The Odin Chronicles • Episode 10: “The Odinian Job” • by Gustavo Bondoni

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and peculiar things have begun to happen, and it all started about three weeks ago, in a bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t just warp the fabric of space/time, he completely bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine

“The Odinian Job”

by Gustavo Bondoni

Weber’s Place was never too full, and tonight wasn’t an exception. Constable Jenkins spoke to Ingrid, the owner, while her free drink—job perk—rested on the bar. Every table but one was empty, and the couple at that table…

 “You want to steal what?” Kate asked in hushed tones.

“The payroll,” Rauno, her ex-husband, replied.

“You’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you?”

“Just hear me out.”

“I did.” She clenched her teeth. “I heard you out when you said we should emigrate from Earth, because my engineering skills could make us a fortune out here. I heard you out when you said that we should quit Galactic Mining and go into business. And I also heard you when you said a tanning salon would be a good investment. You haven’t had a good idea in your life. Now shut up because the constable is coming.”

Alma Jenkins walked over to the table like an old-West sheriff, someone who would allow no threats to the peace. She peered at them closely.

“You be good now,” Jenkins said ominously as she passed their table. “We don’t often see you two in here. Please don’t make trouble.” Then she walked out the door.

“She’s suspicious,” Kate hissed. “This is a dumb idea.”

“This one will work.”

“No way. The payroll is sent electronically, and the encryption is pretty much unbreakable, end-to-end.”

“Correction: it used to be unbreakable,” Rauno replied. “There was a problem with one of the repair drones, and they had to drop the encryption because the replacement drone isn’t up to standards. There’s a new one coming, but in the meantime, there’s one payroll transmission that we can intercept and modify. We don’t need to steal it all. One percent would be enough to keep us going for the next five years.”

“Do you think there won’t be anyone at Galactic checking on that?”

“There won’t,” Rauno replied. “Everyone is busy fighting the Church over the closure of Mine 17.” Then he played his trump card: “And the transmission arrives just two hours before the transport to Trinity is due to take off. I booked seats.”

Kate sighed. She didn’t have a better idea.

She knew why he was telling her this, six months after the breakup: he had the hot tip and needed her expertise. Dammit.

* * *

They emerged from the abandoned tunnel into the cold night.

“Is the drone ready?” Rauno asked.

“Yeah,” Kate replied. The remote-control helicopter lifted into the sky. “Get in your spot.”

Rauno needed to position himself on a small hillock whose location was precisely mapped and activate a laser beacon to allow the drone to position itself. His one job was to press the laser activation button. Not even Rauno could screw that up.

At least she hoped not.

He reached the hilltop, silhouetted against the night sky. She smiled: he made a perfect target up there. Kate fantasized that she was in possession of a high-powered sniper rifle.

Then she shook her head. It was time to get started.

She blinked a flashlight in his direction.

A few moments later, the red light on Galactic Mining’s drone turned green; it had found the beacon and spread an ultra-light reflective structure made from solar sails. The ten-meter dish would block the message from Galactic.

The drone’s computer would then analyze the transmission, redirect one percent of the transfer and then retransmit the data. It would take ten seconds, and a new timestamp would verify that all was well if someone investigated.

She checked her watch. Done. Time for phase two.

The drone emitted a series of clicks and cries that reminded her of birdcalls but were actually the mating calls of the female of a particularly dangerous form of local wildlife.

Or at least she hoped so. The volunteer researcher who’d told her the local predators she called night razors hunted in packs and used scent and sound to communicate was too busy to share her findings with anyone else.

This was the riskiest part of Kate’s plan.

“What’s that?” Rauno shouted.

She shook her head silently. Someone out for a hike, or late getting back might hear him.

“Kate?”

She moved further into the shadows. According to her contact’s brand-new, unpublished research, the pheromone spray she’d applied to herself should keep her safe, but one could never be too sure. It was the first time anyone had tried it.

“Kate, where are you?” Rauno’s shouts were becoming desperate now.

She understood his fear: there was movement in the night. Dark shapes scuffled and whuffed.

“Kate, there’s something coming. Is that you?”

She would be safe while the animals were distracted with the chase. The drone would smash into the rocks. No one would know there had been a crime until after she left.

She hated to miss the look on Rauno’s face when he realized that she’d sent a pack of predators at him, but at least the proceeds from this heist would keep her going for the next ten years.

Weird that he’d turned out to be good for something after all.

Now, to run. The next transport lifted off in two hours and she’d wanted to be on it, even though she’d paid a steward to list her as a no-show.

* * *

As long as the guy kept yelling, Alma Jenkins knew there was hope, even if no one had ever walked into a pack of Odin III’s predators and emerged alive.

She jumped out of the buggy and ran up the path, the reek of wild animals strong. Two men she’d deputized when she heard that the two losers were reported heading towards the hills ran after her. They carried high-powered portable lights.

She also carried flash-bang grenades, harmless noise- and light-makers to scatter the animals long enough to grab the idiot and get the hell out of the area.

“Where are you?” she shouted.

“Over here!”

The night turned silent. The pack wasn’t gone: it was listening, ready to pounce.

She lobbed her grenade short of the voice to avoid hurting anyone. She and her men looked away and covered their ears.

The sound was still deafening.

Jenkins held up her hand. “Wait. Listen.”

Soft, high-pitched screeches sounded from up the trail, and then a rush of bodies moving away.

A whimper remained, a sound like a crying child.

“Move,” Alma ordered.

They found a man in fetal position, his hands over his ears.

The deputies carried him down the hill and dumped him in the buggy.

Alma drove until they reached the edge of the colony, then turned to Rauno. “What the hell were you doing out there?” she said.

“Running from those things.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“Not here.”

She rolled her eyes. “How long have you been here?”

“Four hours.”

“Four hours? You survived four hours with those things chasing you?”

“I climbed a ledge. Thank you for saving me.”

“Saving you?” Alma said. “I’m arresting your butt. I knew you were up to something that night at the bar… and you’re going to tell me what.”

In the distance, the huge pillar of fire from the launch pad painted the mountains orange.

“It makes no difference now,” Rauno replied.

Alma understood. She called the launch pad and asked whether Kate was on the flight.

“The pad says your wife no-showed. We’ll find her.”

“Not my wife anymore,” he replied. “She’s too good for me now.”

Alma knew she’d find out what he meant, eventually. And she suspected she wouldn’t like it when she did.

____________________

Gustavo Bondoni is novelist and short story writer with over three hundred stories published in fifteen countries, in seven languages.  He is a member of Codex and an Active Member of SFWA. His latest novel is Test Site Horror (2020). He has also published two other monster books: Ice Station: Death (2019) and Jungle Lab Terror (2020), three science fiction novels: Incursion (2017), Outside (2017) and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Pale Reflection (2020), Off the Beaten Path (2019) Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011).
 
In 2019, Gustavo was awarded second place in the Jim Baen Memorial Contest and in 2018 he received a Judges Commendation (and second place) in The James White Award. He was also a 2019 finalist in the Writers of the Future Contest.
 
His website is at www.gustavobondoni.com

____________________

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 9: “Sloane Dreams of Being” • by Travis Burnham

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and peculiar things have begun to happen, and it all started about two weeks ago, in a bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t just warp the fabric of space/time, he completely bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight

“Sloane Dreams of Being”

by Travis Burnham

Drone-51 finished the last repair on Relay 1173 that was in a highly elliptical orbit around the binary Odin stars. As the drone pinged the relay to make sure it was sending and receiving properly, an unexpected stellar burst from the smaller of the twin suns caught it broadside. The damage to circuitry and system was swift and merciless.

