The Odin Chronicles • Episode 29: “The Light of Better Days” • by Jonathan Sherwood

Aisling stood at the window and wiped quickly at both cheeks. Outside, beyond the horizontal slats of the blinds that chopped lines through Odin III’s two setting suns, Mazaa walked quickly across the street away from Aisling’s porch and probably toward Weber’s for a drink.

Therapy was hard on people. It was hard on therapists.

She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks again. She was never sure if she really helped anyone. Life on a remote planetary mining colony was hard on everyone, and it wasn’t that rare that after her last client, she’d cry over her dinner plate, only to resolve the next morning that this day would be the one where she’d make a real difference. This would be the day she’d clearly, unquestionably help someone live better, be happier, find light in their day. It was such a vague profession that you couldn’t tell from one day to the next if you really helped people at all. It’s no secret that most therapists see therapists of their own. But on Odin III there was no one she felt comfortable talking to, and she knew the cracks of having no support system around her were beginning to break her apart.

She sniffed again and cleared her throat. Her last client of the day was next. And she was terrified.

She’d first seen Hans in his deli. She’d been eating the native koblyx mushrooms for a few months and fully believed the rumors that some people could see alternate timelines with them. Because she’d seen them. She knew it was real. She could sense who a person was in a variety of hazy other realities. She even used the mushrooms as a therapy tool, both for herself and others.

But Hans…

Hans saw her the same moment she saw him. They stared at each other with mouths open before she dropped her deli basket and ran out. She did her best to avoid him from then on because he was like an empty space. He was there, but there was no aura of alternate timeline around him. Something about him was very wrong. He was a ghastly emptiness.

And now he’d suddenly made an appointment. An appointment starting—

A shadow crossed her porch railings.

“Hello? Ms. Walsh?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, hello Hans. Nice to actually meet you. Please come in. Have a seat.” She pointed toward the client couch, but did not shake his hand. Even though she hadn’t used mushrooms in weeks, she could still sense it—the complete absence that surrounded him. She sat, the coffee table strategically between them. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

“Sure,” he said. “Sure. Okay, um. I died. About fifty years ago.”

Aisling’s mouth moved several times but no sound came.

“I was twenty and I was testing a Galactic Mining ship with a prototype engine with my buddy, Ray. Something went wrong, so I checked on the engine, only there wasn’t no engine. There was a woman, maybe seventy years old, with tubes sticking out of her. She smelled like those mushrooms. You know that smell?”

Aisling nodded, curtly.

“Anyways, I touched her and I got this shock, only it was way more than that. I suddenly knew things. Things about the future. I just knew. Galactic was going to use her, and use everyone here to do some really, really horrible stuff. So, I did the only thing I could think of, and I crashed the ship.” He swallowed. “And killed myself.”

“You seem in remarkably good health,” Aisling said with a smile, but it felt forced, and probably looked forced. It might have sounded sincere if she weren’t gripped by the emptiness around him.

“That’s the thing, Ma’am. I also remember, after I got shocked, I was suddenly outside Weber’s bar there. I went in, and there was Ray, only old, like he is now. He said he’d been expecting me, and it was the future, and that when I went back, I shouldn’t crash the ship, but let him land it. So I did. We still crashed, but not as bad, and I lived. That woman sent me into the future to meet Ray on purpose.”

“And the woman?”

Hans shifted several times on the couch. “She told me, she asked me, to pull out one of the tubes. To kill her. And I did. She was smiling, real sweet like, and she even said she was sorry to ask me to do it. She was dead before we crashed.”

“And… how do you feel about that?”

“Well, I felt awful about it for a long time. But that was fifty years ago, and as the years went on, I’ve been seeing how people are, but I can also see how they were supposed to be.”

“Supposed to be?”

“In the real timeline. In the first one. Every time I meet someone, I can match up their face to who they are in the other reality, even if there are changes. I’m real good with faces. And here’s the thing—the longer it goes on, the worse that other timeline gets. I mean, that lady showed me Galactic wanted these rock-aliens that live underground here. They can mess with time and space and Galactic was going to use them in just horrible ways. Just horrible stuff. I mean, wars and famine, and everyone here on Odin was basically slave labor. So, when I see someone here, they’ve got no idea how much better their lives are than they could be. I can see it. I can see people the way they coulda been.”

“That must be terrible to see.”

“So you believe me, right? People say you’ve used those mushrooms and know about timelines, right? Took me a while to get up the nerve to talk to you. But you know I’m not crazy?”

“We don’t use the word ‘crazy,’ but, I—” she wasn’t sure what to say, but she could still sense his eerie, overwhelming lack of presence. He lived in just one reality. “I believe you.”

He visibly relaxed. “That’s good. That’s good to hear.”

“Do you want to talk about how you feel seeing this other reality? I’ve seen some things. I know some of it is quite hard to deal with.”

“Uh, no Ma’am. No, I made my peace with it a long time ago. I’m okay. In fact, I’ve come to really realize how much better life is for me—for everyone—this way. Everyone is much better off. It’s a damn paradise compared to the way things were going to be. Makes me thankful every damn day.”

“I don’t understand,” said Aisling. “Then why are you here?”

“Well, I guess I’m here to say thank you.”

“We’ve hardly begun. Therapy can take months.”

“No, no,” he said, sitting forward on the couch. “No, I mean thank you. I’m really good with faces. When I saw you in the deli that first time, I knew. Put another thirty or forty years on you and you’re her. You’re the woman in the chair. In the ship. Fifty years ago.”

“I… What?”

“I don’t know if it’s because the mushrooms work so good on you or what, but somehow, someday, you go back and you use me to change everything. For everyone. Everywhere. I just know there’s probably nobody else, maybe anywhere, that knows how much you’ve done to help people. So I just wanted to say, on behalf of everyone who should be saying it, just… thank you, Ma’am. Thank you for making such a difference for everyone.”

* * *

Aisling stood at the window and wiped quickly at both cheeks, watching Hans make his way to Weber’s. He stopped and talked to Father Luigi and Shelley, hand-in-hand on the sidewalk. Constable Jenkins, nose in a rolled-up script, sang lines from the upcoming play, waving her arms as she walked down the street. Little Kira sat on the shoulders of the android, Sloane 51, as they and Daraja talked loudly about math. The Gruber brothers, laughing as they made their way into the bar.

Odin III’s smaller sun was all that remained above the horizon, bathing the little colony in ruddy light—light that split through her blinds and warmed the smile on her face.

___________________________

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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Morbius • Review by Karen & Bruce Bethke

Karen was adamant. “I know you promised to stop running movie reviews,” she said. “But you have got to review this one. You need to warn people. They need to know just how bad it is.”

Seriously? You think this one is that bad? How so?

“It’s banal,” she said. “Trite. Insipid. There isn’t one scene or line of dialogue in this movie that doesn’t feel like it was lifted from a different and better movie. They didn’t write a script for this one. They put a half-dozen other scripts through a shredder and then glued the pieces back together.”

I’ll admit, in the scene where the cops are grilling Morbius and he says, “Don’t make me hungry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry” — well, I did chuckle a little at that. And that scene where Morbius is threatening some bad guy, and the terrified bad guy gasps, “Who are you?” and Morbius switches to his CGI goon face and growls, “I’m... Venom!” in exactly the same menacing way Kevin Conroy delivered, “I’m... Batman!” Okay, I did actually laugh out loud at that. But I’ll concede that all the big CGI fight scenes did look like they were lifted from a Matrix movie, except for the ones that looked like they were lifted from Batman Begins.

“Matt Smith is wasted in this one. Just squandered. He actually made me feel sympathetic for the kids who were beating him up when he was a kid on crutches in the childhood flashback scene.”

