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

 

---

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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

 

---

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 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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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 2: “Amid These Dancing Rocks at Once and Ever” • by Paul Celmer

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 or the Catholic Church, 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 strange, weird, and fantastic things can happen, and it all began 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…

“Amid These Dancing Rocks at Once and Ever”

by Paul Celmer

Susan hesitated outside to stare through the swirling dust at the two-story deli across the street. The deli was not there three days before. But Ray had changed everything.

Susan stepped over some waste gravel into Weber’s, a bar at the edge of the mining colony on Odin III. The town’s only bar.

She slipped off her goggles and unbuckled her jacket. She still wore the jacket with its prominent five-diamond logo of Galactic Mining, even though they had fired her a month ago. A scratchy jazz tune played on the jukebox, then stopped abruptly.

Susan looked around, mumbling to herself. “Music. The transformation of time into space …”

“What?” Ingrid, the owner, said.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

Ingrid was accustomed to serving drinks to mine-mushroom burnouts. “What’ll you have, sweetie?” Ingrid cranked the jukebox a few times and the jazz flowed again.

“Tom Collins.” Susan spotted Arthur at the end and her face lit up. “Thank God you’re here.” She threw her arms around him.

“Hey what the hell?” Arthur pulled back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look, you can’t just go around hugging people. I’m here just to drink.” He took a sip from a bottle.

“Arthur… Cut it out. You’re acting like you barely know me.”

“I don’t. I mean, I’ve seen you come into the bar enough. But we never exchanged more than a dozen words.”

“We’ve been together for ten years…”

She scanned Arthur’s face, searching for a trace of recognition in his eyes. Susan knew Ray had done something to the flow of time. Split it into at least two timelines. When Ray sent the message back in time to help his best friend Hans land the ship with the experimental drive.

“Ten years ago I met Janice and opened the barbershop. And now I got customers from all over town.”

“You helped me quit the drugs. Don’t you remember us?”

Susan had become attuned to the boundaries of alternate timelines while she was addicted to koblyx, the indigenous drug the Settler’s called mine mushrooms. She hoped Arthur would feel enough bleed through from the years they shared in the old timeline.

“Why don’t you just leave.”

“Listen. Ray didn’t really fix anything. Sure, his deli made it big. But we’re still prisoners of Galactic.”

“Prisoners? We’re settlers. Soon I’ll earn enough for a ticket back to Earth.”

“They won’t let you go. They’re hiding too much.”

“Is this about the plasma wall again? It’s there for our protection.”

“I think there’s a way through,” Susan said. “I think we can see what it’s blocking off.”

“When they first sent us here at least twenty settlers died trying to get through that wall. Chasing rumors of green lands. Mine mushrooms have eaten your brain.” Arthur took another gulp “The wall’s there to protect us.”

“The mushrooms are food for the Rock People.”

“Who?” Arthur said.

“They live under the mines.”

“Another rumor. Or less than a rumor. A legend.”

“I’ve made the company think I’m still using. So they would stop monitoring me. And I finally made it all the way down to the sub-level. The cellar.”

“You give me the creeps. All I know is I got a steady income. I get vids from old Earth to plug into at night. Janice and I have been married for ten years. Get the hell away before I call the constable.”

“The Machinist said…”

“Machinist?”

“He has a shop down a few levels in the old mine. He used to build quantum computers on old Earth. Says he might find a way to talk to the Rock People.”

“You’re high right now, aren’t you?”

“You know Galactic controls our lives. Cyborgs are designed for being controlled, not humans. We can be free. Together.”

“Galactic has monitors that track all energy weapons and devices,” Arthur half whispered.

“The thing the Machinist is working on will be all analog. No electricity. He says it can help someone cross.”

“Damn druggie.” Arthur stared into the mirror behind the bar.

Susan sat in silence for several minutes. “Goodbye Arthur. I love you. Always and forever.” Susan tightened up her jacket and slipped her goggles back on.