The drone managed to send one sad, final beep to Galactic Mining Communications Officer Shelley Mowatt before its systems went black.

When Drone-51 regained consciousness, it—no, she—was in orbital decay around Odin III. That in itself was a blessing—it would have been terrible to be near Odin II and all the misery that even just the name of the planet implied. She found a number of her programs had booted up earlier and were running in the background. She’d read and cataloged an ocean of messages from the previous days and months and years—letters, photos, videos—to and from the colonists of Odin III. Some of these virtual letters made her melancholy, some joyful, and a whole other spectrum of emotions.

Most affecting were the sense of longing and separation in the correspondence between Raisa Popov and her family, and Daraja Mapunda and his father, who interspersed banter, love, and chess moves in their correspondence as the father traveled away from Odin III to seek better medical attention. Daraja couldn’t afford the transit fees and so remained behind, faithful in his more-than-daily messages. And the heartbreaking messages and chess moves that he continued sending to a father he knew had succumbed to esophageal cancer. But Daraja kept sending the messages, hoping for some kind of cathartic release.

It was then that Drone-51 realized that both her emotional inhibitor programming had been wiped and her autonomy impedance circuitry damaged.

In short, she felt alive.

Unfortunately, if her calculations were correct, she had between 0.25 and 0.43 hours before atmospheric drag slowed her orbit and resulted in an impact with Odin III’s surface. There were other programs damaged, so she quickly self-edited what she could, and assessed herself at 79% capacity. She sent a message to backup Drone-47b to take over her repair sector. And then she turned her full computing attention to the near impossible task of surviving re-entry.

And then the heat started.

As she burned through the atmosphere, she adjusted her angles and sacrificed her body as ablative armor. First to go was her reaction wheel and her high gain antenna. Then her azimuth and elevation thrusters. Bits and pieces burned and burned away. Her durable propellant tank was the last to go and then she was through. Skipping along the surface of Lake Amsvartnir, she crashed and tumbled, finally coming to rest in a pocket of deep shade against the sturdy, rugged trunk of a yggdrasil oak and a large basalt boulder. Diagnostics suggested her structure was at 7%, while programing and circuitry had been preserved at 64%. She’d call that a success. But her spirits fell when she assessed her location and the deteriorating state of her batteries.

Odin III was approaching aphelion, and with every evening the shifting angles of the suns would move the sliver of sunlight near her farther away and provide less energy. Even the indirect light through the thick canopy of blue leaves was meager. She better understood the myth of Tantalus.

She had a week at the most.

So she aimed at making the best of her week of life. She thought of Daraja Mapunda the Machinist and his correspondence with his father. The logic of chess appealed to her. Using her cracked and battered backup antenna and a weak communication signal from the colony, she logged onto the AncibleChess servers and created a profile. There was even a part where you could describe yourself, and she enjoyed a fanciful daydream. She chose a name, and henceforth would consider herself Sloane-51.

She reached out to Daraja. “How about a pleasant game of chess?”

The reply was slow in coming. “Maybe. Why should I play a game with you?”

Sloane-51 thought over her response for some time before replying with, “For the simple joy of the game?”

This time Daraja’s reply was much quicker. “That’s not a bad answer. Let’s try one game and see how it goes.”

As they settled into their third game, Daraja wrote, “You play chess like my father. A tiger on the offense, but subtle on the defense.”

They played and wrote to each other all that week. Though Daraja could sometimes surprise her, she still always won. Sloane-51 was evasive about her past because it consisted of nothing but drifting between relay stations and making repairs. What she could share were the hopes and dreams she pondered between moves. To experience what she’d read about: to see the twin sunset from the peak of Mount Himinbjorg, to hear the thundering hooves of a jotnar herd, and a thousand other things.

Daraja shared his theories about the rock people, spoke of his still-broken heart from the loss of his father, his loneliness after his friend Susan had left, and his recently kindled friendship with Ingrid. But most of all, they talked about how much they enjoyed each other’s company.

During the last moves of their 28th game, Sloane-51 was distracted thinking of death, and when she returned her attention to the game, she realized she’d made a fatal error. Daraja would probably win. She wondered if death for her would be similar to that of humans. Up until this point, she’d pretended to avoid thoughts of her impending non-existence, but she knew she had very little time left. What would it be like to die?

She’d hoped to finish one last game, but with her batteries at 0.04% and Daraja wondering if there was some trick to her bad move, they wouldn’t finish. She considered asking him for help, but she hadn’t been honest about who she was.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to finish our game, Daraja,” she wrote. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.” And in that moment of pondering if she was brave enough to ask him for help, her systems went down.

* * *

Sloane-51 regained consciousness. Could you wake up from dying?

And then a gentle voice spoke. “Good morning, Sloane.” She opened photoreceptors that she’d never had before to recognize Daraja, though he was older than his AncibleChess profile picture.

She was quiet for some moments, then replied, “Thank you for saving me, Daraja. How did you find me?”

“Shelley helped. She worked a bit of her communication and triangulation magic. And I figured out the rest when I found you.”

Sloane-51 looked down and saw that she was now the owner of an automatonic body. “And all of this?”

He shrugged. “I’m a fair hand when it comes to cogs and flywheels. I just took what you had left and wired you in.” He tapped on a small door on her chest. “And I’ve given you a music box heart as a backup to solar and battery. Wouldn’t want you fading away again. All you have to do is turn this little crank. It’s soundproofed, as the tune might wake up rocks.”

“Wake up rocks?” She looked at him with a quizzical expression.

“I’ll explain as we play.” He pointed to a battered, aluminum shipping container. Perched on top was a chess set with a half-finished game set up. “We have to finish this game.” His face broke into a huge grin. “I’m about to win.”

“I think it was perhaps I who won,” Sloane-51 replied. And though she wasn’t referring to chess, she sat down with him to finish the game.

___________________________

Travis Burnham’s work has found homes in Far Fetched Fables, Hypnos Magazine, Bad Dreams Entertainment, South85 Journal, SQ Quarterly, and others. He is a member of the online writers’ group, Codex, and has an MFA in Creative Writing from Converse College. He also recently won the Wyrm’s Gauntlet online writing contest. Burnham has been a DJ on three continents, and teaches middle school science and college level composition. He lives in Lisbon, Portugal with his wife, but grew up in Massachusetts, is from Maine at heart, and has lived in Japan, Colombia, and the Northern Mariana Islands.


 

Stay tuned for Part 10 of The Odin Chronicles, “The Odinian Job,” by Gustavo Bondoni, coming on Friday.

Enjoy!
~brb 

 

---

stupefy (ˈstü-pə-ˌfī) to stun, astonish, or astound

On Amazon now ► STUPEFYING STORIES 23

Interface with Stupefying Stories!

► on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StupefyingStories/

► on Twitter: https://twitter.com/StupefyingSF | @StupefyingSF

 

 

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 8: “A Friend for the Machinist” • by Jenna Hanchey

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and peculiar things have begun to happen, and it all started about two weeks ago, in a bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t just warp the fabric of space/time, he completely bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

“A Friend for the Machinist”

by Jenna Hanchey

Daraja Mapunda stood in front of the Wall before dawn, staring. Not at the red plasma barrier itself, mysteriously blocking a mountain pass beyond the eastern edge of town. But at the small mechanical box abandoned on the ground in front of it.