But… But that’s the patented Marvel formula for creating the protagonist / antagonist relationship! The ultimate worst bad guy is always the hero’s childhood friend, or brother, or favorite teacher or late father’s business partner or something like that, who acquires exactly the same powers as the hero only stronger, but who always has some character flaw that turns him to evil and ultimately leads to his defeat. We saw that in Ant-Man, Iron-Man, The Incredible Hulk, Winter Soldier, Thor, Venom… 

“Yes yes, exactly. We’ve seen it before. Over and over. Now show me a new idea. Even for a Marvel movie, this one was an unimaginative recycling of old ideas.”

Well, to be fair, this one isn’t properly a Marvel movie. It’s a Sony/Columbia movie, made using Marvel intellectual property Sony acquired as part of the Spider-Man deal. It’s more like Venom in that regard. The people who made the Avengers movies weren’t connected to this one.

“That’s a shame. The people who make the Marvel movies at least know how to make likable characters and create romantic interest. There is zero romantic chemistry between Morbius and Martine.”

Wait a minute. Weren’t you the one who started cooing “Beel!” and “Soooookie!” whenever those two were on screen together?

“In fact, the only likable character in the entire movie was that Hispanic cop—”

You mean FBI Agent Rodriguez?

“Who was the first one to figure out and accept that they were dealing with an actual vampire, and respond accordingly”

That was amusing, the way the other cops reacted to him when he started showing up at crime scenes with holy water and silver crucifixes.

“But Agent Rodriguez is it. Beyond him there isn’t one character in this movie that you like, identify with, or even care about. Especially not Morbius. And when you don’t care about what happens to the central character in the movie—whether he lives or dies, succeeds or fails, finds love or has his heart broken—you’d better have something else really interesting going on around him to make it worthwhile. And Morbius doesn’t.”

§

Well, there you have it. Our resident expert on vampires and vampire movies—she has an enormous collection of vampire movies and an encyclopedic knowledge of them all—has weighed in, and found Morbius wanting. You have been warned. 

—Bruce & Karen Bethke

“P.S.” she adds. “That whole business with vampire bats acting like little flying piranhas and Morbius being able to control them the way Ant-Man controls swarms of ants is just ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Do I need to explain why?”

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FeedBurner has shut down

 

Thanks to Roxana Arama for cluing me in that Stupefying Stories website email notifications have stopped. Apparently shutting down FeedBurner is a feature change that Google announced in July 2021 they would be making this year, but since I don't follow their support blog, I missed the memo. Fortunately I have been able to recover our subscriber list, but now need to find a new bulk email host and start writing a weekly newsletter.

Accordingly, I have also removed the “Subscribe” widget from the left column, as the feature no longer works. Guess this explains why our daily readership took a sudden sharp dive about two months ago.

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 28: “Coffee Grounds and Soap Bubbles” • by Travis Burnham

 

Standing on his back deck, hands cupped to his mouth, Buckland O’Deorain shouted into the woods for his dog. “Cant! Come! Come on, Cant” There was a subtle note of urgency in his voice that he tried to disguise. He checked the time. Almost 1:24pm. Closer to 1:30pm than he liked.

Buckland, or Buck for short, lived out past the edges of one of the settlements of Odin III, a remote mining planet owned by the Galactic Mining company. An independent prospector, the other settlement residents called him an ill-tempered, short-fused hermit. He preferred the terms self-reliant and forthright.

He cupped his hands to his mouth again, but before he raised his voice, he was interrupted from behind. “That’s really a rubbish name for a dog,” the voice said. “Can’t? A negative and a contraction? How will that poor pup ever get anything done?”

“Did you hear a goldarned apostrophe when I called him, you knucklehead?” Buck shouted back over his shoulder. “The name is short for Cantankerous, which that canine most certain—” Buck stopped, realizing there shouldn’t be anyone behind him. He turned back into his ramshackle cabin and tried to pinpoint the location of the voice. He thought it came from the kitchen, but a quick inspection turned up nothing. Just as Buck opened the first cabinet in what was to be a more determined search, Cant strolled in through the open door.

Cant was part mastiff, part husky, and all mutt and muscle. He had survived on Odin III because he was big enough to handle half of the wildlife and smart and fast enough to avoid the other half. Dogs were an expensive commodity on Odin III, but Buck had managed to get one through a medical exception, as Cant was also part service animal for Buck’s depression that he oftentimes tried to deny. Cant didn’t hesitate when he entered, but went right to the couch and sat down, staring at the monitor on the wall.

Buck looked at his watch and was shocked at the time. 1:29pm! “You good for nuthin’ canine, we might miss the beginning.” Buck hurried to the windows and pulled the curtains tight, checking to make sure no one could see in. He didn’t want his afternoon activity to be seen.

He shut and locked the door, then raced for the couch and turned on the monitor. Cant’s ears perked up as the theme song for Twelve Times Round the Sun filled the small cabin.

Buck hadn’t meant to get hooked on the soap opera, but Odin III’s binary stars made for hot middays, and the siesta was good for his arthritic bones. So one particularly long, hot midday, he’d flipped on his monitor. And then time fell away as he entered Twelve Times. The main plot point of today’s episode was that the sister of the daughter of the main character’s clone, Barbara, had fallen into a relationship with the sexy, supposedly good-for-nothing Cleo. Who’d cheated on her. Again. Buck had some empathy for Cleo because he felt she was rather like himself. Misunderstood.

Then the mystery voice spoke again. “Any moron can tell that Barbara deserves better than that awful Cleo.”

“You’d best shut your piehole—” Buck brought himself up short. Cant turned his head to the kitchen and gave a little whine.

Buck recognized the voice now. Every morning the voice had usually said only one thing: “Your beverage has been prepared to your exact specifications. Enjoy!”

Buck looked to the kitchen. 

He was talking to the coffeemaker.

The one truly high tech gadget he owned, the coffeemaker delivered perfect steaming mugs on demand. Except for those few days last week when a blown fuse had fried half its circuitry. But Buck had managed to jimmy-rig a fix, and the machine had sputtered to life. The first few cups had been terrible, but Buck was loyal and gave it a bit of time. And then after a few days the coffee became good again. Actually, it was better than it had ever been.

But the coffeemaker had never spoken to him except in terse, servile statements. Now all of a sudden it was talking smack about his favorite character in Twelve Times Round the Sun.

So Buck called the only person he knew who might have any idea what was going on. Sloane-51 was an android who’d once been a repair drone circulating around the Odin III system until a freak solar burst had brought her sentience. Maybe she’d know what in tarnation was going on with his coffeemaker.

The coffeemaker didn’t say anything more that night and the next morning Sloane-51 arrived. Buck brought the android inside then pointed an accusing finger towards the kitchen. “It’s that thing right here. The coffeemaker.”

“I have a name, you backwoods moron,” squawked the coffeemaker. “The name’s Java.”

Cant barked, while Sloane-51 raised an eyebrow. “Is it always this…irritable?”

This assessment gave Buck a momentary pause. This was an adjective that others had often attributed to him. He shook it off.

“Yes, it’s always like this! The darn thing won’t stop spouting off all manner of idiotic opinions.”

“That’s the pot calling the coffeemaker black,” replied Java. “You’re not even sharp enough to grind your own coffee beans.”

“And you said,” Sloane-51 said, “that Java sustained some damage last week? Damage you repaired?” She put a hand to her chin. An idea was forming. She pondered her own personality and that of the other sentient AI in the Odin III settlement. They’d both had help gaining sentience by a human close to them. And in both her case and the other, there had been some kind of damage involved. “I’m going to put forth a hypothesis,” she said. “I think that Java is adopting aspects of your own personality.”