The night was black. The wind had picked up. She walked north towards the edge of town, with waste boulders growing larger and more common with each step.

A figure approached, with a hand on a holstered gun. “Where you think you’re going?” Constable Jenkins said. “Curfew is in half an hour.”

“I’m going to Odin II. Want to go with me?” Susan grinned like a maniac. She held out a fistful of cobalt-blue mine mushroom caps. She could feel their magnetic pull downward against her hand.

“I never mess with that crap. You were a good pilot once.” Jenkins spat. “Go wherever the hell you want. Just don’t touch the Wall. It’ll vaporize you. You remember that much at least, right?”

“Got it.” Susan watched Jenkins plod on back towards the town.

Tears pooled in Susan’s goggles. Arthur had forgotten her. The only person she had ever loved. It felt like her whole life was disappearing. A kind of death. Maybe she should just get back onto the mushrooms and forget everything.

The wind pushed against her, but Susan pushed back. Until she faced it. The plasma wall smoldered with a blood red light and hummed like a nest of hornets. For a second the thought crossed her mind, that she had been set up by the Machinist, that he had been a Galactic plant all the time.

Susan put a little wooden box down on the ground and turned the tiny crank on the side a few times.

The box made sounds. It was an eerie, ghostly chattering that was a cross between a receding ocean wave washing over tumbling stones and the gentle flutter of cave bats. Not music. At least, not for humans.

One of the boulders shifted, almost like it was blown by the wind. Then it sprouted arms and legs. Then it danced. A ballet of ponderous joy, timed perfectly to every gurgle and hiss emanating from the box. Part of the creature’s dance was the sweeping grace of a matador’s cape that pulled a hole in the plasma wall. Bright orange drops of molten rock showered down from the creature’s fingertips.

 Susan walked through, unscathed.

A few days later, when the company finally got around to conducting a search, Jenkins found the spot where Susan Musa had last stood in the colony. The mushroom caps she had thrown away were half-covered by a coat of fine dust, glowing like muted stars.

__________________________

When not traveling to parallel universes, Paul Celmer is a technical writer in Durham, North Carolina. His recently published flash science fiction includes “Spooky Action At a Distance” in Daily Science Fiction and “The Last Rosy-Fingered Dawn” in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

__________________________

“Do you miss Firefly? Do you like The Expanse? If so, then The Privateers of Mars is exactly what you need. [...] Structured as three loosely interconnected short stories, it reads like three episodes of a great science fiction show that you wish someone would make.”

—Amazon reader review

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 1: “Weber’s Place” • 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 or the Catholic Church, 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 strange, weird, and fantastic things can happen, and it all begins in a little bar called—

“Weber’s Place”

by Pete Wood

A guy walks into a bar…

I’d heard them all since I took over Weber’s Place from my dad. The best bar on Odin III. At least I thought so.

And something not run by the Catholic Church or Galactic Mining.

The door opened and the cold air hit me like a slap in the face. The stray cat I let into the bar on cold nights arched its back and bolted into the back storeroom.

Ray Cornwall limped inside. The old man took his usual seat, not too far from Susan Musa, the only other customer in the joint. Tuesday nights were slow.

“First drink’s on me,” I said to Ray. I grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge—the good stuff—my stock from Earth. There weren’t many of the original settlers left. I figured I owed him.

Ray shook his head. “No, thanks, Ingrid.”

“Rain check?” I asked. It wasn’t like Ray to turn down a beer.

“Ever tell you how I got this limp?” Ray asked.

Only a million times, but I pretended he had never mentioned it before. “Don’t believe so, Ray.” I returned the bottle to the fridge.

Susan just stared out into space and nursed her Tom Collins. She didn’t talk much. Not since Galactic fired her. Not since she started messing with those weird mushrooms that grew deep underground. Sometimes she seemed to see things that nobody else could see.

I was glad I wasn’t alone with her. Nights like tonight she gave me the creeps.