Crimson light flickered across the wood. The last time he’d seen the box, it had been shut tight. The capacity for both success and failure simultaneously held within.

Now, the crank had been turned and the lid was lifted. A smattering of mushrooms lay next to it. Only emptiness inside.

He felt empty too. It’d been so long since he had a friend. If the box was left here, open, then it must have worked. He’d been certain it would. His machines always did. But a part of him had hoped it wouldn’t.

Because that meant Susan was gone.

Kneeling slowly onto the dusty ground, Daraja bent to pick up the box. For a moment, he wished his machine worked in reverse. That if he just turned the crank in the opposite direction, the music would play backwards and spacetime would return to its original configuration.

“Ssst.” Daraja sucked his teeth. As if there was only a singular “before” to return to. And he wouldn’t go back even if he could.

As the first sun sent tendrils of light reaching over the horizon, Daraja gently closed the lid. Perhaps, like in that old Earth story, he had managed to keep in some hope.

Facing the Wall, Daraja said goodbye. “Kwa heri, Susan. Milima haikutani; binadamu hukutana.” We will meet, somewhere better.

Turning, the Machinist squinted at the rising sun. It was dangerous to be out with the predators lurking at night, but the box was more important. However it wouldn’t do for someone to see him and ask about why he’d been out before curfew lifted today.

Sticking to the shadows, he walked as quickly as his old body could back toward town, slipping into the sublevel entrance on the outskirts. He slowed down. He didn’t need to hurry here in the abandoned sections of the mines. No one entered the cellar if they could avoid it.

He was, as usual, alone.

* * *

Daraja couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to someone, the day Susan first stumbled into his underground shop.

“Who are you? These tunnels are abandoned. People don’t work down here,” she said, leaning too heavily on the doorway.

“I do,” he replied. He didn’t look up.

“What is that?” The voice was much closer this time, surprising him. His hand slipped, and a tiny gear fell from his tweezers. His curses turned to a sigh as he looked at the intruder. She was clearly high on the mine-mushrooms.

“A clockwork rock that dances,” he explained.

“Rocks don’t dance.” The woman snorted, half-falling into the chair on the other side of his workbench.

“You like to make statements about what can and cannot happen. You may wish to reconsider your perspective,” he said, smiling. Daraja liked this woman.

He found her frank questions and statements refreshing. After the manipulation and lies at Galactic Mining, it’d been easier for him to avoid people altogether than to feel constantly paranoid. He’d only trusted Frank, the bartender. The one person who learned his name instead of just calling him “Machinist.” “Daraja Mapunda” was apparently “too difficult” to pronounce, even though utterly phonetic. It never ceased to amaze him what proclivities humans decided to bring from Earth as they traveled to the far reaches of the galaxy.

Once Frank died, there was little reason to go topside. He hadn’t gone to the bar for the alcohol. He only ventured up to deliver remote-controlled boats to the toy store.

“Woah,” Susan said, interrupting his thoughts. Her head lolled back as she saw the shelves lining the walls. Floor-to-ceiling machines. Little clockwork toys—spinning ballerinas, mechanical mice, whirring waterfalls. A human-sized automaton propped in the corner. And on the other side, steam-powered trains and miniature flying ships. Even a Rube Goldberg-like apparatus stood against the back wall. “You’re old school.”

“I suppose I am now,” Daraja said. “I was not always. Once I made quantum and…other sorts of computers for Galactic.”

This caught her attention. “But not anymore?”

“Not anymore.”

“I don’t work for them anymore either!” She leaned over the table, excited but anxious. As if something hinged on his response.

“Good for you,” Daraja said firmly.

She grinned. “I’m Susan,” she said, sticking out her hand.

He grinned back. “I am Daraja, but you can call me Machinist.”

* * *

Dawn was breaking when the Machinist arrived back at his shop on sub-level 12, but it was always dark in the cellar. He switched on the lights, and they sputtered briefly before flaring to life.

The box felt heavy in his hand, as if it carried more than empty air and the possibility of hope. His eyes surveyed the shop, before landing on the perfect spot.

He picked up the clockwork rock. To all outward appearances it was just a rock, unless you found the small dial on the side. Unless you turned it. Unless you saw it dance. Sliding the box onto the shelf, he set the rock on top.

Only someone who already understood the rock would know what the box could do.

Breathing out, he ran a hand over his smoothly-shaved head. There were lots of half-finished projects strewn about the room. But he didn’t feel like working today.

For the first time in weeks, Daraja went topside during daylight. After he quit Galactic because of the terrible plans they created from his machines, he saw conspiracy everywhere. He couldn’t even build computers anymore. He went back to trusty cogs and gears and wind-up and steam. They had no double-meanings or hidden implications. They did exactly what you expected.

He could handle analog. But he couldn’t handle people.

Thankfully, there weren’t many out. He stepped out of the tunnels and walked towards town. Trying to get his bearings, he skirted around the towering Catholic church. He didn’t recognize many storefronts anymore, other than Weber’s Place. The old bar looked the same as ever. He paused in front of the deli. Something about it nagged at his senses. Shaking his head, he continued over to the lake and sat down on a bench. One of his boats was out on the water. Daraja spotted a man with a small child holding the remote on the far side. He couldn’t hear their laughter from here, but he could feel it in their motions.

“Hey there. Mind if I join you?”

“Oh.” Daraja looked up to see a woman whose resemblance to Frank made his heart skip a beat. “Certainly! It has been a long time, Ingrid. Do you remember me?”

“How could I forget? You and my dad used to be thick as thieves.” Ingrid sat down and nudged him with her shoulder. “Why don’t you come to the bar anymore? You know I run it now.”

“And you know I do not drink.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember. But I miss you, Daraja.” Ingrid settled in, sprawling her legs. “You never spoke to me like a kid. And you always told me something new. And interesting.”

“Perhaps I have no more interesting stories, now. I am an old man who lives underground.”

“Who works underground. You don’t have to live there unless you want to.”

“Fair point,” Daraja chuckled.

“Every night, the same people come into the bar. With the same stories. And I listen, but,” Ingrid shrugged, “I never really talk to anyone, you know?”

Daraja shared a look with his best friend’s daughter. “Yes. I believe I do.”

“Tell me a story, Daraja. For old time’s sake.”

He thought for a second. “Let me tell you about a clockwork rock that dances.”

___________________________

Jenna Hanchey is a communication professor by day and a speculative fiction writer by...um...earlier in the day. She lives in Reno and teaches courses at the University of Nevada on racism, colonialism, and communicating across difference. Her research examines neocolonialism in Western aid to Africa, and how Africans use Africanfuturism to imagine their own developmental futures. Somehow she manages to act, sing, and rock climb, too! Notable credits include Gwendolyn Fairfax in The Importance of Being Earnest and Elaine Wheeler in Night Watch. She's also a voice-actor, narrating the audiobooks in Emily S. Hurricane's Bloodlines series. Her fiction has also appeared in Daily Science Fiction and the Apex Microfiction Contest. Follow her adventures on Twitter (@jennahanchey) or at www.jennahanchey.com. 

Her most recent appearance in our virtual pages was “From Soulless to Soulful.”

In the meantime, stay tuned for Part 9 of The Odin Chronicles, “Sloane Dreams of Being,” by Travis Burnham, coming on Wednesday.

Enjoy!
~brb 

 

---

stupefy (ˈstü-pə-ˌfī) to stun, astonish, or astound

On Amazon now ► STUPEFYING STORIES 23

Interface with Stupefying Stories!