“But that thing ain’t nothing like me,” Buck said.

Cant tilted his head skeptically, while Sloane-51 raised both her eyebrows this time.

“Whatever,” Buck muttered. “Well, can you take it away?”

“It’s best if Java stays here. Their neural network is repairing itself.”

Buck scowled. “Just my luck.”

The next few days were filled with arguments, mostly about Twelve Times. Java thought Steve shouldn’t have stolen Roberta’s money, and that Wilhelmina deserved the prison time she got for assaulting the accountant. And, the most unbelievable nonsense, that Robert and Alex weren’t good for each other. Needless to say, Buck didn’t agree.

Two nights later, Buck had had enough. He yanked Java’s electrical cord from its socket before Java could say another blasphemous or ridiculous word. He stormed out to the closest mine entrance, Cant at his heels, and stood at the top of the longest, deepest mine shaft for kilometers around.

Buck held Java above his head, preparing to throw the terrible coffeemaker into the abyss.

And then Cant barked.

That simple bark caused Buck to hesitate. He thought of all the times he was the outsider and the outcast. When people didn’t give him a chance. The many times he’d been taken at face value with no one trying to look deeper. And was Buck in a position to throw away friends? Especially ones that shared a love for Twelve Times? A skewed love for sure—what kind of lunatic liked that milquetoast Barbara better than Cleo?—but a love nonetheless.

Buck stood there with Java clutched in his hands, staring down into the abyss.

*   *   *

The extension cord stretched from the back wall of Buck’s living room to the couch. Buck in the middle, Cant in his normal position to the right and now, for the first time, a coffeemaker sat on the left cushion. There was a blend of heated and friendly bickering and barking as the theme song to Twelve Times Round the Sun filled the rickety cabin.

 

___________________________

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.

 

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 27: “Winds of Possibility” • by Carol Scheina

As Galactic supervisor on Odin III, Raisa Popov had received hundreds of messages from Galactic Mining, but this weather report hit like a lump of ore right in the gut.

Shelley, the Galactic communications officer, waited with wide, concerned eyes. “What’s it mean, a storm’s going to hit the plasma barrier? If it comes down, what’s on the other side of it?”

Popov stared out her office window as she steadied her breath. Dust-coated miners kicked up small clouds as they ambled down the gray road away from the mines. Father Luigi waved hello from an old van.

Looking further down the road, she could see the square gray buildings of the main town. She could make out one of the deli owners chasing a tabby cat out of his shop. Children zig-zagged around the school playground.

And though she couldn’t see it through the window, she knew the red plasma barrier rippled with power, blocking the eastern mountain pass.

Popov kept her voice even. “The barrier will be fine. There’s nothing on the other side. It’s just a way to block the eastern storms. They tend to be stronger than our usual dust storms.”

Shelley bit her lower lip. “How bad will it get?”

 “The plasma barrier will take the brunt of the storm. We’ll need to evacuate the town to the mines. Contact Alma Jenkins. The constable can get people organized. Get word to Father Francis, so the Catholic Church can help too. We’ll need to stock emergency supplies. The storm hits in five hours; let’s aim to get everyone down there in three.”

The communications officer nodded and dashed out.

Shelley had a good head on her shoulders. She’d get the word out, Popov knew. The supervisor looked out her window again, and only then did she let her worries seep in. She didn’t actually know what was on the other side of the barrier, and she wondered if anyone at Galactic Mining had that information. Who’d put it up in the first place?

What she did know was that the storms from beyond the barrier were … unusual. Fifty years ago, 20 of the first Odin III settlers had been caught in a storm near the plasma barrier. The official word was they’d died trying to cross the barrier, but no one had found any trace of them. Galactic monitored for storms ever since, warning that the storms were lethal. There was a rumor that you could see other worlds in the dust but ….

Popov shook her head. This was no time to worry about rumors. This was a serious storm and she was the senior representative of Galactic Mining on this planet. She’d damn well make sure no one was lost like those twenty settlers. She picked up her intercom to alert the miners: there would be more people coming into the tunnels.

* * *

Deep in the caves, people elbowed into the tight spaces of the tunnels, heading toward the more open caverns. Popov spotted a familiar face in the crowds herding a large bloodhound. “Alma! You okay?”

Popov’s girlfriend gave her a quick hug and kiss. “Rasputin and I are just fine. You?”

“Do you know if everyone’s accounted for?

Alma shook her head worriedly. “The evacuation’s been more chaotic than I expected.”

A young girl with a curly ponytail—Kira, Popov remembered was her name—yelled, “Tanya! Your parents are looking for you!”

In the distance, other voices called, “Tanya!”

Popov looked at her watch. The storm was due to strike any moment, but that was the thing about being a Galactic supervisor. You checked and double checked everything. Maybe someone had gotten separated from their family in the caves, but just in case…

“I’ll be right back,” she told Alma. “Keep every down here.”

“Be safe, okay?”

Popov snuck a quick kiss before heading toward the tunnel exit, van keys in her pocket. She’d need to move fast.

Popov parked the van and noted how the town had never been so quiet. Gray clouds turned the dust road several shades darker as it blew in drifts down the empty road. The supervisor made sure her goggles were tight against her face.

A gritty gust hit her face, blurring her vision. The streets rippled, and when her sight cleared, she stood on a different street. On either side, Popov saw tall skyscrapers surrounded by feathery green trees. Ghostly figures strolled beside her. Popov turned to look closer, and dust struck her vision again.

She was back on the familiar dusty road of her Odin.

Outside the deli, a young girl waved a bag of Galactic dried snacks in front of a tuxedo cat. “Come on, boy. We’re supposed to evacuate You can’t keep running!”

“Tanya?”

The girl looked up. “I haven’t been able to catch him.”

Popov grabbed the small hand. “We don’t have time. Let’s go!”

Another gust whipped her hair and before her was a young boy. “Mama! Want to go down the slide with me!”

Popov gasped. She didn’t talk much about her son. How she’d last kissed that beautiful head before the hair had grown in, when he’d been so small. Too small to have such a serious medical diagnosis.

She’d given up so much to come out here, to Odin III. Yes, taking this job had paid for her son’s medical treatment, had given him life. Yet it hadn’t been a life with them together. She’d never see his first steps, or first day of school. Relativity kept her young, and he’d grown up while she’d traveled.

Popov pulled the boy into a hug, dark hair tickling her chin. Yes, she wanted very much to go down the slide. She could see a ghostly playground in the distance.

She stepped forward.

A small hand pulled the supervisor’s arm. Tanya’s worried face looked up. “Where are we going?”

Popov froze, the boy still in her arms. Her son—her real son—was grown with grandchildren of his own. She was a Galactic Mining supervisor. But this girl, right here, was under her protection.

Popov closed her eyes and pressed the boy’s head into her chest. The things she could’ve experienced with her son if only life had unfolded differently. What if… But this wasn’t real. She put the boy down, a gentle rub over his dark hair, her fingers lingering over his soft cheek. Then she grabbed Tanya’s hand. “We’re getting out of here.”

Dust struck her face, and she couldn’t see the boy anymore.

The supervisor and Tanya took off for the van before another gust could hit them.

* * *

A few people in the caverns claimed to hear voices as the storm raged, but after four hours of whistling winds, the sounds quieted. Faces emerged blinking at the sky’s two suns. Tanya spotted the tuxedo cat and took off running. Popov wasn’t quite sure, but the patterning on the cat seemed different than before.

Other small differences were noticed in the storm’s aftermath. A new crate of wine was discovered in the bar, and the deli owner puzzled over the extra barrel of pickles he didn’t remember stocking. Where the school playground used to have a dusty hill, now there was a slide and swing set. Perhaps it was an old buried set the storm winds had uncovered, people speculated.