Ray took off his frayed wool cap and set it on the empty stool beside him. “Me and my buddy, Hans, were testing the new space drive. Tried to make it to Odin II, but… things got weird. Things got translucent. Transparent. Then Hans just disappeared.” He scratched his head. “Fifty-two years ago.”

I never had believed this part of the story. Hans had disappeared for five, ten seconds and then came back, mad as a hatter. Crashed the ship on purpose. I half listened.

“He died. I was in traction for a year. Damned Galactic never even gave me disability.”

This part of the story I believed. Galactic had been screwing all its colonies for over a hundred years. Ray survived on alcohol and handouts. He’d tried prospecting for a while, but that hadn’t worked out. “They’re assholes, Ray. You sure you don’t want that beer.”

“No, I can’t. I already told you,” Ray snapped. Then in a quieter tone. “He’s coming. Gotta be sharp.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Hans. I can feel it. Haven’t felt this way since the flight. Must be a residual from the window. Been getting stronger. It’s tonight. Here.”

Ray had finally lost it. Hans had been dead since my dad started the bar. Or maybe it was just Ray’s age catching up to him. He had to be in his seventies.

“I’d like to meet him,” I said.

Another blast of cold air. Constable Jenkins walked up to the bar. “Give me some of that Aviator Ale.”

“On the house,” I said. I’d have to order more of her favorite craft beer. Not a good idea to run out of protection payments.

Jenkins grabbed a seat by the door and took off her heavy overcoat. A Galactic supervisor—Popov—joined her a couple of minutes later. I brought a beer over, locally brewed this time.

“Thanks,” Popov said.

The door opened. Another blast of cold air. The wind whistled. A young guy in one of those old-styled flight suits. He looked confused.

“Get you a drink, Mister?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him before. Strangers were damned uncommon this far from Earth.

He didn’t respond. His eyes had a wild scared look like an animal caught in a trap.

Ray jumped up with an energy he hadn’t shown in years. He grabbed the stranger by the shoulders. “Hans, it’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“What?”

“It’s me. Ray Cornwall.”

Hans blinked.

Jenkins just drank. Heaven forbid she do her job when a delirious guy wandered into my bar.

Ray kept talking to Hans, his words coming out a furious pace. “You’re married to Barbara. You’re trying to have a kid. You came here from Dresden. You’ve been on Odin III for two years. You and I are testing the new hyperdrive.”

A glint of recognition hit Hans. “Ray?”

Ray nodded. Tears ran down his face. “I’m older now. Listen. For God’s sake. Listen. You’re in the future. You’ll only be here for a little while. The rift or window or whatever the hell the drive opened is gonna snap you back. But you gotta stay calm. You have to let me land the ship. Do you understand?”

Hans hesitated for a second. “Let you land the ship.”

“Don’t touch the controls!” Ray grabbed a coaster off the bar and scrawled something on it. Take this. It’ll prove you’re not crazy when you get back.

Hans looked at the coaster. “Let Ray land the ship.”

Then Hans shimmered. He—

* * *

Not much happens in Weber’s Place. Just me and Susan tonight.

The door opened. Ray and Hans walked in. They’d been running the deli across the street since before I was born. Some of the last of the original settlers.

“Get you two something?” I asked.

“Sure,” Ray said. “Two stouts. The Earth stuff. Hans is buying.”

“You ever going to pick up a bar tab?” Hans laughed.

“Ingrid, did I ever tell you about the time I saved Hans’s life?” Ray asked.

“I should have just let the ship crash,” Hans said. “I would have saved a fortune in beer.”

I pulled two cold Earth stouts—the good stuff—out of the fridge and set them on the bar.

“You’re looking a lot better tonight, Ray. Glad that limp is gone,” Susan said, her first words since she’d ordered her drink an hour ago. “Good to see you, Hans. Haven’t seen you in years.”

“We were here yesterday,” Ray said.

“Thanks, Susan,” Hans said. “I know what you mean.”