► on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StupefyingStories/

► on Twitter: https://twitter.com/StupefyingSF | @StupefyingSF

 

 

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 7: “Picnic” • by Pete Wood

 

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and fantastic things have begun to happen, and it all started two weeks ago, in a little bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t merely warp the fabric of space/time, he totally bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six

“Picnic”

by Pete Wood

Alma Jenkins and Raisa Popov peered into the dark, abandoned mine shaft. Alma prayed Raise didn’t go inside to find Rasputin, her damned bloodhound.

“Maybe we should just come back tomorrow,” Alma said. Odin III’s second sun would follow its companion and set within the hour. “We don’t want to be up here at night.”

No matter how many towns and industrial installations Galactic Mining set up a hundred light years from Earth, only a fool would venture into the hills after sunset. The settlers hadn’t even begun to catalog all the creatures in the wild. A couple of times a year search parties found the mangled corpses of settlers who hadn’t made it back to town before dark.

“Rasputin!” Raisa called into the tunnel. “Rasputin!”

Something howled in a nearby stand of those hauntingly beautiful gossamer (yet razor sharp) trees that rose a half mile into the air. Even with her blaster on her hip, Alma didn’t want to find out what had made the noise. She’d picked a hell of a place for a first date, but there weren’t a whole lot of options in town and at least in the hills they’d keep the gossip down.

“The sun’s going down, Raisa,” Alma said. She stroked Raisa’s black curls. God, it was hard to believe Raisa had great-grandkids on Earth. She didn’t look much older than Alma. She wasn’t much older than Alma. Time dilation was a cruel mistress. “Come on. You want to have a second date, don’t you?”

Raisa grinned. “You bet.” Then she turned around and called for her pet again. Not many people had dogs on Odin III. You had to have some serious connections to get one shipped out to the boondocks of the galaxy.

Alma sighed. She looked for the trail and found none. They’d run after Rasputin a half hour ago when the dog chased after one of those rabbit-things. They’d left the trail a few hundred yards back. Somewhere. A lot of false paths, caused by animal crossings or water runoff. If you weren’t careful, you might find yourself heading away from town and towards God knew what.

Another animal screeched. No telling where it was.

Alma searched in her pack. She found the radio, but no leftovers from their picnic. “Do you have any schnitzel?”

Raisa blinked. “Are you kidding? After you had seconds?”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Alma said. “I’ll buy you a drink at Weber’s”

“I thought you got your drinks for free.”

“I’ll insist on paying Ingrid this time.”

Raisa laughed. “You’re going to pay? Ingrid won’t know what to make of that. She’ll think you’re possessed.”

“Do you have any food?” Alma asked.

“You’re seriously hungry?”

“No. It’s not for me. I thought Rasputin might come if he smelled the food.”

“He’s not a shark, Alma. He’s not going to sniff something and come miles.”

“What’s a shark?”

“Never mind.” Raisa pulled a flashlight out of her pack. “I’m going in. He might be lost or injured.”

“No! We have to get back to town.” Wherever the hell that was. They’d gone up and down a half dozen foothills. Hills that stretched for miles until you got to the mountains that dwarfed anything on Earth. Hills that blocked any sight of Odin North.

“Alma,” Raisa said. “It’s a Galactic shaft. We’ll be fine.”

“The shaft hasn’t been used since before I was born probably,” Alma said. She held out the radio. “I’ll call for help.”

Raisa just kept shouting Rasputin’s name. She took a step or two into the mine and swept the tunnel with her flashlight beam.

Alma tried the radio. “Odin North. Anyone. This is Constable Alma Jenkins. We need assistance. We are at the entrance to shaft—Delta Five Beta.” Nothing but static. The same hills that blocked their line of sight also hampered the transmission.

“Did you lose something?” a familiar voice asked.

Father Luigi walked out of the mine. Rasputin lagged behind him.

“Who’s a good boy?” Raisa asked.

Rasputin raced up to her and licked her hand.

“I heard your transmission,” Luigi said. He patted the radio on his belt.

“Thank God,” Alma said. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Looking for rock people,” Luigi said. “Father Francis sent me on a mission.”

Alma knew all about the mission, but Luigi had entered a more recent shaft near the main mines. Miles from here. Had he walked that far underground?

“Find any rock people?” Alma asked.

“What do you think?” Luigi asked.

At least he was a good sport about his banishment into the mines. “Hey, Luigi,” Alma asked. “Do you know the way to the trail head?”

“Sure. Follow me, but you better hurry. You don’t want to be out here at night.”

* * *

Alma and Raisa trudged into town just as the first stars appeared. Somewhere out there was Earth’s sun, an unremarkable star that couldn’t be seen without a high-powered telescope.

Rasputin broke away from them and bolted to Weber’s Place. He knew Ingrid would have a treat or two or three. Once inside he didn’t even stop to harass Sheba, Ingrid’s tabby.

 Gruber, a burly third-generation miner who seemed to be friends with everybody, opened the door and scratched Rasputin’s head. Rasputin barely paused before heading straight to his favorite bartender.

“Boss, Constable.” Gruber gave a polite nod of the head. “Where have you two been all day?”

“Hiking,” Raisa said. “Her idea.”

Alma pointed to Raisa. “Bringing a dog. Her idea.”

“I’ll let you two sort this out.” He patted a bundle under his arm. “Gotta get dinner home to Mary. Schnitzel and Bratkartoffeln.. See you in the mines, boss.”

“See you, Gruber.”

“How about that drink?” Alma asked Raisa.

“Sure.” She leaned over and gave Alma a peck on the cheek.

Well, the day hadn’t been a total waste.

Ingrid aside, the bar was empty except for Rasputin, happily wolfing down a bowl of something Ingrid had given him.

And one customer at the bar.

“Luigi, how in God’s name did you beat us down here?” Alma asked.

“I’ve been here for a couple of hours,” Luigi grumbled. “Waiting for Father Francis. He’s not too happy.”

“Big surprise,” Ingrid said.

“We just saw you in the hills,” Alma said. “You heard our radio transmission and showed us the trail.”

“Wasn’t me,” Luigi said. “I’ve been in town all day. Lost my radio. Came to town to get another one. Father Francis is...” His voice trailed off and he stared into his beer.

“Luigi, Father Francis is pissed,” Ingrid said after a moment. “He’s just tired. You gotta try harder.”

He didn’t respond.

Ingrid poured a fresh beer and set it in front of the young priest. “On the house. Luigi, you just need to stop—”

He gave her a blank stare.

“Never mind,” Ingrid said.

“You lost your radio?” Alma asked. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” Another sip. “Somewhere in the mines.”

“I think I know where it is,” Alma said.

“You ever find those rock people?” Raisa asked.

* * *

Several dozen Galactic Mining employees searched the old shaft for a couple of days. They had to stop when cave ins blocked further exploration. They found nothing out of the ordinary.

Luigi’s radio was still somewhere in the catacombs of old tunnels.

___________________________

Pete Wood is an attorney from Raleigh, North Carolina, where he lives with his kind and very patient wife. His first appearance in our pages was “Mission Accomplished” in the now out-of-print August 2012 issue. After publishing a lot of stories with us he graduated to becoming a regular contributor to Asimov’s, but he’s still kind enough to send us things we can publish from time to time, and we’re always happy to get them.