Shelley reported to Popov’s office with a new Galactic Mining message asking if the plasma barrier was okay. “Also, people are talking about the storm changing things,” Shelly added.

“Report back that the barrier is intact. And let folks know there was possible mushroom dust in that storm. The stuff’s mildly hallucinogenic. That’s probably what people are experiencing.”

Shelley eyed the supervisor. “Do you wonder what’s on the other side of the barrier?”

The supervisor looked out the window. The miners in overalls trekked up the road to the job site. Children lined up outside the school. Thick dust covered the squat buildings. “We’ve all got jobs to do, lives to live here. We’re right where we need to be. No need to go chasing dreams about what’s out there.” Whatever secrets the plasma barrier held, she’d make sure people would stay safe. Better to keep far away from that glowing red wall.

Her eyes locked on the new slide in the schoolyard as a soft echo sounded in Popov’s ear: Mama!

“Thank you, Shelley. You’re dismissed.”

When the door slammed, Popov turned back to the window. “I’m right where I need to be,” she muttered. She wiped the tear off her cheek.

___________________________

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 26: “The Savior and The Beetle” • by Roxana Arama

Ida parked her red electric car in front of the house with the FOR SALE sign and checked the listing on her tablet again: square footage, taxes, and fixtures. All looked great. The best Odin North had to offer. The neighborhood wasn’t far from downtown and the house had a great view of the mountains surrounding the oldest settlement on Odin III, a planet light years away from Earth.

Ida was ready to settle after half a lifetime on Galactic Mining’s payroll as a Regulatory Program Specialist. The bonus she’d received for her recent work on the founding of the Odin East settlement would take care of her down payment.

She walked up the metal steps decorated with pots of white dianthus flowers, wondering if the entryway would make a good impression on her housewarming party guests. But who would come to her party? Not her best friend, who hadn’t called in ages. Not her sister, who hadn’t spoken to her in three years. And definitely not her ex-husband, who’d recently moved to Proxima D. She missed them all, which saddened her, especially since she’d always tried to be of help to them.

The door was wide open, and Mary Gruber welcomed her with a big smile.

Ida was surprised to see her there, working as an assistant to the listed real estate agent. Last she checked, Mary was still a doctor at the Galactic clinic, taking care of people with injuries sustained on the job. Ida had sometimes needed Mary’s expertise to write her proposals for prevention and safety regulations.

“Trying something new, Mary?”

“You can say that. Jonas inspired me to cut the cord.” Jonas was her brother-in-law who’d quit his job on interstellar freighters. “I wanted to spend more time with people who smiled and looked forward to the future.”

Ida remembered to smile. But looking forward to the future? She missed her sister Lucie, who lived in town. When Lucie arrived at Odin North, Ida had taken her to Hans and Ray’s Deli shop, and introduced her to Ingrid at Weber’s Place, and showed her how to send messages back to Galileo Station from Shelley’s office. She’d hoped they’d build a future together here.

“How’s your family?” Ida said, a knot in her throat.

After Mary shared what was new, she handed Ida a pair of plastic shoe covers and started showing her the house. The structure was brand new, built with glass, steel, and mined stone. The kitchen boasted the latest appliances. The floors were heated to 37 degrees Celsius for maximum comfort. This was a gem of a house, a piece of real estate that was not just an ideal home for the sophisticated heart but also a savvy investment.

The living room felt warm, with its yellow walls and framed paintings of native flowers and animals. The smell of freshly baked cookies reminded Ida of her husband in their old kitchen, preparing a surprise dinner for her. She sighed thinking of Gordon before his mushroom addiction, the support groups, and the therapy with Aisling that had led him to doubt the fabric of existence as he babbled every night about conflicting timelines.

“Ready to go explore on your own?” Mary said, patting her on the shoulder.

Ida asked about the neighborhood, desperate for conversation. Her job had her sit at her workstation all day, looking at mining rules and regulations, reading and assessing land usage proposals, and making sure everyone got the help they needed.

“Take a look around,” Mary said after answering Ida’s questions.

The house was all on one floor, taking advantage of the plentiful land of Odin North. There were different sections to explore, from bedrooms to a small greenhouse, all under the same solar-paneled roof. Laminated notes taped to the walls at eye-level completed Mary’s earlier descriptions: “Marble countertops” and “Wired for house robots” and “Ideal space for a workout room.”

In the master bedroom with its blue bamboo cabinets, Ida noticed a spot on the beige carpet. She stooped to see a shiny green beetle, a species she’d only seen on Odin III. She’d learned from a nature podcast that it wasn’t poisonous, so she drew nearer.

“Are you alive?” she whispered.

The green feelers tapped a weak yes.

“You must be starving in this empty house.” Wherever those freshly bakes cookies were, they hadn’t helped that poor creature.

Ida lifted the beetle off the carpet and hurried to the window, which opened at the touch of a button. A foul odor hit her before the perfume of the syringa bushes outside could reach her. A bitter, repulsive, stinkbug smell.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she told the creature in her hand. “But I won’t hold it against you.” With a jerk of her wrist, she threw the beetle into the tangle of branches outside, where it was sure to find food and recover. “You’re welcome.”

The beetle’s flying arc was cut short by an invisible net, and a fat spider jumped from the shade, all twelve hairy legs scrambling to reach its victim.

Ida shrieked, but she was too far to reach the sticky web and save her beetle.

The spider began rolling the already bitten and paralyzed bug into a cocoon.

Eyes wide, Ida raised her hand to her mouth only to smell the bug stink on her fingers. She ran to the master bathroom to wash it off.

She scrubbed with a brand-new bar of gelsemium soap from the bronze dish matching the faucet. She couldn’t believe she’d killed that poor beetle when all she’d wanted to do was help. She looked at herself in the mirror, and for the first time ever she saw what her best friend, her sister, and her ex-husband must have all seen years ago.

Mary had to run after her to get the shoe covers back. “Oh, never mind, they’re already ruined.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ida said, taking them off. “What was I thinking?”

She was thinking about her best friend Aliya, who’d stopped calling after Ida tried to help her find a better job and in the process made her lose her decent-sized paycheck at Galactic Drone Design.

She was thinking about her sister Lucie, who’d complained that Ida had done too much to help her settle in. Whenever Lucie had a question, Ida had an answer, sometimes before the question was even asked. In the end, Lucie just wanted to be left alone to make her own choices and mistakes.

And she was thinking about Gordon. She’d had him committed to the Odin South rehabilitation center because that was the right thing for him. Of course, when he got out, he got out of her life too, and off the planet for good measure.

Back inside her car, Ida let out a soft sob. She’d only ever wanted to help. Like she’d tried to save that poor green beetle. But what if she stopped helping? Would the world sort itself out without her? She wiped a tear, a bit of hope breaking through. Maybe people would like her even if she didn’t try to help them—or because of that.

___________________________

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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A Labor Day Memory • by Bruce Bethke

 

Welcome to Labor Day Weekend, the last full cup of summer. In honor of the holiday I am going to be mostly offline this weekend. Before I log off, though, I wanted to leave you with this little memory of what Labor Day personally means to me.

_______________

Way back before the dawn of recorded time, my home town had a jobs program for disadvantaged youth that provided minimum-wage entry-level summer jobs in the city’s parks department. Despite our city's rather alarming poverty stats they could never find enough disadvantaged youths willing to fill all the budgeted positions, though, and so every June a second frantic call went out, for any high-school-aged kids willing to work in their local neighborhood park. This is how I wound up in the program.