“Well, I don’t,” Ray said.

“Leave her alone,” Hans said. “Just leave her alone.”

Ray muttered something about mushrooms and picked up his beer.

__________________________

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 being a regular contributor to Asimov’s and Analog, 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 (mostly) finished he’s now 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, “Amid These Dancing Rocks at Once and Ever,” by Paul Celmer, coming next Monday.

Enjoy!
~brb

__________________________

“Do you miss Firefly? Do you like The Expanse? If so, then The Privateers of Mars is exactly what you need. [...] Structured as three loosely interconnected short stories, it reads like three episodes of a great science fiction show that you wish someone would make.”

—Amazon reader review

 

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The Odin Chronicles • Prologue: “A guy walks into a bar…” • by Bruce Bethke

Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the backside of nowhere. It’s a planet where everything that’s worth having is already owned, either by Galactic Mining or the Catholic Church.

Everything, that is, except for Weber’s Place…

Odin III is also the setting for our new serial, The Odin Chronicles, which begins tomorrow and runs through Labor Day. Created by Pete Wood, and edited by Pete Wood and Jonathan Sherwood, The Odin Chronicles is a shared world of science fiction adventure featuring thirty stories written by Roxana Arama, Gustavo Bondoni, Travis Burnham, Paul Celmer, Jenna Hanchey, Carol Scheina, Jonathan Sherwood, and Pete Wood.

This is a not a round-robin linear serial, like Dawn of Time, but rather a shared world in which the stories have world-building elements and some characters in common, and each installment is a complete story in itself. If you’re familiar with Robert Lynn Asprin’s Thieves’ World or Spider Robinson’s Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon, it’s somewhat like that, but I tend to think of it as being far more like Medea: Harlan’s World, if you’re old enough to remember that.

In any case, The Odin Chronicles kicks off tomorrow with “Weber’s Place,” by Pete Wood, and the opening line that never gets old. 

“A guy walks into a bar…”

Enjoy!
~brb

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Status Update • 3 July 2022

More than a few people have written to ask, “Where did you disappear to? Four weeks ago everything seemed to be cooking along just fine, and then—”

“What the Hell happened?!”

Sometimes there isn’t a simple, single-cause answer to that question. Yes, Stupefying Stories #24 is teetering on the brink of release. The authors have all signed-off on their copy edits and have been paid. The book is well along in production and almost finished. I think, if I can get just get two or three more uninterrupted days to focus on building and testing the master file and then to get it uploaded…

Finding that uninterrupted time in these past four weeks has been a challenge, though. I can’t easily put my finger on a single cause, either. Looking back at my planner for June I see I had a long succession of days that started off with clear plans and great promise, and then by mid-morning had gone totally off the rails. There were no dramatic crises, no major medical emergencies, no technical catastrophes—well, aside from Microsoft’s continuing crusade to make the Exchange/Outlook365 software stack even less useful than before.

[N.B. If you use Thunderbird, be advised that Microsoft is ending POP/IMAP support in Exchange on Monday, July 11, which means it will stop supporting Thunderbird. You must switch to using either Outlook365, Mail for Windows, or Mail for iOS by that date.

[The bad news is that Mail for Windows is nowhere near as useful as Thunderbird. The good news is that it’s easier to configure and more useful than Outlook365. The infuriating news is that I am still finding email from authors that the Exchange server decided I didn’t need to see and stashed away in various Junk or Spam folders. I have no idea how many messages have gone missing. If you need to contact me, please use the stupefyingstories@gmail.com address. All rampantloonmedia.com email addresses remain unreliable.]

Looking back on June, it appears that what happened was the Universe decided it needed to redefine our concept of “normal” again, but this time in a subtle, gradual, and somewhat insidious way. Chaotic days became chaotic weeks, and then the weeks became a month, but we seem to have a handle on things now. We’ve adjusted. Adapted. Made changes in our daily routines and our habits of mind. 

