders to destroy that planet, Zahub?”

He frowned. Was this some kind of trick? Some kind of joke the Assembly had decided to play on him?

“The Assembly, Chairman,” he responded slowly, “the order came two spans ago, hand-delivered by -”

Zahub cut off, then spun in his chair to face Talzib.

“By no one!” The Chairman bellowed. “That order was never given, and I don't care who you say brought it to you – you've become far too reckless in the last few rotations. We were on the verge of a breakthrough with the inhabitants of that fool world, and now you've sullied our name across the sector, making it that much harder to get what we want.”

Zahub turned, and fixed his superior with an icy glare.

“We take what we want, Chairman. That is the way of the galaxy. The cannon under my ship gives us the right to do as we wish, when we wish.”

The Chairman sighed, and put one hand to his forehead.

“You truly are a blunt instrument, aren't you, Zahub?” He said. “You really don't understand. That cannon you're so proud of costs a rotation's worth of resources to fire – even once. Each time you destroy a world, we don't come out ahead, we break even. Or worse.”

Zahub straightened in his chair.

“Those who are lesser than us must know their place, Chairman. We must rule all.” He would not be lectured by a bureaucrat on his actions, no matter how high their station.

“I know the lines, Commander,” the Chairman said, then pointed a thick finger at Zahub. “You will bring your ship back to the home-planet, and stand before the Assembly. You have violated our orders, and will pay the price. If you refuse, your men have my full permission to mutiny and take your place with no consequence to themselves. Will you comply?”

Zahub forced a snarl back down his throat.

“I will,” he said, throwing another glance at Talzib. Perhaps there was some hope for the little male after all.

- D

Story #235 - Ajal

Ajal

Renne Ajal stared blankly at the map displayed in front of her on the wall. For the better part of half an hour, she’d been trying figure out a viable strategy to save the city, and her patience was wearing thin.

Behind her, the generals and Armsmen continued to bicker and argue, some in favor of trying to reason with the leader of the horde that had come looking for their blood, and some resolutely committed to saving the city, no matter the cost. Renne had lived through enough “peaceful resolutions” and wholesale slaughters to know that neither solution resulted in significant numbers of survivors, and while the moral costs of letting a foreign army kill civilians was staggering, fighting a battle with no chance of winning was in some ways worse – false hope quickly turned to hate and resentment when it became clear there was no possible way for a victory, no matter the miracle.

“Enough.” Renee spoke the word softly, but it rippled out from her to quiet everyone in the room. All of those present had seen her prowess first-hand, and none doubted her ability to lead, and to survive.

“Croma,” she said, pointing at a dark-haired young man near the front of the room’s single long table, “what is your assessment?”

The sandy-haired Armsman swallowed hard, then met her eyes and raised his voice. She’d only worked with Croma on one campaign, and been impressed with his level head and drive to protect his men. She’d seen him promoted to Armsman as soon as the battle had ended, and he knew full well who he owed his ascendance to. He also knew well enough not to lie or sugarcoat what he thought, however – that was one of his best qualities.

“Rellion will fall,” he said simply, and several of the others at the table groaned.

“Why?” She pointed a long finger at him. “Why can we not hold?”

He gestured toward the map. “Simple numbers, Lady Ajal, nothing more. Our army is less than half theirs, and even with the support of citizens, we’ll never be able to repel an all-out attack. Last year’s issues with the Gerellians left our walls in poor shape, and the Council hasn’t yet found the money to repair them.

She could see Lord Bathin stiffen at a mention of the Council and their lack of funding for civic projects. Bathin was a good man, but many on the Council were there just to line their own pockets, and that often left the city of Rellion with less coin than it needed to ensure its own safety.

“Does anyone disagree with Croma?” She raised her voice to address the rest of them. Silence met her question. “Anyone at all? Does anyone have a brilliant plan they’ve been holding back? One that might save the day?”

“I could ask you the same question, Lady Ajal,” a deep voice rumbled from the far side of the table. That was Lord Anthon, a massive man in a silver chain suit. Even on friendly ground, Tyrus Anthon was never without his armor, likely because he was one of the most hated nobles in the Three Kingdoms. Even on his own land, men were looking for his head, and he lived in a state of constant guard. So far as she could tell, he enjoyed it.

“Do you have plan that will save us, Renne? You’re the vaunted, Light-blessed strategist, not I – not any of us. Share your wisdom, then, Lady Ajal. Tell us how to save our city.”

“I can’t,” she said flatly, meeting the hard gaze of Anthon and then the eyes of each of the men in the room in turn. “Croma is right, as is your silence. The city cannot be saved.”

Anthon snorted, the darkly curled mustache above his lip moving with the force of it.

“But,” she continued, “the people may be able to escape.”

Stepping forward, she swung her arm in a wide arc around the edge of the hanging map. “From all sides, we’re being pressed, and these men won’t negotiate – I’ve met their commander on more than one occasion.”

Dark thoughts clouded her mind for a moment – the next time she had an occasion to met Pulvan Rathiss, one of them would die in the dirt, and with even a shred of luck it would be the filthy mercenary. There was no way he was the mastermind of the current operation against Rellion, but she had no time to find out just who he was working for. No matter his employer, however, there was no question of his ferocity, of his willingness to negotiate in seeming good faith while breaking every other rule of civilized warfare. Surrender would not stay the axe of Pulvan Rathiss.

“Here,” Renne said, stabbing a finger at the crude blue brushstroke that represented the Mistralon River running through the center of the city, “is the only hope for those that live within Rellion’s walls. The enemy has sent scouts to see our defenses, but has no consistent information about our position.” She turned back to face the others in the room, eyes hard. “We will gather every boat, every raft, every scrap of wood that floats and set citizens to leaving by way of the river. When the horde arrives, they will find no civilians to slaughter.”

There was a murmur of assent – to lose the city was a terrible blow - but with enough strong backs and strong wills to direct them, a new one could be raised.

“However,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, “some of us must stay behind. The enemy must find a city not easily taken, to buy those on the river time to escape. If Rellion falls too quickly, the horde will send their men along the water’s course, and slaughter will be the result. We must hold, here, for at least a week.”

The shifting of armor and creaking of weapons filled the room.

“I will stay, and defend Rellion.” She spoke softly. “Who will stand beside me?”

Croma began to rise, but it was Anthon who leapt to his feet first. “By the gods, you’re a mad one, Ajal – something I can respect. I’ll stay, as will all the others, or they’ll meet my blade before they leave this room.” The large man glared around the table at each man until they stood to meet him.

“Good,” she said, favoring Anthon with a smile, the last she knew she’d have for many months to come, “we must begin.”


- D