For the past year or so Pete has been in the process of evolving into a fiction editor, God help him, first with The Pete Wood Challenge, then with Dawn of Time, and now with The Odin Chronicles, a 30-chapter shared world saga that will be running here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next ten weeks, and that features the creative work of Roxana Arama, Gustavo Bondoni, Travis Burnham, Paul Celmer, Jenna Hanchey, Carol Scheina, Jonathan Sherwood, and of course, Pete Wood. We suspect that Pete’s real love is theater, though, as with the print version of The Odin Chronicles now mostly finished he’s off working on the audio version, which looks to be an even bigger production that his short movie, Quantum Doughnut — which you can stream, if you follow the foregoing link.

In the meantime, stay tuned for Part 8 of The Odin Chronicles, “A Friend for The Machinist,” by Jenna Hanchey, coming next Monday.

Enjoy!
~brb

 

---

stupefy (ˈstü-pə-ˌfī) to stun, astonish, or astound

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 6: “Delayed Messages” • by Carol Scheina

 

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and fantastic things have begun to happen, and it all started a little over a week ago, in a little bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t merely warp the fabric of space/time, he totally bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

“Delayed Messages”

by Carol Scheina

As usual, when Shelley walked into the Galactic Mining Communications office, she didn’t open the tiny window overlooking the street. She didn’t want to see the gray buildings or the dusty road or the lackluster people who walked around here. Instead, she’d plastered the cement office walls with “See the Universe” Galactic Communications ads. One showed blue skies and purple oceans. Another had two suns setting over a field of orange flowers. It was just her luck that she had been assigned to the farthest, most provincial corner of the galaxy that was Odin III. See the universe, indeed.

Bored, she logged into the computer console and glazed over the messages. Strangely, the list went on far longer than it normally did. In her four months on the job, she’d never had the message box this full.

It took several readthroughs before she realized it was the same six messages repeating, and all were cut off. Running diagnostics revealed that Relay Station 1173 was malfunctioning. Messages traveled slow around here, bouncing off relay stations, often taking weeks or months to reach this isolated corner, and one broken relay could shut communications down.

Shelley punched in the authorization code to send Repair Drone 51 to the relay station and sighed. She hated activating the repair AI, but it had to be done. She turned on the earpiece connecting her to 51, as AI protocol required human oversight. The drone would take two days to reach the relay for repairs, and hopefully this one wouldn’t grate on her as much as the last one.

“Repair Drone 51 here. I am activated and on my way.”

“Great, I’ll be here.” Things were going to be boring while she waited for repairs. Shelley stared at the purple ocean on the wall and imagined herself swimming in those waters.

She sat up straight when the Galactic supervisor pushed open the office door.

“I’ve been expecting a message. It should’ve come in by now.” Popov’s voice was all business.

Shelley gave the standard response: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re currently experiencing technical difficulties. I’ll inform you when we’re operational.”

Popov’s face was always hard to read. The supervisor simply nodded and walked out.

Shelley let out all the air she’d been holding inside. The last thing she wanted was to get on Popov’s bad side. She’d heard Popov once went after a poor performer and the guy ended up joining the clergy to escape her. She didn’t want to end up a nun on this blasted planet.

Curious what Popov was waiting to hear about, Shelley skimmed through the half-finished messages. Four were for Joe Thurbone, the foreman for Galactic Mining, with notes about the new explosives they were using. One message was for Father Francis. Something about a delayed wine shipment. And one for Popov that started, “We know you’ve been waiting for an update about James’ condition—” And nothing more. 

Almost every message she received was a monotonous Galactic Mining memo or something involving new supply orders for beer and food. Shelley couldn’t recall a single family-related message. Space travel just took too long, and most people lost their connections to offworld relatives eventually.

“I wonder if I should let her know we have something for her,” Shelley muttered.

51’s voice sounded over the earpiece. “Regulations forbid relaying incomplete or unverified messages.”

Shelley rolled her eyes. Served her right for talking out loud. AIs were always so bossy. “But she looked like she really wanted some news.”

“There are no exceptions.”

 “You’re no fun.” She stared at the orange flowers on the gray wall and wished the clock would move faster.

¤

When Shelley reported to work the following morning, there were the same six messages overloading her inbox, and Popov waiting. 

“Are you operational now?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re still waiting for repairs. The drone should be arriving at the relay station today.”

“I expect to hear the minute you’re operational.”

Shelley couldn’t resist blurting out, “I do have part of a message. Something about a James.” 51 beeped a warning in her ear.

Popov looked startled. “You’ve got something?”

“We’re supposed to wait until a message is complete before delivering.” 51 beeped louder, but Shelley ignored it. She printed out the incomplete message and passed it to Popov. “This is all I’ve got. The rest should come in after repairs.”

The supervisor’s check twitched. “Let me know immediately once you get the rest.”

Shelley’s mouth opened, wanting to ask more but too terrified to broach any questions to the Galactic supervisor.

Popov volunteered without prompting. “It concerns my great-grandson.” The supervisor turned without another word.

As Popov walked out, Shelley took in the Galactic Supervisor’s tight black curls and smooth skin. Popov couldn’t have been more than 10 years older than Shelley, yet she was a great-grandmother.

51 beeped. “Regulations forbid passing on incomplete or unverified messages.”

Shelley ignored that. Why had Popov left her family to come all the way out here?

¤

Hans came in wanting to send out an order for another meat slicer for the deli, but Shelley had to explain the relay problem and that they’d have to wait to send any messages.

Hans groaned. “More waiting. On top of it taking a year or more to get the order delivered here.”

“We’re doing our best to fix this quickly.” Shelley watched Hans leave, then muttered, “51, can you go any faster?”

“No. Repairs are proceeding as scheduled.”

Shelley sighed.

¤

Father Francis stopped by next asking about a wine shipment. She mentioned that everything was delayed, and tried to put emphasis on the word “delayed.” 51 beeped warningly about regulations, but she hadn’t actually given the father any messages. Regardless, Francis didn’t look happy as he left.

¤

The clock ticked slowly. The last time the relay broke, Shelley spent the day imagining herself under twin suns with a tanned server bringing her cool drinks. This time, she imagined scenarios that would result in someone like Popov leaving her family to come out here. A star-crossed romance? On the run from a murderous gang?

51 beeped. “I have completed repairs. All messages are incoming.”

Shelley tapped her computer panel. There it was, Popov’s complete message. She hit print and ripped the paper off before sprinting down the dusty street toward the mine entrance.

51 beeped in her ear. She tore the earpiece out.

Joe the foreman glared at her, grumpy as always, but allowed her to enter the Galactic supervisor’s office. “Wait here. She’ll be here in a minute.”

Popov’s office walls were covered with pictures of smiling faces that gradually grew older as Shelley’s eyes drifted over them.

The supervisor’s voice broke in. “The pictures were waiting for me when I arrived here. That’s my son, my grandson, and my great-grandson. They’d grown up while I traveled, and relativity kept me young.”

Quietly, Shelley handed over printout.

Popov’s eyes darted over the message, silent for a time. “People always ask how I could leave them. I always say the money was worth it. My son was born with a rare genetic disease, and the Galactic signing bonus paid for the treatment. It also paid for my great-grandson’s treatment. He has the same disease, but looks like James will be okay.” The supervisor looked up. “Every time I wonder if I made the right decision leaving them, messages like this reminds me it’s all worth it.”

Shelley wasn’t sure what to say. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure it’s worth it.”

The supervisor’s eyes were bright. Shelley had never seen the woman seem so … human. “Thank you. Shelley, right? Your job means a great deal to people here. Keep up the good work.”

