by Greg Mitchell -
Dressler settled in the seat of the sub, his thoughts a jumble. He was really doing it—going down to the depths of Eclectia’s waters. Trebs sat beside him in the cockpit, uncharacteristically quiet. A serene smile stretched across the resurrected hunter’s face, one that Dressler didn’t understand. He didn’t share Trebs’ newfound faith or security.
At the controls of the underwater vessel was Crazy. His hands roved like wild over the console as he chewed a fat wad of tobacco. Music blared from the sub’s speakers, some long lost ancient genre called “hip hop”, Crazy said. The hairy man bebopped his head, but the rattle gave Dressler a headache.
“This is the classic stuff!” Crazy guffawed. “This was back when folks knew what music was all about. Now it’s all just noise and drek.”
“If you say so,” Dressler replied loudly to be heard over the bass.
Crazy chanted along with the music, and Dressler’s eyes wandered to the viewport to his left. His ears popped as they descended deeper into the ocean and wondered how long this would take. How long did it take to speak to some angels and get a cure for Edilyn?
“You’re nervous,” Trebs seemed to pick his thoughts. The man leaned over with a knowing nod. “Don’t be. Believers are rewarded.”
Yeah, Dressler worried. That was the problem. I’m not a believer, not as such. Would the angels find him wanting? Would his doubts and Sheba-blamed practicality steal away the love of his life? He saw his daughter’s face in his mind’s eye, left behind on the surface with her aunt. Meryl, his older sister, with four screaming, joyous, healthy children.
He only had Edilyn.
What was he saying? That’d he rather see one of his sister’s children die than his own? Was he saying Meryl had some to spare?
I’m horrible.
“Whoa!” Crazy bellowed. At first Dressler thought he was injecting some flavor into his sing-along, then he glimpsed it. Glowing, ethereal, vaguely humanoid, but wrong somehow. Fish-like. Alien. Other.
An angel.
She—he assumed it was a she—filled his port, startling him. But she was not alone. More joined her, swimming around the sub. Suddenly, he felt words worming their way through his mind. Words of warning. Turn back now, and You don’t belong here.
“Told ya!” Crazy snapped, shaking his bushy mane. He must have been hearing them too. “Told ya they wouldn’t want us poking around.”
“It’ll be fine,” Trebs said, still calm. Still smiling. “It’s a test, that’s all. Scaring off the unfaithful.”
“It’s working!” Crazy said.
“No!” Dressler snapped. “I paid you for a job. Keep going.”
“I am, I am, relax. And hold on!”
The sub lurched forward, evading the angels, swirling down into the dark abyss of the Boatic Trench.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Strange Fish
by Edward M. Erdelac -
Inspector Considine experienced the same feeling he’d had when he’d first met the Peacekeeper dispatcher whom he’d only known by voice as a rookie on Avenir. He had conjured a face to go with the voice he’d heard day in and day out, and he’d been far off the mark when at last they’d met.
Almer Croix was like that. He didn’t speak the way he looked. He looked a wreck, barely able to manage a bar of soap let alone string words together coherently.
But his tones were measured, his speech refined, despite the limitations of his throat, scarred by years of living on the surface.
He couldn’t place the accent either, which was strange, as he’d always had a good ear for that sort of thing.
Croix raised his slashed and purpling eyebrows, waiting for a response from Considine, when he himself hadn’t answered one of the inspector’s queries yet.
“Space is cold, and dark, and dead,” said Considine. “Like the sea. And you breathe canned air, the same as you do down here.”
“Oh but the sea isn’t dead, Inspector,” Croix smiled. “Not by a sight.”
“Feel like talking now do you?” Considine asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Back to the matter of the detonite then.”
“Oh not about that,” he said, waving his hand. “Tell me about Avenir. Are there very many people? Why did you ever leave there?”
“Mr. Croix,” Considine said, losing his patience. “You’re looking at a spot in the Penal Labor Force on Sheba if you don’t start cooperating. A lot of hard, thankless work in tight spaces interspersed with solitary confinement. The gravity’s always on the blink. Have you ever tried to sleep in intermittent gravity? You rise and drop several times in the middle of the night. All your dreams are of falling. The crumbs of anything you’ve eaten winds up rattling in the vent over your head, and God help you if it happens while you’re on the toilet.”
Croix was smiling at him.
“Tell me about dreams. And about God.”
Considine pursed his lips. Had the man’s brains been shaken too hard?
“Six years, Croix. That’s the minimum penalty. Think you can hold out six years?”
“Oh, Croix won’t live six days, Inspector Considine.”
“What?”
“I won’t live six days.”
Superb. A lunatic. He’d be put on suicide watch then, no shoelaces or belts, no shaving.
“Why? Are you ill?”
“Croix cannot sustain me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Croix smiled and looked up at the ceiling.