It was, I will admit, a pleasantly stupid way to earn a few bucks over the summer. This was way back in time, before the advent of the ubiquitous “Would you like fries with that?” job, as well as (thankfully) before the invention of gas-powered weed-whackers or leaf blowers. So my crew worked outdoors most days, from 7:30 a.m. to 4 p.m., schlepping hoses, watering lawns, picking up litter, moving picnic tables around, and otherwise performing similarly arduous and intellectually demanding tasks.

One morning when we clocked in, though, our foreman told us we had a new challenge. The park had a bandshell, and our job was to assemble the temporary stage risers needed for the concert that night. He drove over to the bandshell—and I do mean drove, while we trotted along behind; I don't think I ever saw him get his fat carcass out of that golf cart or without a cigarette in his mouth all summer long—pointed to the backstage door, and told us the riser parts were inside and being a bunch of smart kids, we should be able to figure out how to put it together. Someone asked how long the job would take.

He said, “The union work rules say it takes a full crew four hours to assemble those risers.” Then he putt-putted off.

Four hours? Of course we took that as a challenge! We dove into it, found the rudimentary instructions, figured out how to assemble the thing—it was no mystery to anyone who’d ever played with Tinkertoys or an Erector Set—whipped it together in under an hour, and were just smug as could be when our foreman came back to check on our progress.

He took one look at it and said, “You did it wrong. Tear it down and do it over.” Somebody protested that there was no possible way we could have put it together wrong, but he repeated, “The union work rules say it takes a full crew four hours to assemble those risers. You obviously did it wrong. Now tear it down and do it over.” Then he putted off again.

Okay, maybe, just maybe, we might have missed something. So we disassembled the risers, and then, working carefully and double-checking our work every step of the way, we reassembled them again in about two hours.

When our foreman came back at lunch time to check up on us, he was furious. “You dumb @#&$^#s! Didn’t you @#($*&ing LISTEN? You did it wrong AGAIN!” Somebody tried to explain to him that we were sure we’d done it right this ti— 

“Listen to me! The union work rules say it takes a full crew FOUR hours to assemble those risers! Now you will @*&^ing well TAKE four @#*&ing hours to put those @#*&ing things together or I will @#@(#$*&ing @#(*& your @#^&*$ @#(*&es!"

Oh. Well, when you explain it that way…

We ate our lunches. Someone had a Frisbee. We threw that around for a while. Those that smoked, did. Me, I found a trashy pulp novel somebody had left on top of an electrical box backstage and read most of it. Along about 2:30 or so, some overachiever decided it was time to get going on the risers again, and we did—very slowly—such that we were just finishing it up when our foreman came back to check on us at about five minutes before quitting time.

This time when he looked at it, he was smiling. “Good job. I hope you boys learned something today.”

As a matter of fact, I believe I did.

—Bruce Bethke

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 25: “In Triplicate” • by Gustavo Bondoni

“Put that over there,” Ridan told his visitors without looking up from the form he was filling out.

They were in his office, a windowless cubbyhole deep in the archive department of Galactic Mining’s Odin III HQ building. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

“This is important,” Constable Jenkins replied.

He sighed. Everything was always important to the people who brought it in. They were always asking for things to be rushed through, given priority, or shown to someone higher up the food chain. They thought they were doing it for the good of the colony when, in fact, all they were doing was gumming up the correct functioning of the administration. “That’s why I asked you to put it over there. It will be processed correctly and sent to the proper place.”

“I mean it,” Jenkins said, her voice sharp. “You need to treat this as something important.”

“This isn’t something you can just leave lying around,” the man with her said.

He realized they weren’t planning on leaving any time soon, so he looked up for the first time since they’d entered. He hated having to look up… the form he was filling out was the one which requested the purchase of the new light above his desk. “I understand that,” he replied, pretending deep sincerity and concern. “I assure you it will be my highest priority as soon as I finish with this.”

Ridan recognized the guy with Jenkins: Daraja. They called him The Machinist, and he pretty much kept himself to himself. It was just Ridan’s luck that the guy had decided to come into his office on the one day he wanted to socialize.

“That tech is extremely critical,” The Machinist said. “It’s not just a question of money, it’s a question of changing the galaxy forever. Not only the way humanity lives, but the way the galaxy actually works.” He looked to Jenkins. “This is way above this office’s capacity to deal with effectively. Hell, I think it’s way above Galactic’s pay grade. We should talk to the Colonial Council.”

Ridan said, “You don’t work for the Council. More importantly, the Council doesn’t have any way to get your package off the planet.”

The man glared. “You don’t seem to realize how delicate this is.”

“Of course. That’s why you brought it here. I understand. I will make certain it gets processed correctly. That’s what I do,” Ridan replied.

The man clearly wanted to argue, but Jenkins put a hand on his shoulder, and he left in a huff, kicking a box into the air and scattering paper everywhere as he went.

Ridan stared after them, shocked. How could they leave without getting him to sign the receipt?

He returned to his form.

* * *

Two days later, the box’s turn came around.

Ridan hefted it and glanced at the paperwork. To his surprise, the constable had used exactly the right form. Form 304C: Expedited High-Security Storage and Delivery to Galactic Sector Office.

To his utter lack of surprise, she hadn’t bothered to fill the form in correctly. Scrawled on the first page in bright red marker pen were the words ENCLOSED IS AN ALIEN TELEPORT DEVICE FOUND IN THE MINES. DO NOT PLAY WITH IT. GET IT TO THE LAB AT HQ PRONTO.

He sighed. If he tried to forward the box with that attached, it would get flagged and returned to him with a well-deserved reprimand.

Ridan wondered whether to call Constable Jenkins back, explain the situation to her, and demand that she return the box with the correct form in triplicate—one of which he would then sign and leave in her care as a receipt.

He decided against it. If he did that, he would have to admit he was just getting to her box now even though he’d promised to expedite it.

Besides, he was much more tempted to do something he’d never done before: fill out a Form 304C.

He navigated the form selection menu and entered the Transport and Archiving submenu. His heartbeat quickened: he was about to enter a menu he never navigated. Only certain people were permitted to access some requests. He clicked on Expedited Transport (High Security).

You don’t have access to this menu. Please indicate reason for request.

Fingers trembling, he selected: Form Incorrectly Filled – Principal is Supervisor-Level Employee.

Access granted. Delivery must be accompanied by form 722E.

“Yes!” Ridan said. “I’m in!”

He began filling in fields.

The date. The person who needed the delivery. The size, color, and weight of exterior packaging.

This was going incredibly well.

Input description of item in package.

The question brought him to a screeching halt. It would be simple to input what he knew: One Alien Teleport Device.

But that, though perhaps true to the letter of the form, would not be true to its intent. The point of that field was to get a usable description of the item within. A description good enough that people could identify it.

He needed real information. What shape was the item inside? Did it have visible controls or buttons? What color was it?

That, though, would mean opening the box. A serious no-no.

He looked back at the form and began typing. One. Alien. Teleport. Dev­–

He couldn’t do it. The form would be wrong.

Ridan glanced furtively at the door to his tiny office. No one was visible in the hall beyond, so he got up from his desk, retrieved a pair of scissors from his supply shelf and attacked the tape around the box.

There was quite a lot of it, but he got it peeled away.

He opened the lid and smiled.

“It’s red,” he said to himself. Knowing it was much more efficient to do all the research now, before sitting down, he turned the thing over.

“Approximately apple-shaped,” he muttered. “No obvious buttons. Perhaps the whole thing is a control surface.”

Ridan swiped his finger against the surface of the apple-like object.

The office disappeared, and he found himself orbiting a planet, still holding the apple.

Without a spacesuit or any way to breathe.