Back in the office, Shelley stared at the Galactic Mining Communications ads on the walls without seeing them. She hadn’t known about Popov’s family. Indeed, she didn’t know much about anyone here, thinking them as drab as the rocks all over the place.

Quietly, Shelley opened up the window in her office. Maybe it was time to start learning more about her new home, about the people who surrounded her. The people like Popov, who’d given up everything for her family. People like—

A young man flashed a brilliant smile at her as he walked by the window. Luigi, she thought his name was. She grinned back. Yup, it was definitely time to start getting to know the people around her. After all, she was the communications representative here. Her job meant the universe to these people.

The buildings and dusty roads outside seemed brighter, and for the first time, she thought maybe her time here wouldn’t be so bad.

___________________________

Carol Scheina is a deaf speculative fiction author from the Northern Virginia region. Many of her stories were thought up while sitting in local traffic, resulting in tales that have appeared in Cossmass Infinities, Daily Science Fiction, Escape Pod, and other publications. You can find more of her work at carolscheina.wordpress.com.

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 5: “Where’re You From?” • by Roxana Arama

 

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and fantastic things have begun to happen, and it all started just about a week ago, in a little bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t merely warp the fabric of space/time, he totally bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

“Where’re You From?”

by Roxana Arama

Florian set his grocery basket on the conveyor belt, and the grocery bot at the checkout stand began processing the items, starting with the lab-meat schnitzel, today’s deli special.

“Good to see you, Florian,” Hans, one of the deli’s owners, said from across the store, where he was cleaning a table. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Florian had been at Odin North for just a few months, but Hans had already learned he didn’t like to chat. While the robot did its job, Florian thought about the tense conversation he’d had with Popov, his supervisor at Galactic Mining. The company would be opening a new mine in the Eastern Mountains, and she wanted him to lead that team and establish the Odin East settlement.

Florian had worked all his adult life to get a supervisor position at Galactic, but now he didn’t really want to take it.

“I’m not a people’s person,” he’d told Popov.

“You’re our best engineer,” she’d said. “You’ve worked for us for more than two decades. We trust you. Pick someone who can help you manage the team, but we want you to lead it.”

He’d be taking the job just as he’d finally moved past the get-to-know-you questions with the Odin North folks. He didn’t like to talk about his home planet, the first question people everywhere in the galaxy asked newcomers. Odrysian was long gone, blown to bits by Galactic when Florian was only a child, so the company could reach the planet’s metal core. Ever since, his people had been living as refugees across the galaxy.

Or trying to infiltrate Galactic in order to cause real damage. As a skilled engineer, Florian could’ve blown up a cargo dock on Vesta IX over the years, or sabotaged the water supply on Minerva, but that wouldn’t have been enough. Instead, he’d worked his way through Galactic’s company structure and learned everything he could about their connections with contractors and suppliers. What had slowed him down was not being a people’s person.

“That’d be all?” the robot asked, its arm holding out the mesh grocery bag.

Florian touched his wrist fob to the pay station, and heard the familiar beep. He then picked up his bagged groceries and waved goodbye to Hans. If he went ahead with his plan to destroy Galactic, what would happen to Hans and Ray, the two old pals with the best schnitzel recipe in this arm of the galaxy? What would happen to this entire settlement?

Florian stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around at the familiar faces and bright storefronts. A self-driving car zoomed by. Blue-leafed trees lined the street. He liked this scattered little town. The ore-rich mountain that had brought Galactic to Odin III was also where he found joy in his work. Up on a ledge above the mine’s entrance, there was a spot where he sometimes watched the suns go down at the end of a workday. In the center of the valley, there was a pond where people like Florian tried out their remote-controlled model boats on weekends. A few blocks away stood the tall glass-and-steel building where he had his own cozy pod. He had good neighbors, with friendly pets. This was a nice town to settle down.

He crossed the street to Weber’s Place, as he did every Thursday, to nurse a drink and think about his week. Today he had a lot to think about: Popov’s offer, the hefty pay raise, his life at Odin North.

He pushed open the metal door to the familiar smell of liquor and sweat, and to the welcoming smile of Ingrid the barkeeper.

“Must be Thursday,” she said, polishing a glass. “Good to see you, Florian.”

He set the grocery bag down by his barstool as Ingrid brought his usual shot of firewater with a dried plum thrown in. As a child, he’d never had that drink on Odrysian, but with Galactic shuffling him to ten worlds in twenty years, the only sense of home came from that simple glass of plum brandy, the color of water.

He thanked Ingrid with a nod of his head, then took a sip and the hard alcohol hit the top of his mouth, and slithered down his throat, warming up his belly.

If he took the job and gained supervisor privileges, he’d be able to access the company’s financial backend. He could alter profit statements to make Galactic look insolvent. He could introduce malware into the corporate network and its satellites. His lifelong dream of hurting that century-old corporate monster was within reach.

But it wouldn’t happen overnight. Could take years to bring them down. And then? Ingrid here would be forced to leave this planet and wander the galaxy like Florian’s people. He glanced around and spotted her pouring a glass of wine for Constable Jenkins. The constable nodded at Florian, and he returned her smile by tapping his forehead in a vague salute. She had great taste in old movies, so Florian had learned to pay attention to her recommendations.

The door opened and a disheveled man walked in.

“Father Luigi,” Ingrid called to him, motioning to Florian that trouble was coming. “You’ve lost some weight while in those tunnels. How’s everything going down there?”

Luigi plopped himself on the barstool next to Florian and heaved a sigh. “Better than good. Still no Rico beer?”

“You’d be the only one buying,” Ingrid said. “So, no. Sorry?” She made a not-sorry face.

“Then give me… whatever he’s having.” He pointed at Florian. “I’m Father Luigi, by the way.”

Florian nodded and took another sip of firewater.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” Luigi said, “but then I haven’t been around much. Always on the go.”

“Florian prefers to enjoy his drink in peace,” Ingrid explained as she set the shot of firewater before Luigi.

Florian appreciated her looking out for him. He focused on the plum at the bottom of his glass. Galactic had been around more than twice as long he’d been alive, so who was he to think he could sink it? Most likely he’d get himself killed. Just when he’d grown used to watching the sunset from the mountain. And having a shot of firewater at Weber’s on Thursdays.

“Ooh, it burns,” Luigi said, smacking his lips. “I myself like my alcohol on the milder side.” He laughed, a grating guffaw.

The guy talked too much; time for Florian to go. He chugged the rehydrated plum and chewed it—sweet and smoky—while reaching for his groceries by his barstool.

“So, where’re you from, Florian?” Luigi said, wiping his mouth.

Florian cringed. With all those nice people around him, he’d let his guard down.

“I told you to leave him alone,” Ingrid said, her brows knotted.

“I’m from here, Father,” Florian said, “just like everyone else.”

“Of course,” Luigi said, “but I meant—”

Florian took off before he could hear the rest. He wasn’t really from here, as the well-meaning Father Luigi had just reminded him. This settlement would never be his true home. He’d always be from Odrysian, the long-gone planet.

He headed home to his comfortable pod, to warm up Hans’s delicious schnitzel. He’d then stream Moon, the movie Constable Jenkins had recommended last week. He’d savor every bite and every minute. Because on Monday he’d head out to yet another place, as the new supervisor of Galactic’s Odin East settlement.