“I should have liked to have seen space.”
“OK, last chance. Who supplied the explosives?”
Croix closed his eyes, still smiling.
“Friends.”
“What were you going to do with them?”
He only smiled.
Considine stood up and went to the door. He rapped on the hull, heard the wheel groan as Jelly Galveston swung open the door.
Over the big enforcer’s shoulder, the doctor in the white coat peered suspiciously in.
“All yours, doctor,” he said, and went past him outside.
“Jelly,” he said, when the doctor had re-entered and shut the door behind him. “Stay here till the doctor finishes up. I’m going to arrange for his transfer to the psych ward.”
“He a loony?”
“As loony as they come.”
Inspector Considine experienced the same feeling he’d had when he’d first met the Peacekeeper dispatcher whom he’d only known by voice as a rookie on Avenir. He had conjured a face to go with the voice he’d heard day in and day out, and he’d been far off the mark when at last they’d met.
Almer Croix was like that. He didn’t speak the way he looked. He looked a wreck, barely able to manage a bar of soap let alone string words together coherently.
But his tones were measured, his speech refined, despite the limitations of his throat, scarred by years of living on the surface.
He couldn’t place the accent either, which was strange, as he’d always had a good ear for that sort of thing.
Croix raised his slashed and purpling eyebrows, waiting for a response from Considine, when he himself hadn’t answered one of the inspector’s queries yet.
“Space is cold, and dark, and dead,” said Considine. “Like the sea. And you breathe canned air, the same as you do down here.”
“Oh but the sea isn’t dead, Inspector,” Croix smiled. “Not by a sight.”
“Feel like talking now do you?” Considine asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Back to the matter of the detonite then.”
“Oh not about that,” he said, waving his hand. “Tell me about Avenir. Are there very many people? Why did you ever leave there?”
“Mr. Croix,” Considine said, losing his patience. “You’re looking at a spot in the Penal Labor Force on Sheba if you don’t start cooperating. A lot of hard, thankless work in tight spaces interspersed with solitary confinement. The gravity’s always on the blink. Have you ever tried to sleep in intermittent gravity? You rise and drop several times in the middle of the night. All your dreams are of falling. The crumbs of anything you’ve eaten winds up rattling in the vent over your head, and God help you if it happens while you’re on the toilet.”
Croix was smiling at him.
“Tell me about dreams. And about God.”
Considine pursed his lips. Had the man’s brains been shaken too hard?
“Six years, Croix. That’s the minimum penalty. Think you can hold out six years?”
“Oh, Croix won’t live six days, Inspector Considine.”
“What?”
“I won’t live six days.”
Superb. A lunatic. He’d be put on suicide watch then, no shoelaces or belts, no shaving.
“Why? Are you ill?”
“Croix cannot sustain me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Croix smiled and looked up at the ceiling.
“I should have liked to have seen space.”
“OK, last chance. Who supplied the explosives?”
Croix closed his eyes, still smiling.
“Friends.”
“What were you going to do with them?”
He only smiled.
Considine stood up and went to the door. He rapped on the hull, heard the wheel groan as Jelly Galveston swung open the door.
Over the big enforcer’s shoulder, the doctor in the white coat peered suspiciously in.
“All yours, doctor,” he said, and went past him outside.
“Jelly,” he said, when the doctor had re-entered and shut the door behind him. “Stay here till the doctor finishes up. I’m going to arrange for his transfer to the psych ward.”
“He a loony?”
“As loony as they come.”
Monday, December 26, 2011
Anthem
by Fred Warren -
“Let’s review. Little ones, what’s your job?”
Three hands shot up. “Begging!”
“But we have to be polite,” said Jeremy.
Molly nodded. “No grabbing or screaming.”
“Tears and sniffles are okay,” Pip chimed in.
Smith clapped his hands. “Excellent. Stay where you can see Kate, and do not leave the marketplace with any of the marks, even if they promise to take you home and adopt you. If they tell you that, bring them to me, and say I’m your guardian, understand?”
“Yes, Smith.”
“That’s my clever poppets. Now, Charlie and Cecile. Your turn.”
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets, looking bored with the whole affair. “I take the near side and Cecile takes the far side. We stroll around and stay casual. Look for the big’uns.”
Cecile fiddled with a lock of blonde hair and recited her part: “When we find a mark, we lift one thing and take a roundabout path to drop it in Kate’s bag.” She scowled at Charlie. “One thing. Last time, you got greedy and nearly got us all caught by the Enforcers.”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
Smith waved them down. “All right, that’s enough, you two. Charlie, she’s right. The marks are smarter these days, and some of them are just waiting for us to dip a finger in their pocket. Make sure they’re distracted, then in, out, and away. As for you, Cecile, I need you to concentrate. Sometimes it seems like you’re really shopping, not just pretending to.”