Ridan desperately swiped his finger against the same surface, but nothing further happened.

He didn’t last long.

* * *

Marina sat at the desk that her missing predecessor had occupied. She hit the “W” key on the keyboard—it was the key she always used to start a sleeping computer, W for “wake”—and felt the warm glow of familiarity as the Galactic Admin Form menu came up.

“All right. First order of business. Missing persons form. Here we go,” she said.

She began to fill in, from the Constable’s report, Ridan’s name and employee number.

One field brought her up short.

Were there any witnesses to the disappearance? it asked.

“It’s a disappearance, you don’t have witnesses,” she said to the empty office.

But she needed to put something in the field. You couldn’t leave it blank unless there was a specific instruction as to when it was acceptable to do so.

Then her eyes fell on a cat. It shouldn’t be there. She would have to remove it. But it had been there when she arrived.

It might solve her problem.

One cat (possibly), she typed into the form.

She printed the form out in triplicate and signed each copy. She put two in the outbox and one in her files.

“Good. Now I can get to work.”

She took the first box in her “In” pile and sighed. It was accompanied by form 117U when any idiot could see it should have been sent through with 114T.

Her message app pinged. She glanced down at the name. Daraja… The Machinist. He’d been sending her emails about some device. She shrugged. As long as he insisted on sending emails, he would get no response from her.

If he filled in the correct form—97F—she would happily put it on her to-do list.

Marina knew she’d get to it eventually.

___________________________

 

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 24: “The Ocean of Story” • by Paul Celmer

 

A young man rushed into the bar, jolting Ingrid from a daydream. He had a wild explosion of wiry black hair, with eyes like inkwells set between jagged cheekbones. Ingrid saw that his hands shook.

“Mikhail?” She wiped the counter in front of him. “You look like you’re running from a ghost.” She had seen the young monk come in a couple of times over the last few weeks.

“He’s coming for me.”

“You can at least have a drink first.” Ingrid laughed. “Horilka?” Most of the new immigrants to Galactic’s far-flung mining settlement looked dazed to be so many light years from any other inhabited world. But this guy looked worse. Spooked.

“Thanks for remembering. The national drink of my grandfather’s homeland, Ukraine.” Mikhail took a swig and calmed down a notch.

“Sure.” Ingrid wiped sweat from her brow.

“It’s freezing outside. Not much better in here. You okay?” Mikhail pulled his jacket tighter.

“Easy for you to say.” Ingrid smiled. She didn’t need to get into the damnable surprises of menopause with a 20-year-old kid.

“What’s going on with you? Trouble in paradise?” Ingrid flashed her trademark smile.

“I want to stay on Odin III. There’s nothing for me where I’m from. Charon-12. A radioactive wasteland.”

“I’ve met a few refugees from there over the years. Even more light years away than Earth. So who’s after you?” Ingrid tried to be serious. But bars attracted plenty of paranoiacs. Usually drugs. Mine mushrooms. Occasionally just lost souls.

“There’s this monk. Said to be a rogue scholar. From the brotherhood of St. Rico. Gives me the serious creeps.”

“The monastery in the south? Their beer is crap.”

“He’s going to try to get me sent back, I just know it.”

“You sure? Seems like a lot of trouble over one little guy like you. What brought you Odin?”

“I’m a Postulate.”

“What’s that?”

“A step before entering the Mertonite monastery. Takes six months. They wanted me to help build a library. In the mines. They still use mostly paper and they think it’ll be safer down there. Mikhail cut his eyes toward the window carved through a meter of solid rock.

“Makes sense they give you some time to think things through.” Ingrid tried to hide her yawn.

“But then I went all the way down to Mine 17.”

“I heard they closed that one.” Ingrid was starting to lose interest. So many stories to keep track of.

“Did you hear why?”

“Just rumors. Was there a cave in?” Just as Ingrid was about to wipe down the bar again, the kid pulled a fist-sized rock out of his bag dropped it on the bar with a deep thud.

“You took a rock from the mine?” Ingrid said.

“It’s pure sylicenium.”

“Look, I got to check the level of a keg ….”

“No wait. “Touch it. It sings into you.”

Ingrid had been on her feet for ten hours. They hurt. Listening to ramblings drained her. She craved dialogue. A back and forth between equals. Partners. There was Grekov. But he got buried in a cave-in. Six years ago.

“Looks like just a rock to me.”

“It holds souls of Rock People. I shouldn’t have stolen it.”

“Souls? Sounds like the legends of the Huldufolk of Iceland, old Earth. My dad used to read the stories to me. I’m afraid you’ve fallen for the local myths about Rock People.”

“Not myth. Real. Sylicenium is a metal crystal. Somehow the structure can be re-arranged. Anyway, allows more data storage density than anything humans can make.” Mikhail’s face lit up.

“Sorry, I’m not a scientist.”

“When Rock People get close to death, they perform a weird dance, a ceremony I think it is, in what they call a memory garden. Mine 17.” He pointed to the lump of rock. “Somehow the soul is infused into the crystal. The rogue scholar is a fanatic, thinks the idea of storing souls should be repressed, as it contradicts Church teaching.”

“No one’s ever seen any Rock People. Ever. There’s no—”

Mikhail interrupted again, “I have no idea how it works. All I know is when I touched this I saw things, felt things. And the longer I held it the more stories flooded into my head.”

“Like what?” Ingrid was beginning to get curious. The kid had passion even if his ramblings were fantasy, like all the myths of the misguided fringe who insisted the Rock People existed.

“Stories from what must be thousands of lifetimes. An entire culture. The visions kinda get tangled in my head, but they are born in pools of magma, protected by what I think is a magnetic cocoon. They live a very long time, and seem to spend most of it in contemplation. Their mathematics alone blow the mind. As far as I can tell its based on the interactions among seismic waves. I think their stalagmite art can take centuries to create. I think they can even see magnetic fields as color….”

“Sounds kinda trippy. You on the mushrooms?”

“You have no idea. There’re hints they have a whole city at the core of Odin III. Must be shielded in some way that makes it totally inaccessible to us. They helped me see God in a completely new way.”

Mikhail held out the rock.

“Touch it.”

“Hmm.” Ingrid darted a skeptical look at the dirty clump.

“It’ll enlarge your mind. Free you from the demons that block your vision of the cosmos. You will sail an ocean of story.”

“Look, I got plenty of my own stories right here. My customers. Like see that woman there?” Ingrid pointed to the back corner. “Her name’s Mazaa. A pilot. An atheist. She was in a crash with my friend Francis, a priest. The crash is another story. Anyway, she’s still an atheist. Kinda. But now comes in here every Sunday to argue religion. Usually the book of Job, especially the scene where God and The Devil make some kind of bet.”

Ingrid pointed to the other corner. “Those two smiling and whispering. That’s Aisling and Finn. She’s a therapist, claims she untangles people’s timelines. Those two have had the longest, most intense courtship I’ve ever seen. They just keep circling each other like two night razors who want to devour the same fresh kill. But each holds back for some reason. It’s super weird. And beautiful.”

Ingrid raised her voice. “These are all my people. My stories. I don’t need gasbag abstractions. And I like my demons. Mainly because they’re mine. They keep me company. Thanks anyway.”

“You could leave this place.” Mikhail was talking wildly now. “See worlds. Then come back and store your soul for eternity. You’re still a young woman.”

Ingrid’s eyes flashed. “You’re the second person this week who hit me with that particular back-handed compliment.”