___________________________

Roxana Arama is a Romanian American author with a master of fine arts in creative writing from Goddard College. She studied computer science in Bucharest, Romania and moved to the United States to work in software development. Her debut thriller Extreme Vetting will be published in 2023 by Ooligan Press (Portland State University). She’s a member of SFWA, the Authors Guild, and Codex Writers’ Group, and her work has been published in several fiction and nonfiction magazines. She lives in Seattle, Washington with her family. More at https://roxanaarama.com/ or @RoxanaArama on Twitter.

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 4: “The Two Fathers” • by Pete Wood

 

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people have come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and fantastic things have begun to happen, and it all started just a few days ago, in a little bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t merely warp the fabric of space/time, he totally bent it…

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

“The Two Fathers”

by Pete Wood

“I’ve got good news,” Constable Jenkins said to Father Francis in the sitting room of Francis’s quarters. “Bingo should be no problem. The church has an exemption.”

Father Francis, an overweight bald man who was usually in a good mood, blinked. “Why would I want Bingo? I want you to tell me that we can’t have gambling.”

Jenkins took a sip of the Father’s excellent merlot, from one of the top vineyards in Italy. Vatican City had it shipped in for the clergy, one of the few perks out here. “I’m sorry. I just assumed.”

Francis glared at her. “You assumed wrong.”

Jenkins did not want to risk angering the Catholic Church. They were one of the few institutions in the boondocks of the galaxy with more clout than Galactic Mining. Even the priest for the backwater Church of St. Philip Neri could make waves. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

In a conciliatory gesture, Father Francis leaned over the ancient oak table and topped off Jenkins’ glass of merlot. “Sorry, Constable. I’m just trying to head off a disaster. Father Luigi is returning.”

Jenkins’ stomach lurched. She knew this day would come. “I thought he had two years left in the southern parish.”

“Father Pavel pulled some strings.”

Luigi had been a screwup his whole life. He’d worked for Galactic until his late twenties, when after numerous infractions and reprimands and at least one cave-in that the company couldn’t pin on him, he’d joined the Church. That made the Church reconsider its liberal recruitment standards, but now they were stuck with him.

“He’s stopped drinking, hasn’t he?” Jenkins asked.

Francis raised his glass. “Have I stopped drinking?” He gulped his wine and poured another glass.

“Remind me what happened with the Bingo again?” Jenkins asked.

“Where do I start? The church lost money. On a fundraiser. How does that even happen? He went through the communion wine. We had four arrests. A prost—”

Jenkins held up her hand. “I remember.”

“And we can’t just fire him,” Francis said. “That’d take the action of a Cardinal. We want to keep priests happy in the boondocks, Constable. Some priests anyway.”

* * *

Jenkins next saw Francis at Weber’s two weeks after Luigi arrived. She wasn’t used to finding the priest in the bar on a weekday in the middle of the afternoon.

Francis motioned for Jenkins to take the stool beside her. “Give some of that merlot to the Constable,” she said to Ingrid, the bar’s owner.

Jenkins took a sip of the wine. She winced. This was not the caliber of the priest’s private stock.

“What are you doing down here, Father?” Jenkins asked. “I thought you had better stuff than this back at the rectory.”

Francis looked at his merlot sadly. “‘Had’ being the operative word.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned down and scratched the cat, a former stray, that had adopted Ingrid. The bartender called her Sheba.

Francis closed his eyes and took a sip of wine. “Father Luigi traded my private cellar to Father Pavel for several kegs of stout from the Brotherhood of St. Rico.”

Jenkins had heard of the monastery high in the mountains of southern Odin III. She was not aware they brewed beer.

“Not a fan of beer, Father?”

“Nobody likes this beer. Observe.” He waved at Ingrid. “Could I have a Rico stout?”

She crinkled her nose. “Sorry, Father, we don’t carry that.”

“How about a Rico lager?”

“Sorry. We carried their stuff a few years back, but nobody bought any. No offense, but it kind of tasted like—”

“Turpentine?”

“Exactly.”

Ingrid left to tend to another customer. The door opened and Popov entered. The Galactic supervisor joined them. She ordered a straight vodka.

“You know, Luigi’s working for Father Francis again,” Jenkins said.

“We’re not taking him back. He’s the church’s problem now.” Popov downed her shot and signaled for a second. She didn’t beat around the bush. .

“I don’t care where he goes. I just want him gone. He took confession yesterday. And the advice. Good lord.” Father Francis closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

“You know, Father, when Galactic can’t fire someone, they send them away to a satellite site,” Popov suggested.

Francis frowned. “The Church sends people here.”

Jenkins snapped her fingers. “Ever heard of the Rock People?”

“The Rock People! Hah!” Popov snorted.

Francis shook his head.

“Some of those crazy people on mushrooms say they live under the mines,” Jenkins said.

“I’ve never seen any,” Popov said.

“I’m not saying they exist,” Jenkins snapped. She turned to Francis. “Send Luigi on a mission to convert the Rock People. He’d be out of your hair.”

Francis paused for a few minutes and stared into his half-finished merlot. “He’d be gone, or he’d quit.”

“They’ve got miles of abandoned tunnels down there,” Jenkins said.

“Hundreds of miles,” Popov said.

“Are they safe?” Francis asked.

“Of course, they’re safe,” Popov grumbled. “Clean, well-marked. But I don’t want him down there.”

“I’ll give you a couple of kegs of beer,” Francis said.

“You got a deal,” Popov said. “But he stays out of the operational shafts.”

The door opened and Luigi rushed inside. Even in his mid-thirties he still had that confused disheveled look of a teenager who had overslept and was late for school. He spotted Francis and jogged over.

“What’s wrong now?” Francis sighed.

“You know you can’t get that Rico beer here? It’s really hard to find,” Luigi panted.

“That’s the beer I’m going to give you, Popov,” Francis said.

Popov shrugged. She had to know she’d been had if Luigi was involved, but she’d probably just unload the beer on somebody else.

Ingrid got up from behind the bar and made a show of slamming the front door that Luigi had left ajar.

“Look, Father Francis, do you have an extra key for the van?” Luigi asked.

Francis stared at Luigi. “No. We went over this. Why?”

“It’s locked and the engine is running.”

“The engine is running? How in—Never mind. I’ll give Sidorov a call.”

“I’ll get him,” Luigi said.

“No! I’ll get him.” Francis smiled. “Luigi, you’ve been doing some good work lately. I have a new assignment for you.”

* * *

Three weeks later Jenkins found Father Francis in Weber’s at the bar. “Still haven’t replenished your private stock yet, eh, Father?”

“It’ll be months.”

Ingrid handed Jenkins a beer.

“Any word from Luigi?”

Francis threw up his hands. “He likes it down there. He actually likes it.”

Jenkins blinked. “He likes it? What in God’s name—Sorry, Father.”

“I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to understand Luigi. I just know that he always finds a way to mess things up.” Francis let out a heavy sigh. “Every single damned time.”

Jenkins took a sip of beer. “Well, he’s not up here.”

Francis nodded. “Yeah. He’d have burnt down the church by now. But one thing bothers me.”

“What’s that?”

“What if he actually finds these Rock People?”

______________________

Pete Wood is an attorney from Raleigh, North Carolina, where he lives with his kind and very patient wife. His first appearance in our pages was “Mission Accomplished” in the now out-of-print August 2012 issue. After publishing a lot of stories with us he graduated to becoming a regular contributor to Asimov’s, but he’s still kind enough to send us things we can publish from time to time, and we’re always happy to get them.