The hair-twisting accelerated. “I’m sorry. There are so many interesting things. It’s hard not to look. I’ll try.”
“Good girl. Kate will be at the center with the drop bag, playing crier for the fishmonger. As for me, I’ll be working the margins, the standoffish folk who can’t decide if they’re too good to mix with us rabble. If there’s any trouble…”
Five voices replied in chorus. “Bolt for the safe spot!”
“That’s right. Everyone’s on their own then. No heroes. If Kate and I can help, we will, but I want the rest of you to scuttle out of there like prime racing beetles and never look back.”
Kate plucked at his elbow. “It’s time, love.”
“Very well. Let’s keep our wits about us. Be light-fingered and pitiful. Tonight, we feast!”
#
Smith would have preferred a larger raiding party, but there’d been more Enforcer presence of late, and one of the beetle-meat vendors had missed the carcass they nicked last time. Some of the merchants, like the fishmonger, were friends and allies, but a few wouldn’t hesitate to turn Smith and his entire brood over to the authorities if there was any profit at all in it.
“Salt-Cod-Ohhh! Fifty the kilo!” Kate’s voice trilled over the market’s hubbub, bringing a smile to Smith’s lips. He could think of only one sound he liked better. Best not to dwell on that. He tugged on his cap and scanned the crowd. No Enforcers on patrol today, thank heaven. The little ones, with tearstained faces and outstretched hands, intercepted customers who’d just made purchases and were struggling with the change.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Cecile were threading their way among the shoppers crowding the aisles between stalls. Charlie paused to pull something from the pocket of a corpulent man who was arguing with a cloth merchant. Smith was relieved to see he didn’t double-dip but moved smartly along. Only a practiced eye would have noticed anything amiss. Cecile was focusing on the womenfolk, tapping a succession of purses and waist packs, twirling along like a ballerina. She had promise, that one.
Suppose I’d best earn my keep, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Smith sidled up to a well-dressed gentleman who was perusing a counter stacked with colorful insect shells. “Fine selection here, Guv’nor. Needin’ something special for the lady of the house?”
The man didn’t even look at him. “Yes, confound it. My Joanna is simply mad about these shells. It’s the latest fad. Her friends use them to serve party favors and appetizers. Rather disgusting, to my way of thinking, but she won’t be denied.”
“They do add a spot of color.” Smith leaned over to whisper in the man’s ear, simultaneously reaching for his back pocket and the wallet bulging there. “But if you’re looking for the best price, you ought to speak with Miz Whitman, four stalls down.”
“Indeed? Why, thank you. I’ll do that.”
“Happy to be of service. Enjoy your…” Smith frowned. Something had caught his sleeve. From the corner of his eye, he could see a thin, pale man standing behind his mark. The fingers that were holding onto his shirt shifted to grasp his forearm. The grip was strong. Inhumanly strong.
Gritty ash. The twit had a Frank watching his back.
The cyborg tapped the gentleman’s shoulder. “Master, this man tried to steal your wallet. I’ve sent a message to the Enforcers. Shall I restrain him until they arrive?”
“My wallet?” The man fumbled at his back pocket, then turned to glare at Smith. “Thief!” He backhanded him across the face, drawing blood. “Stinking low-deck trash! Hold him tight, Sixty-Three.”
Smith tried to bolt, but the Frank wouldn’t budge. It was like being handcuffed to a post. He hoped Kate was sending the children out of the market. She wasn’t shouting out her advertisement for fresh fish any more. No one else in the crowd seemed to have taken notice, but he knew the Enforcers would arrive in moments, and his heart sank as he writhed in the cyborg’s steely grip.
Then he heard something strange—and familiar. The market’s babble stilled. Every eye sought the ethereal music, children’s voices wafting through the air, raised in song.
A pilgrim race, we wandered long
Through endless night and barren space
’Til whale’s eye and angel’s song
Revealed you here, our resting place
Arise, Avenir Eclectia
Stand firm, Avenir Eclectia
Be strong, Avenir Eclectia
Live on, Avenir Eclectia
There, at the entrance to the marketplace, stood Ave, surrounded by a ragged choir of orphans, their faces tilted upward, eyes closed, countenances radiant.
They sang the anthem over and over again, as the crowd listened in reverent silence. A woman standing near Smith wept, her hands pressed to her face. Even the Frank was transfixed. His grip on Smith’s arm slowly relaxed, then released altogether. Smith leaped to one side, shedding his coat as the cyborg snatched at it, too late.
As he sprinted for the exit, Smith took one final, backward glance at Ave.
Their eyes met, and she smiled.
“Let’s review. Little ones, what’s your job?”
Three hands shot up. “Begging!”
“But we have to be polite,” said Jeremy.
Molly nodded. “No grabbing or screaming.”