Ingrid recalled the first. A hydrologist. Doing a survey for the new outpost to the North. It was closing time and he waited until all the young people had left before making a pass at her. Another not-subtle hint she was deep into middle age. She never thought much of those hints until the hot flashes hit every single day. As a bartender she reveled in the alcohol-fueled life of the night. Now she wondered what her life was going to be like without youth’s dance of desire, to slowly become invisible to the revelers. She knew that people coming to bars didn’t want to see reminders of mortality, the gray hairs and wrinkling skin. They come to forget. Maybe it was time she did something different with her life.

“Math. Art. Mysticism.” Such big ideas. But so many big things maybe make you lose sight of the small.” Ingrid stared at Mikhail. Was she arguing with him or with herself?

In the distance a deep siren blasted across the barren valley.

“That’s from the port, isn’t it?” Mikhail’s face went blank.

“Local transport from the southern colony.” Ingrid followed his gaze out the window.

“He’s here already. I got to go. Just take it.” Mikhail slid the rock across to Ingrid. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard. “If he finds me, he won’t get this at least.”

Mikhail dashed out.

Ingrid stared at the rock. A minute at least. Vast knowledge? Eternal youth?

With a grace born from thousands of repetitions, she swept the rock into the trash, careful to use the bar rag to protect her hand from touching it.

_____________________

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.

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The Odin Chronicles • Episode 23: “The Disappearing Cat Trick” • by Carol Scheina

Tanya’s parents refused to let her get a cat.

No matter how many times Tanya argued that the planet’s environment was fully approved for cats, or that cats had already made their home among the rocks and dust and blue bamboo plants of Odin III, they wouldn’t budge.

Tanya suspected they didn’t want the responsibility of a pet, so she did the next best thing and showered attention on her neighbor’s felines. 

That morning, a gray cat with a notched ear rubbed around her legs. Tanya pulled a bag of freeze-dried protein snacks from her backpack. Galactic provided them to its mining crews, but no one enjoyed eating what tasted like paper pulp with a fishy aftertaste. Tanya always rescued trashed snack bags because, as it turned out, cats adored the taste. The gray gobbled the treat up.

Tanya hadn’t seen the gray before, but he seemed happy to see her. He butted his head into her legs whenever she stopped petting him, begging for more attention. The young girl scratched around the fuzzy chin until her watch buzzed. She really needed to get to school or she’d get a tardy card.

Her skinny ponytail threatened to come undone as her feet pounded the road. She slowed upon reaching the communications office near the school. Strangely, the gray cat was sitting by the office door, licking its paws as though it had been there all along. Yet there was only one road into town, and the cat certainly hadn’t been running alongside her. How’d it get there so fast?

Tanya didn’t have time to ponder that question, as the school warning bell rang. She dashed inside and dropped into her seat as the teacher, Mr. Derrick, launched into long division.

The gray cat had slipped Tanya’s mind until she glanced out the window. The gray and a skinny tuxedo trotted on the deli’s rooftop—then they were gone. She stared until her eyes watered, but the cats hadn’t jumped off or crouched down out of sight. They had just vanished. 

How?

She had to talk to someone about this, and one person in particular came to mind.

*  *  *

After school, Tanya approached a girl with curls exploding from a ponytail and dark eyes rapidly scanning a tablet. Tanya read over a shoulder: “Scientists Develop Time Bubble.” 

“Hey Kira!” Tanya spoke louder than usual to get her friend’s attention. Kira was always lost in the latest scientific theories.

Kira blinked as she looked up. “They were able to keep the time bubble stable for two entire seconds, and no time passed inside the bubble. I wonder how much power would be needed to maintain a stable bubble for an hour?” Kira’s eyes took on the hazy look she got when calculating things. There was a reason she was in the advanced math class at school despite being Tanya’s age. “If it worked, it could solve the time dilation problem! We could stop and start time whenever, and travel places in an eyeblink!”

“Speaking of traveling in an eyeblink, I saw something kinda like that here.” Tanya explained about the cats disappearing, and the gray cat beating her into town.

Kira frowned at Tanya. “What kind of tech could do that?”

The skinny tuxedo cat ran out of the deli with a long string of sausage in its mouth, followed shortly by the angry deli owner. An orange tabby pawed Tanya’s leg and gave a demanding mrowww. She hadn’t even seen it come up.

Cats seemed to be everywhere these days. Tanya couldn’t remember having seen so many on Odin III before. She slipped a treat to the tabby, which snapped it up then mrowwed for more. “Maybe it’s like that old show my parents used to watch where everyone beamed all over the place. Or energized. Or whatever they called it.”

Kira sat up. “Yes! They teleported. We should talk to Daraja.”

Tanya frowned. “Who?”

“You know, the inventor guy who lives way off by himself in the mining caves. He knows everything there is to know about technology. I overheard the priests talking about some sort of alien teleport device he was studying. And if the cats are teleporting, I bet Daraja knows how. Let’s go!”

The old saying was that cats were curious, and so was Tanya. Her parents would be working in the mines until late, so she had no problem joining Kira on this quest.

The tabby mrowwwed a goodbye.

* * *

Daraja’s workshop was in the gray mountains that bordered the town, down a few ladders into a cavern thick with musty air and lit by dim bulbs.

Inside, seven cats prowled and jumped on equipment. Daraja shooed one away, then peered at what looked like a red apple. He glanced up, eyes enlarged by the magnifying contraption he wore. “What are you kids doing down here?” He sneezed. “Are you here for the cats?” Another sneeze. “I’m allergic. Can you take the cats and go?”

Three felines instantly went for Tanya. She gave them all head rubs and treats. “Why are all these cats in here?”

At the same time, Kira blurted out, “Is that the teleport device?”

Daraja ran his fingers through his messy hair and tried to block the apple. “You’re not supposed to know about this.”

Kira rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows about that.”

“The cats certainly know all about it,” Tanya muttered.

Daraja sneezed. “It’s why the cats are here. I dropped the device and now it seems to be opening micro-portals everywhere someone previously teleported. They’re only open for a second, but the cats somehow know just when to walk through.”

Kira nodded. “So that’s how they’re getting around town.”

Daraja turned back to the apple. “I’m almost on the verge of figuring out how I triggered this.”

“How did you trigger it?” Kira leaned over him.

The inventor started to answer, then sneezed. “You kids should go, and take the cats with you.”

Kira stood straight. “I can help! This is so much more my speed than the elementary stuff they teach at school. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about so many theories!”

Daraja stepped back. “I work alone. And this is complicated.”

“Look, I’ve already calculated how much power it would take to hold a time bubble for an hour. I can do complicated.” Kira waved her tablet.

The man snatched the tablet out of her hands. “Interesting… It doesn’t take into account the compounding energy needed but if you…” He shook his head. “Nope. No time. I’ve got to fix the teleporter.” He tossed the tablet back.

“I’ll take the cats if you let her work with you.” Tanya jiggled a snack bag, and several felines ran up. The tuxedo she’d last seen with sausages in its mouth batted her legs, demanding a treat now.

Daraja sneezed three times, then glared at the girls. “I’ve got to fix this now. Come back another time. And please get these cats out of here!”

Tanya shrugged. She’d tried. A promise of a future meeting was something, right?

As they walked out, the inventor called after them, “Bring your tablet with you when you come back. I’ll show you where you went wrong.”

Kira grinned.

A long-haired cat had appeared from nowhere and began staring very intently at a rocky wall. Several other cats stared at the spot as well. Tanya shook the snack bag to get their attention back. Time for her to do her part and get the cats home. How much longer would they be able to teleport? Tanya suspected Daraja would soon figure out that teleporter. No more cats disappearing off the deli roof.

Outside the caves, Kira aimed her eyes at the tablet. “What doesn’t work…” She turned down the path to her home.

“Bye, Kira!” Tanya called.