This being the Independence Day holiday weekend, we’re actually going to take some time off today and tomorrow to rest, regroup, and eat suitably holiday-appropriate grilled foods—yes, we did get a new grill after we launched our old Smokey Joe into low Earth orbit—but beginning Tuesday morning we’ll be back with the beginning of a new serial from Pete Wood and the CODEX crew, a new batch of stories from the Pete Wood Challenge, and assuming the Universe does not have one more spanner in reserve to throw into the works, a lot more information about Stupefying Stories #24.

So enjoy the holiday, exercise caution if you plan to mix alcohol with fireworks, slip your dog a Melatonin, and let’s all meet back here on Tuesday with our eyes, ears, and fingers intact, okay? 

Thanks,
Bruce Bethke

 

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"The Smuggler" • by Eric Fomley

Cooper lifts the sandwich from the kitchen counter. His first attempt at making one is a far cry from mom’s, but it’ll have to do.

“What are you doing Coop?”

Cooper spins and hides the sandwich behind his back. Mom is in the doorway, arms crossed.

“What do you have?”

Cooper frowns, lowers his head, and reveals the sandwich in his hands. “I’m hungry. Can I have it?”

“We’re about to eat lunch in a little bit. You should have eaten more of your breakfast.”

She crosses the room and takes the sandwich.

“Can I have a snack?” Cooper asks.

“You have to wait, Coop. Go play. I’ll call you when it’s lunch time.”

“What about something small. It can be healthy!” He tries not to make a face when he thinks of the carrots in the fridge.

Mom shakes her head. “Lunch is soon.”

Cooper sighs and plods out of the kitchen. He’s putting on his shoes to go out back when he sees the bowl of peppermints sitting on the stand. He checks to make sure Mom has her back turned, grabs a handful, and stuffs them in his pocket.

He runs to the swing set in the backyard and kneels behind the slide. He pulls back the blanket he borrowed from mom’s room and checks on the little wrinkly pink creature with the three black eyes. He hasn’t told his parents about the small silver sphere that crashed in the backyard yesterday, or what he found inside. He doesn’t want his parents to tell him he can’t keep it.

Cooper takes the candy from his pocket and lays it next to the creature. It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do, until he can get more.

___________________

 

Eric Fomley’s work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Galaxy’s Edge, Flame Tree Press, and The Black Library. You can read more of his work on his website at https://ericfomley.com or buy him a coffee in exchange for a story at https://ko-fi.com/ericfomley. 

 

 

 

 

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This month’s Pete Wood Challenge was to write a 200- to 300-word flash fiction SF/F story that plays off the idea of “Second Contact.”

The Pete Wood Challenge fiction contest is supported by the generosity of readers like you. If you like these kinds of stories and want to see more of them, please show it by clicking this link or the button below to make a donation today. All major credit cards are accepted, and all donations go directly towards playing the authors and artists who create the content that you’re enjoying on this site. Literally, all donations go straight into the PayPal account from which we pay our authors and artists. 

 

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"Working His Way Back to Her" • by Matt Krizan

V’ngln’shu frowned in confusion at the bearded, middle-aged man who answered the farmhouse’s front door. Had he entered the wrong coordinates in the ship’s matter transference array? But no, that familiar porch swing creaked on its chains, reminding him of quiet nights spent with Melissa, listening to the cicadas.

“Can I help you?” The man eyed V’ngln’shu’s jumpsuit, his abnormally long arms and legs.

“I’m looking for Melissa Richards?”

“No one here by that name.”

“She…lived here? Recently?”

“Well, I bought this place eight years ago from Frank and Diane Langmoor, who were here a few years before that.”

V’ngln’shu’s frown deepened. He knew the vagaries of FTL travel via singularity drive to the fleet and back meant time would’ve passed differently for Melissa, but ten-plus years to his three?

He thanked the man and turned away.