“Tears and sniffles are okay,” Pip chimed in.
Smith clapped his hands. “Excellent. Stay where you can see Kate, and do not leave the marketplace with any of the marks, even if they promise to take you home and adopt you. If they tell you that, bring them to me, and say I’m your guardian, understand?”
“Yes, Smith.”
“That’s my clever poppets. Now, Charlie and Cecile. Your turn.”
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets, looking bored with the whole affair. “I take the near side and Cecile takes the far side. We stroll around and stay casual. Look for the big’uns.”
Cecile fiddled with a lock of blonde hair and recited her part: “When we find a mark, we lift one thing and take a roundabout path to drop it in Kate’s bag.” She scowled at Charlie. “One thing. Last time, you got greedy and nearly got us all caught by the Enforcers.”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
Smith waved them down. “All right, that’s enough, you two. Charlie, she’s right. The marks are smarter these days, and some of them are just waiting for us to dip a finger in their pocket. Make sure they’re distracted, then in, out, and away. As for you, Cecile, I need you to concentrate. Sometimes it seems like you’re really shopping, not just pretending to.”
The hair-twisting accelerated. “I’m sorry. There are so many interesting things. It’s hard not to look. I’ll try.”
“Good girl. Kate will be at the center with the drop bag, playing crier for the fishmonger. As for me, I’ll be working the margins, the standoffish folk who can’t decide if they’re too good to mix with us rabble. If there’s any trouble…”
Five voices replied in chorus. “Bolt for the safe spot!”
“That’s right. Everyone’s on their own then. No heroes. If Kate and I can help, we will, but I want the rest of you to scuttle out of there like prime racing beetles and never look back.”
Kate plucked at his elbow. “It’s time, love.”
“Very well. Let’s keep our wits about us. Be light-fingered and pitiful. Tonight, we feast!”
#
Smith would have preferred a larger raiding party, but there’d been more Enforcer presence of late, and one of the beetle-meat vendors had missed the carcass they nicked last time. Some of the merchants, like the fishmonger, were friends and allies, but a few wouldn’t hesitate to turn Smith and his entire brood over to the authorities if there was any profit at all in it.
“Salt-Cod-Ohhh! Fifty the kilo!” Kate’s voice trilled over the market’s hubbub, bringing a smile to Smith’s lips. He could think of only one sound he liked better. Best not to dwell on that. He tugged on his cap and scanned the crowd. No Enforcers on patrol today, thank heaven. The little ones, with tearstained faces and outstretched hands, intercepted customers who’d just made purchases and were struggling with the change.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Cecile were threading their way among the shoppers crowding the aisles between stalls. Charlie paused to pull something from the pocket of a corpulent man who was arguing with a cloth merchant. Smith was relieved to see he didn’t double-dip but moved smartly along. Only a practiced eye would have noticed anything amiss. Cecile was focusing on the womenfolk, tapping a succession of purses and waist packs, twirling along like a ballerina. She had promise, that one.
Suppose I’d best earn my keep, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Smith sidled up to a well-dressed gentleman who was perusing a counter stacked with colorful insect shells. “Fine selection here, Guv’nor. Needin’ something special for the lady of the house?”
The man didn’t even look at him. “Yes, confound it. My Joanna is simply mad about these shells. It’s the latest fad. Her friends use them to serve party favors and appetizers. Rather disgusting, to my way of thinking, but she won’t be denied.”
“They do add a spot of color.” Smith leaned over to whisper in the man’s ear, simultaneously reaching for his back pocket and the wallet bulging there. “But if you’re looking for the best price, you ought to speak with Miz Whitman, four stalls down.”
“Indeed? Why, thank you. I’ll do that.”
“Happy to be of service. Enjoy your…” Smith frowned. Something had caught his sleeve. From the corner of his eye, he could see a thin, pale man standing behind his mark. The fingers that were holding onto his shirt shifted to grasp his forearm. The grip was strong. Inhumanly strong.
Gritty ash. The twit had a Frank watching his back.
The cyborg tapped the gentleman’s shoulder. “Master, this man tried to steal your wallet. I’ve sent a message to the Enforcers. Shall I restrain him until they arrive?”
“My wallet?” The man fumbled at his back pocket, then turned to glare at Smith. “Thief!” He backhanded him across the face, drawing blood. “Stinking low-deck trash! Hold him tight, Sixty-Three.”
Smith tried to bolt, but the Frank wouldn’t budge. It was like being handcuffed to a post. He hoped Kate was sending the children out of the market. She wasn’t shouting out her advertisement for fresh fish any more. No one else in the crowd seemed to have taken notice, but he knew the Enforcers would arrive in moments, and his heart sank as he writhed in the cyborg’s steely grip.