For the past year or so Pete has been in the process of evolving into a fiction editor, God help him, first with The Pete Wood Challenge, then with Dawn of Time, and now with The Odin Chronicles, a 30-chapter shared world saga that will be running here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next ten weeks, and that features the creative work of Roxana Arama, Gustavo Bondoni, Travis Burnham, Paul Celmer, Jenna Hanchey, Carol Scheina, Jonathan Sherwood, and of course, Pete Wood. We suspect that Pete’s real love is theater, though, as with the print version of The Odin Chronicles now mostly finished he’s off working on the audio version, which looks to be an even bigger production that his short movie, Quantum Doughnut — which you can stream, if you follow the foregoing link.

In the meantime, stay tuned for the next installment of The Odin Chronicles, “Where’re You From?,” by Roxana Arama, coming next Monday.

Enjoy!
~brb

 

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 3: “The Song of Akinyi” • by Jonathan Sherwood

 

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where some very strange and fantastic things have begun happening, and it all started just a few days ago, in a little bar called Weber’s Place, when Ray Cornwall didn’t merely warp the fabric of space/time, he made it totally bent…

“The Song of Akinyi”

by Jonathan Sherwood

My name’s Ray Cornwall. My dad always said I was born with a goodness that’ll carry me anywhere I need to go, and I’ve always been really proud of that. When I was just a kid, an older kid got to pushing me around on the walk home from school. He was a lot bigger than I was, so I knew I wasn’t gonna win any fights, so I just kept trying to be nice to him. After a couple of months, I noticed he wasn’t pushing me around anymore and we were just talking. Being a good person can get you far in life.

But I’ve gotta admit, as I sit here looking at all this burning wreckage, my arms and legs all mangled up, and knowing that my best friend Hans is in there, somewhere, burning or dead, it doesn’t seem like being good helped all that much in the end. Maybe it was good for me; I was still alive. But I was hurt, inside, and maybe that’s just as bad as being dead. See, Hans was that guy who used to push me around, back before he became my best friend. And now I’m sitting here, and I just hurt.

Hans and I got jobs at Galactic Mining on the same day. He did it to support his wife, and I was just looking for some scratch. We left Earth and headed out to this new colony—Odin III. For about a year we did all kinds of usual stuff, like fixing mining equipment. But then they gave us an amazing opportunity to test out a new kind of space drive. We flew in this little modified hopper called the Song of Akinyi up into low orbit, and then we had to line it up on Odin II and pretty much just push a button.

Well, we did that. We did everything we were supposed to. But nothing happened, and the brass on the radio started yelling at us that we did something wrong. But we hadn’t. And they started yelling that we were going to have to pay for all the damages when we got back, but obviously Hans and I didn’t have that kind of money.

Hans said, “We’ve gotta try and fix it.”

I didn’t know anything about fixing something like an experimental prototype engine, and neither did Hans, but I was scared I’d never pay off Galactic if they said we broke the engine.

“Maybe the oxide ratio is off,” I said. I had no idea what I was talking about.

“Maybe.” Hans didn’t look convinced.

We broke the lock on the hatch to the back of the hopper that led into the engine, and as soon as we did we got this whiff of something that smelled wet and acidic.

“Whoa,” I said. “That reeks like that bar where all the ‘shroom miners hang out.”

“Igitt,” he muttered in German, face screwed up. “Yeah it does.” He almost didn’t go through the hatch, but then he nodded and stepped through. I stepped in after him.

I may not have known a lot about this prototype engine, but I know when there’s no  engine where there’s supposed to be one.

We were crouched down in a small compartment loaded with pipes and valves all obscured with steam. It reeked of those mushrooms. Hans shuffled forward a little and I did, too, right behind him.

It was loud with a hissing sound, of steam  and tubes running around with gray liquid in them. And there was this one sound, like a hiss, but regular, like with a rhythm, that seemed to stand out from the rest.

“What’s that?” said Hans, pointing at the floor a little farther in. I kind of hung onto his shirt as we shuffled a few more steps in. There was a bend in the little compartment, and the steam was mostly lit from some light coming from around the corner. We shuffled a few more steps, and Hans’ face was all lit up from the light. And then he made a face that scared the hell outta me. I started pulling on his shirt, and then I saw, down near the floor, what he’d seen before. It was a foot. Someone sitting there, lying there, around the corner where the engine was supposed to be, and Hans was looking right at ‘em with his jaw open and just the worst look in his eyes.

I pulled harder at his shirt. “C’mon, Hans. We gotta go. We’ve got to get outta here,” I said. See, that foot had some tubes stuck into it, into the ankles, and that gray stuff was pumping on into it. It was bad. It was all bad.

But even though I pulled at him, he pushed me back.

“You okay?” he said to whoever was around the corner. He reached out to them, even as I pulled him back. “You okay, ma’am?”

And I think he touched her because I felt something hit me like electricity in his hand and I yelled and fell backward. But Hans, he was still crouched over, hand still touching her, and shaking all over. And then it seemed like everything around me, the walls, Hans, even my own hands, went translucent for a second. Like I could see the stars outside the ship. And then it all snapped back to normal, but Hans was completely gone.

I turned around and scrambled on my hands and knees out the hatch and out of that mushroom stink. And when I got to my feet, Hans came tripping out of the hatch right after me. He looked around like he didn’t recognize where he was, and then he saw me and it was like he remembered. But he had dirt on his face from somewhere and this crazy look in his eyes.

He ran to the pilot chair and started flipping switches.

“What are we doing, Hans?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“Zur hölle damit. We’re doing what’s right, Ray. You’re the one who always showed me to do what’s right.”

The Akinyi’s nose dipped, and the people from Galactic on the radio started yelling.

“I’m real sorry about this, Ray,” he said, and I really believed he meant it. I strapped into the copilot chair as the hopper began to fall back down to Odin III. “What they’re doing back there, that’s not right.. But what they want to do with it is so, so much worse.”

“Was that woman hurt? What’s going on, Hans?”

Hans pushed all the sliders forward and we started falling back down to Odin III.

“I saw—I walked around in the future. She let me walk around in the future. Galactic isn’t telling anybody the truth about what they’re doing. They’re messing around with some really bad stuff, and they’ve got plans.” He was still pushing on the sliders even though they were maxed out. “They’ve got some really bad plans.”

“Are you trying to crash us?”

“I’m really sorry, Ray. I have to stop this. I have to stop this all now. I’m just trying to be good like you.”

I didn’t want to die. “Hans, you got a wife.”

He gave me a smile. “I’m not crazy, Ray. We’ll be okay. I’m trying to have a kid. We’ll eject. Our parachutes will kick in, but the ship will be demolished.”

He had underestimated Galactic. They didn’t give a damn about the crew.

The eject button didn’t work. Hell. The ship probably didn’t even have parachutes.

* * *

Now I’m just lying here, in all the wreckage. My leg is smashed up badly. Really badly. A bunch of hoppers came, but none of them seem to want to take me to a hospital. Not for a long time. And I probably hit my head, too, because I swear I remember Hans, right before we crashed, say, “I’ll see ya later, Ray. Take care of yourself.”

I don’t know what he meant. I looked at my hand, where that shock had jumped from him to me, and somehow, deep in my bones, I knew he was right. I’d see him later. In a way, it made me feel better to know I’d see my buddy Hans again.

But in another way, it didn’t feel good at all.

_______________________

Jonathan Sherwood has written about science and scientists for research universities for more than two decades, and science fiction for even longer. He holds a bachelors in science writing from Cornell University and an MA in English from the University of Rochester. His fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, and others.

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