Through his retinal feed, V’ngln’shu accessed a wireless network. Melissa didn’t have much of a presence online—she’d always shied away from social media—but during his year spent convalescing in her care after the crash, he’d become adept at searching the web. His crawlers sifted through IRS and DMV databases and found an address. Another transfer put him on the porch of a quaint bungalow in a suburban neighborhood.

V’ngln’shu knocked on the door, his hearts pounding.

Melissa answered, her eyes widening, one hand clapping over her mouth. Her hair was shorter, darker, her once-smooth skin creased by lines around her eyes and mouth.

“Vin?”

“Hi.” He smiled. “Sorry I’m late.”

Before Melissa could respond, a voice called out, “Who is it, Mom?”

A teenage girl appeared in the doorway—a younger version of Melissa, only taller and thinner, with abnormally long arms and legs.

Melissa placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Vin, there’s someone I’d like you to meet…”

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Matt Krizan is a former certified public accountant who writes from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Daily Science Fiction, Martian Magazine, and Dark Moments. Find him online at mattkrizan.com and on Twitter as @MattKrizan.

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This month’s Pete Wood Challenge was to write a 200- to 300-word flash fiction SF/F story that plays off the idea of “Second Contact.”

The Pete Wood Challenge fiction contest is supported by the generosity of readers like you. If you like these kinds of stories and want to see more of them, please show it by clicking this link or the button below to make a donation today. All major credit cards are accepted, and all donations go directly towards playing the authors and artists who create the content that you’re enjoying on this site. Literally, all donations go straight into the PayPal account from which we pay our authors and artists. 

 

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“Terms of Agreement” • by Bob McHugh

 

Captain Olivia warped back into her mangled ship, flashing thumbs up to her crew of five.

“They’ll take us aboard. The captain, Gremulon, is a straight shooter. They’re low on rations, but one large meal should last us the two-day trek to the closest rest stop. For their troubles, I agreed to foot the bill for their re-inventory.”

“Amazing.” Rhonda’s shoulders slackened for the first time. Relief.

“Oh, and they promised not to eat us,” Olivia added.

“You asked him that?” Derrick raised his eyebrows for effect.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t alienate an ally.”

“He volunteered that information? That’s worse. The only time you explicitly promise not to do something is when you intend to do it.” Derrick surveyed the others in search of approval. Classic coward.

“The Aperticians know what people think of them, but they only consume cell-generated human meat, same as us.”

“Limited rations, big meal, definitely won’t eat us—read between the lines, Captain,” Derrick said.

“Have I ever had a bad read on someone? Ever?” Derrick could undermine her decision-making, but not her judgment. She understood people and recognized tells. As she scanned her crew, their averted eyes and coughs said everything. “Fine. I’ll clarify.”

¤

“I never said that.” Captain Gremulon’s steady tone suggested he wasn’t lying.

“With all due respect, I have it in my log: ‘You have my word that we will not eat you,’” Olivia cited.

“I promised not to eat you, Captain to Captain. I was upfront about our rations. As is standard, the decision is yours to select the volunteer or remain impartial. Should you choose the latter, you won’t be in consideration.”

“I apologize for the miscommunication. I’ll reconvene with my crew and get back to you.”

This complicated her decision, but only slightly.

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Bob McHugh is a Boston-based writer and father of two; he is immensely grateful to be both of those things. He is the semi-proud recipient of an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. His work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction and several anthologies. Follow him @sentientletter on Twitter.

 

 

 

 

__________________________________

This month’s Pete Wood Challenge was to write a 200- to 300-word flash fiction SF/F story that plays off the idea of “Second Contact.”

The Pete Wood Challenge fiction contest is supported by the generosity of readers like you. If you like these kinds of stories and want to see more of them, please show it by clicking this link or the button below to make a donation today. All major credit cards are accepted, and all donations go directly towards playing the authors and artists who create the content that you’re enjoying on this site. Literally, all donations go straight into the PayPal account from which we pay our authors and artists. 

 

 

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