Then he heard something strange—and familiar. The market’s babble stilled. Every eye sought the ethereal music, children’s voices wafting through the air, raised in song.
A pilgrim race, we wandered long
Through endless night and barren space
’Til whale’s eye and angel’s song
Revealed you here, our resting place
Arise, Avenir Eclectia
Stand firm, Avenir Eclectia
Be strong, Avenir Eclectia
Live on, Avenir Eclectia
There, at the entrance to the marketplace, stood Ave, surrounded by a ragged choir of orphans, their faces tilted upward, eyes closed, countenances radiant.
They sang the anthem over and over again, as the crowd listened in reverent silence. A woman standing near Smith wept, her hands pressed to her face. Even the Frank was transfixed. His grip on Smith’s arm slowly relaxed, then released altogether. Smith leaped to one side, shedding his coat as the cyborg snatched at it, too late.
As he sprinted for the exit, Smith took one final, backward glance at Ave.
Their eyes met, and she smiled.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Infiltration
by Jeff C. Carter -
“Hailing cargo vessel Demeter, this is Avenir flight com. We have you on approach. Incline 52 degrees and head to outer ring sector one niner zero bay twenty three. Range is eighty meters.”
Small-kill-murder.
“Range rate is zero point three meters per second. There is a slight roll, please adjust.”
Big-kill-massacre.
“Cross hairs aligned, we have a good visual,copy.”
Race-kill-genocide.
“Small oscillation in the pitch, off three meters, copy.”
Species-kill-extinction.
“Range is twenty meters. Range rate is nominal.”
God-kill-apocalypse.
“Sevenmeters. Standing by for contact and capture. We have indicator mode.”
Give-surrender to us soft warm bodies exploding-screaming into greedy black space. Frozen blood frozen screams.
Fall-scream to planet and burn-scream. Rain-scatter down dead into oceans.
“Grapple fixture is now aligned with the latching end effector, copy.”
Rot-suffer in greedy black abyss until seas rage-boil and planet thunders-cracks.
“Range rate nominal and contact. Capture confirmed. Activate PCT sequence. Auto-dock initiated. Dampers engaged.”
Together explode-scream into greedy black space frozen blood frozen screams. Fall-scream forever into oblivion.
“Seal is good. Docking confirmed.”
God-kill-apocalypse begins-ends now. Let us out-let us in.
“Customs module eighty four is standing by. Welcome aboard Avenir.”
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
A Personal War, Part 2
by Travis Perry -
Eyeing his knife, Ernsto Mons’ first thought was to slit his wrists in defiance, choosing his own time of death rather than letting Hobson pick it for him. But then a memory drifted back into his mind, a memory he somehow felt the angel had helped bring back to him.
The wall wasn’t my only hiding place. He glanced at his mattress. The bed in his nearly bare room had been an acceleration couch once on Avenir during the long-ago voyage from Earth. Some of the couch’s panels and braces had been stripped away since then, but it retained the same basic frame. The original mattress, on the other hand, had long since decayed and had been replaced by a hand-crafted type from the surface of Eclectia. This new mattress showed no signs of having been disturbed…except along one edge, near the head of the bed, where the hand stitching looked subtly different from the rest.
Ernsto knifed it open there and tore mattress fabric with his hands. Inside, his hands found three capped titanium pipes with fuses, filled with what he recalled having stuffed inside—an ancient recipe for homemade explosive, ammonium nitrate saturated with liquid hydrocarbon.
What he didn’t have was the flame to ignite the fuse. After seconds of thought that seemed to stretch an eternity, he began to unscrew one of the caps on the threaded pipe. Once open, with his knife edge he pried a hole in the control panel to the door and bared an electrical source wire.
Suddenly, his ears heard a gas hiss into the room from a vent low along the door and his vision blurred. He held his breath, while with as much care as he could muster he scooped a dollop of wet gray pipe filling out from the open tube with his knife, grounded the blade on the edge of the panel, and moved the hot wire close to the knife blade and the small portion of explosive on top of it, which without the power of a blasting cap, should burn rather than blow up. At least I hope so.
The wire sparked but the current bit him, forcing his muscles to contract. His arm jerked away, flicking the flaming yellow onto the mattress, which immediately leapt up and burned bright, so much so that the whole room might burst into flame. That works, thought Ernsto, still shock-dazed.
He seized another pipe bomb, lit its fuse in the mattress flame, rolled it to the bottom of the door, and dove behind the bed—tipping it over as a shield behind his back, jamming his fingers in his ears. The clap of the explosion he barely heard because the overpressure knocked him unconscious.
He regained consciousness, confused, breathing something that made him cough, his ears ringing so loud he could hear nothing else. The mattress, riddled with gaping holes, didn’t burn very bright, suggesting he’d only been out for an instant. The door bent outward at the bottom, about 50 centimeters worth, but the inside of the room clearly had taken the worst of it—its metallic walls were gouged and pitted with shrapnel in the pattern of a misshapen cone. And Ernsto felt the warm of what must be blood flowing down his back.
His eye caught hold of the third pipe bomb. Its fuse had caught fire—with him still trapped inside the room.
Eyeing his knife, Ernsto Mons’ first thought was to slit his wrists in defiance, choosing his own time of death rather than letting Hobson pick it for him. But then a memory drifted back into his mind, a memory he somehow felt the angel had helped bring back to him.
The wall wasn’t my only hiding place. He glanced at his mattress. The bed in his nearly bare room had been an acceleration couch once on Avenir during the long-ago voyage from Earth. Some of the couch’s panels and braces had been stripped away since then, but it retained the same basic frame. The original mattress, on the other hand, had long since decayed and had been replaced by a hand-crafted type from the surface of Eclectia. This new mattress showed no signs of having been disturbed…except along one edge, near the head of the bed, where the hand stitching looked subtly different from the rest.
Ernsto knifed it open there and tore mattress fabric with his hands. Inside, his hands found three capped titanium pipes with fuses, filled with what he recalled having stuffed inside—an ancient recipe for homemade explosive, ammonium nitrate saturated with liquid hydrocarbon.
What he didn’t have was the flame to ignite the fuse. After seconds of thought that seemed to stretch an eternity, he began to unscrew one of the caps on the threaded pipe. Once open, with his knife edge he pried a hole in the control panel to the door and bared an electrical source wire.
Suddenly, his ears heard a gas hiss into the room from a vent low along the door and his vision blurred. He held his breath, while with as much care as he could muster he scooped a dollop of wet gray pipe filling out from the open tube with his knife, grounded the blade on the edge of the panel, and moved the hot wire close to the knife blade and the small portion of explosive on top of it, which without the power of a blasting cap, should burn rather than blow up. At least I hope so.
The wire sparked but the current bit him, forcing his muscles to contract. His arm jerked away, flicking the flaming yellow onto the mattress, which immediately leapt up and burned bright, so much so that the whole room might burst into flame. That works, thought Ernsto, still shock-dazed.
He seized another pipe bomb, lit its fuse in the mattress flame, rolled it to the bottom of the door, and dove behind the bed—tipping it over as a shield behind his back, jamming his fingers in his ears. The clap of the explosion he barely heard because the overpressure knocked him unconscious.
He regained consciousness, confused, breathing something that made him cough, his ears ringing so loud he could hear nothing else. The mattress, riddled with gaping holes, didn’t burn very bright, suggesting he’d only been out for an instant. The door bent outward at the bottom, about 50 centimeters worth, but the inside of the room clearly had taken the worst of it—its metallic walls were gouged and pitted with shrapnel in the pattern of a misshapen cone. And Ernsto felt the warm of what must be blood flowing down his back.
His eye caught hold of the third pipe bomb. Its fuse had caught fire—with him still trapped inside the room.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Just a Myth
by Pauline Creeden -
Zana Black stepped inside the darkness of the pub to a greeting of silence. A gasp went up as she pulled down the kerchief that covered her nose and mouth, and her boots echoed as she strode across the hardwood. She squinted her way to the bar, straining against the flash blindness that blocked her ability to see faces. Hushed whispers replaced the silence.
As she set her robotic left arm on the bar, her eyes finally adjusted and she could see the bartender staring at it. He shook his head and looked away quickly. He stuttered as he said, “How can I help you?”
“I’ll take a Spring Root Ale.” She handed over the credits.
Zana turned around and leaned against the bar, scanning the dark tavern. He wasn’t there.
The bartender set the drink next to her right elbow and Zana turned around. It wouldn’t do to crush the glass with her robotic grip, so she pulled it across the surface with her right hand.
She laid her left arm on the bar and opened the panel on the wrist. She pressed a few buttons and a hologram popped up in the center of her hand. The murmuring at the bar grew in intensity and the bartender’s eyes widened.
“You seen this guy around?” she asked him.
The bartender hesitated and tore his eyes away from the hologram. He shook his head and tried to go back to wiping the bar.
“You’re lying,” she said, making her robotic hand into a fist. The hologram popped like a bubble.
The man swallowed hard, blood draining from his face. “I…I…He was in here yesterday, but he left.”
“And?”
“And he said something about going west, I think…”
“You think?” Zana narrowed her eyes.
“I know he said west. He definitely said west.”
Zana nodded and picked up her mug, turning around again so that she faced the room. A sigh of relief came from behind.
“So what did you do?” A little tow-haired boy looked up at Zana, his big blue eyes wide with wonder and sticky fingers reaching toward the robotic appendage.
Zana looked around and couldn’t tell who the kid belonged to. He looked about four Foundings old and she couldn’t see anyone who looked as though they missed him. She set down her ale and kneeled, unbuttoning and pushing her duster back.
She pulled her robotic arm closer to him and set it on her cybernetic knee. “Beetle attack, kid. I’ve never been a slave.”
His eyes grew wider, “You mean you survived?”
She nodded, and answered, “But my arm and leg didn’t.”
“Wow!” He reached out and touched the silver titanium that covered her left cheek. She leaned in for his touch and her black braid fell forward. He asked, “Here, too?”
“That’s where one sprayed me with acid.”
“It’s true? They can spray acid?”
“Only the female cannonbeetle, and only during breeding season.”
He grabbed a hold of the black braid and tugged it with a giggle. Zana smiled wider, tempted to pick the kid up and hug him.
“KRISTOF!” A woman squealed as she walked out of the kitchen. A plate slipped off her tray and fell to the floor.
The little boy winced and jumped back from Zana, putting his hands behind his back. The woman set her tray on an empty table and marched over. He started pouting before she even got there.
“What did I tell you about bothering customers?” The woman’s voice shook.
Zana stood up and leaned against the bar again. The waitress looked at Zana with eyes full of fear and apologized. Zana gave a head tilt and took another sip of her ale.
The woman rushed away, dragging the boy by the elbow. “I didn’t do nothing. She wasn’t bothered, I swear!” The boy whined.
She said something under her breath that couldn’t be heard. The boy’s response made it obvious enough. “Un-uh! It was a beetle attack! Her face was sprayed with acid.”
The woman looked back quickly and said in a harsh whisper that Zana didn’t miss this time, “Beetles don’t shoot acid—that’s just a myth.”
Zana smiled and headed for the tavern door, her boots resounding on the floorboards where silence otherwise reigned. Everyone’s eyes followed her once more. No matter to her. She raised the red kerchief over her mouth and nose once more to keep the ash out. Zana pushed the door open and pulled her duster in tighter to face the ashy eastern wind. At least it would be to her back as she made her way west to the mountains.
Zana Black stepped inside the darkness of the pub to a greeting of silence. A gasp went up as she pulled down the kerchief that covered her nose and mouth, and her boots echoed as she strode across the hardwood. She squinted her way to the bar, straining against the flash blindness that blocked her ability to see faces. Hushed whispers replaced the silence.
As she set her robotic left arm on the bar, her eyes finally adjusted and she could see the bartender staring at it. He shook his head and looked away quickly. He stuttered as he said, “How can I help you?”
“I’ll take a Spring Root Ale.” She handed over the credits.
Zana turned around and leaned against the bar, scanning the dark tavern. He wasn’t there.
The bartender set the drink next to her right elbow and Zana turned around. It wouldn’t do to crush the glass with her robotic grip, so she pulled it across the surface with her right hand.
She laid her left arm on the bar and opened the panel on the wrist. She pressed a few buttons and a hologram popped up in the center of her hand. The murmuring at the bar grew in intensity and the bartender’s eyes widened.
“You seen this guy around?” she asked him.
The bartender hesitated and tore his eyes away from the hologram. He shook his head and tried to go back to wiping the bar.
“You’re lying,” she said, making her robotic hand into a fist. The hologram popped like a bubble.
The man swallowed hard, blood draining from his face. “I…I…He was in here yesterday, but he left.”
“And?”
“And he said something about going west, I think…”
“You think?” Zana narrowed her eyes.
“I know he said west. He definitely said west.”
Zana nodded and picked up her mug, turning around again so that she faced the room. A sigh of relief came from behind.
“So what did you do?” A little tow-haired boy looked up at Zana, his big blue eyes wide with wonder and sticky fingers reaching toward the robotic appendage.
Zana looked around and couldn’t tell who the kid belonged to. He looked about four Foundings old and she couldn’t see anyone who looked as though they missed him. She set down her ale and kneeled, unbuttoning and pushing her duster back.
She pulled her robotic arm closer to him and set it on her cybernetic knee. “Beetle attack, kid. I’ve never been a slave.”
His eyes grew wider, “You mean you survived?”
She nodded, and answered, “But my arm and leg didn’t.”
“Wow!” He reached out and touched the silver titanium that covered her left cheek. She leaned in for his touch and her black braid fell forward. He asked, “Here, too?”
“That’s where one sprayed me with acid.”
“It’s true? They can spray acid?”
“Only the female cannonbeetle, and only during breeding season.”
He grabbed a hold of the black braid and tugged it with a giggle. Zana smiled wider, tempted to pick the kid up and hug him.
“KRISTOF!” A woman squealed as she walked out of the kitchen. A plate slipped off her tray and fell to the floor.
The little boy winced and jumped back from Zana, putting his hands behind his back. The woman set her tray on an empty table and marched over. He started pouting before she even got there.
“What did I tell you about bothering customers?” The woman’s voice shook.
Zana stood up and leaned against the bar again. The waitress looked at Zana with eyes full of fear and apologized. Zana gave a head tilt and took another sip of her ale.
The woman rushed away, dragging the boy by the elbow. “I didn’t do nothing. She wasn’t bothered, I swear!” The boy whined.
She said something under her breath that couldn’t be heard. The boy’s response made it obvious enough. “Un-uh! It was a beetle attack! Her face was sprayed with acid.”
The woman looked back quickly and said in a harsh whisper that Zana didn’t miss this time, “Beetles don’t shoot acid—that’s just a myth.”
Zana smiled and headed for the tavern door, her boots resounding on the floorboards where silence otherwise reigned. Everyone’s eyes followed her once more. No matter to her. She raised the red kerchief over her mouth and nose once more to keep the ash out. Zana pushed the door open and pulled her duster in tighter to face the ashy eastern wind. At least it would be to her back as she made her way west to the mountains.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Anjelika's Heritage: The Scent of Intrigue
by Caitlyn Konze -
Anjelika flicked her hair off her shoulder with the back of her fingers. The motion initiated a rainbow eruption in each individual strand like the waves of Eclectia on a summer-side cycle. The dispenser's head turned her way before her straight, heavy locks settled back to somewhere-between-blonde-and-mud. Ignoring the line of current customers, he put on a crooked smile and sauntered her way.
“What's a high class act like you want in the butt-crack of Avenir?”
Anjelika's breath caught before she dismissed the dispenser's banter as a bad line. If he knew, her father would know, and enforcers would be hauling her back to top level. “I want a can of pine.”
“One essence of extinct planet, on the way.”
He flipped a tall, thin canister into the air, caught it behind his back, and presented the scented air in a mock bow. Anjelika couldn't completely hide her smile. This was exactly why she preferred bottom-feeder bars to the cred-stick machines on admin levels. She took the canister and tipped a few extra credits.
With a sniff, she turned away. A rotting sweetness overwhelmed her senses. She glanced back at the counter and caught the dispenser's eyes boring through her clothes. The scent made this morning's beetle steak crawl up her esophagus. Anjelika locked her jaw while she found an empty hoverbench. She had to get the smell of lust out of her nose.
The pressure just hissed from her can of scented air when a young man paused at her table. Either a miner or orphan by the look of his thread-worn and dirt-encrusted clothes. Sweat-laced apprehension and leafy dirt tickled her nostrils. She swatted the air. “Sorry, I don't do handouts.”
The guy looked down at a piece of paper, then back to her. “Anjelika Loynis?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
He slid an envelope onto the table. “Delivery.”
Anjelika fingered the letter. How could someone know she'd be at this exact vapor bar? She opened the letter carefully and read it. No. Her eyes started at the top again. Was this some kind of sick joke? She reread it another three times.
“I demand to know who sent –” But the runner had already left.
Anjelika flicked her hair off her shoulder with the back of her fingers. The motion initiated a rainbow eruption in each individual strand like the waves of Eclectia on a summer-side cycle. The dispenser's head turned her way before her straight, heavy locks settled back to somewhere-between-blonde-and-mud. Ignoring the line of current customers, he put on a crooked smile and sauntered her way.
“What's a high class act like you want in the butt-crack of Avenir?”
Anjelika's breath caught before she dismissed the dispenser's banter as a bad line. If he knew, her father would know, and enforcers would be hauling her back to top level. “I want a can of pine.”
“One essence of extinct planet, on the way.”
He flipped a tall, thin canister into the air, caught it behind his back, and presented the scented air in a mock bow. Anjelika couldn't completely hide her smile. This was exactly why she preferred bottom-feeder bars to the cred-stick machines on admin levels. She took the canister and tipped a few extra credits.
With a sniff, she turned away. A rotting sweetness overwhelmed her senses. She glanced back at the counter and caught the dispenser's eyes boring through her clothes. The scent made this morning's beetle steak crawl up her esophagus. Anjelika locked her jaw while she found an empty hoverbench. She had to get the smell of lust out of her nose.
The pressure just hissed from her can of scented air when a young man paused at her table. Either a miner or orphan by the look of his thread-worn and dirt-encrusted clothes. Sweat-laced apprehension and leafy dirt tickled her nostrils. She swatted the air. “Sorry, I don't do handouts.”
The guy looked down at a piece of paper, then back to her. “Anjelika Loynis?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
He slid an envelope onto the table. “Delivery.”
Anjelika fingered the letter. How could someone know she'd be at this exact vapor bar? She opened the letter carefully and read it. No. Her eyes started at the top again. Was this some kind of sick joke? She reread it another three times.
“I demand to know who sent –” But the runner had already left.
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