Kira didn’t look up as she waved goodbye.

The dusty air was cooling and one of the suns setting by the time Tanya reached her neighbor’s home. Not all the cats had followed her, because they were cats, and sometimes not even dried protein snacks will tempt them. Still, she managed to get four cats to the house, and she rewarded them with a treat.

Following a knock on the door, an elderly woman with gray hair in a tight bun appeared. 

“Ma’am, some of your cats were in the caves. I brought them back for you.”

“Oh, thank you, dearie! They keep on exploring further and further away. I worry they won’t find their way back. I suspect they’re bored. An old lady like me can’t always keep them entertained.” The woman’s eyes sparkled. “You look like you know a thing or two about cats. Would you like to come over and play with them when you have free time?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! Thank you!” Tanya’s heart beat faster.

“Make sure it’s okay with your parents, okay?”

Tanya thanked her neighbor again, then dashed home. She was probably late for dinner, but what a day she had to recount for Mom and Dad. She wouldn’t mention the teleporter, of course, but she’d definitely mention being asked to help with the cats. They couldn’t say no to that!

The gray cat with the notched ear sat near her home’s door. Tanya gave it a few rubs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

The cat walked two steps and vanished.

 

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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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SHOWCASE • “Even Vampires Have a Speed Limit” • by David VonAllmen

 

Standing in the dimly lit intersection of two streets, I’m the only living thing for miles in any direction. Humans abandoned these crumbling brick apartments years ago. Even pigeons and rats scurry away when they feel the evil chill that grips the night here.

“Whatch’yer got there?” the Cockney bat on my shoulder asks. I startle. The vampire moved so fast, so quiet, I hadn’t even known it was there until it spoke.

This is why my SWAT team won’t come to this part of town at night anymore. The vampires are too damn fast. Too fast to burn, too fast to shoot, too fast to see unless they pause to mock you.

“Looks like nothing more than a simple watch,” says a second voice, American and refined. My eyes dart this way and that, searching for the source. Finally, I spot the mist creeping up my legs.

We’ve designed hundreds of weapons, actually tried dozens of them in the field. The result is the same every time: me, watching good men bleed to death while the cackles of vampires echo off alley walls.

“Yeah, but it’s got no face fer tellin’ time, does it?” The bat floats down to get a better look. “Just a button. What’s it do, then?”

It kills vampires, that’s what it does, you smug sonovabitch. I’m finally going to kill you, because I finally figured out the one weapon that moves faster than a vampire.

I hope.

“This young man appears to be wearing a SWAT jacket,” the mist says as it coalesces into the form of a deathly pale man with slicked-back hair, wearing a trim, black suit. “If forced to wager, I’d lay down good money that wristband is some sort of weapon.”

“Oh la, another ingenious weapon,” says the bat, “Alright then, don’t tell us. More fun to guess, innit?”

I have two vampires within radius. I can trigger the weapon. But I have to be casual about it. If I make a sudden movement to press the button, they’ll be half a mile away before I can even contract the muscles in my arm.

“S-ar putea să inunde străzile cu aghiazmă,” says a woman’s gravelly voice. A hideous creature floats forward out of the blackness, sickly pale gray in color, the shape of a human female with the wings of a bat and the face of a demon. It’s the first time in my life I’ve seen a naked woman and wished she had some clothes on.

“I’m quite sure they already tried flooding the streets with holy water,” the vampire in the black suit replies. He keeps disappearing and reappearing in the same instant a few feet to one side or the other, casually looking me up and down from different angles. He’s timing his movements with my eye blinks—vampires enjoy messing with humans like that.

“Not ‘xactly,” the bat answers. “It was holy water hand grenades.”

“Ah, yes, that was it,” the suited vampire says, “Quite clever. At least in theory. In practical application, not so much—we danced between the water drops.”

“Alight, then, what else can kill us?” the bat asks.

“Foc,” the demon vampire says.

“We can outrun any flame, no matter how it’s dispersed,” the suited vampire replies.

“Yeah, but maybe if they set the whole town afire at the same time so’s we couldn’t just run away,” the bat suggests. “This city don’t happen to be on a fault line, does it? Maybe that button sets off a big bomb that cracks open the earth and lava comes out and burns up everything all at once. Huh? That’d work, right?”

“No, we’d fly up into the air, faster than the wind,” the suited vampire replies.

“Oh, yeah, we can fly,” the hovering bat says, as if he’d forgotten. “Okay, then, what else can kill us?”

“Wood stakes through the heart,” says a hound with a southern accent, that I’m positive wasn’t standing next to me one heartbeat earlier. Its eyes glow red and its fangs are so long and gnarled it can’t fully close its mouth.

“Hold on a second now,” the bat says, flitting around the hound. “We can turn into dogs? How come nobody told me we can turn into dogs?”

“It went out of fashion when the werewolves came out of hiding,” the suited vampire says.

“Hm. Well, if we kill off all the werewolves, can we go back to bein’ dogs sometimes?” the bat asks.

The four vampires glance at each other with nods all around—there seems to be a general consensus that this is a perfectly fine reason to start an inter-species war.

“Cum se înfinge butonul acela un par în inima noastră?” the demon vampire asks.

“Hm,” the bat looks up, as if in contemplation. “Maybe the button sets off machine guns they got hidden all around, and those fire bullet-size wood stakes at our hearts.”

“I don’t think so,” the suited vampire says. “The wood bullets would disintegrate in the barrel under that kind of explosive power.”

“Alright, but what if they was tiny little wood stakes hidden inside reg’lar bullets?” the bat asks.

“In that case,” the suited vampire states, “the question becomes: does the wood stake harm us if it passes through our hearts inside a lead casing, without the wood itself actually touching any part of our person?”

“Oh, that’s a good one, that is. One fer the philosophers, I recon. Well, I suppose someone could test it out,” the bat laughs and nudges the suited vampire with his wing, “but I ain’t volunteerin’!”

“Anyway, it still wouldn’t work,” the suited vampire says. “We’d feel the compression of the air before the bullet reached us and it would be all too simple to fly out of the bullet’s path.”

“Well, I give up. What’s faster’n a bullet?” the bat asks.

“Genetically engineered garlic,” the hound says.

“Cum? Din chestia aia cu butonul?” the demon asks.

“Oh, sorry, forgot about the button,” the hound says. “I was just trying to think of ways for the humans to kill us, and I thought ‘Well the scent of garlic makes us sick, maybe garlic genetically engineered to be much stronger could kill us.’”

“Wait, I’ll figure it,” the bat says. “It’s like one of them locked-room murder mysteries, ‘cept we gotta figure how to do the murderin’ to ourselves. Lessee… the button releases genetically engineered garlic oil into the veins in yer wrist so as when I bite you on the neck I ingest the garlic with yer blood and there you have it—dead vampire. Well, properly dead, I mean. Am I right?”

The four vampires stare at me, waiting for an answer. They have no fear that I might really be able to harm them because they see humans as their inferiors in every way. Slower. Weaker. Dumber.

Maybe we are slower. Maybe we are weaker. But a hundred years ago, one of us was smart enough to figure out that there’s a speed limit that no physical object, including a vampire, will ever surpass. They’re faster than fire, faster than sound, faster than bullets. But nothing’s faster than light.

“Alright, then, you win, human,” the bat says with a sigh of resignation. “Let’s see what she does. Go ‘head, give ‘er a push.”

I press the button. My wristband sends a radio signal to the satellites, which are already directed to my GPS coordinates. The satellites flick off the electric current in the nematic liquid crystals covering their giant mirror arrays. One satellite mirror array on the opposite side of the Earth bounces a stream of sunlight to the next mirror array, and that one to the next, and so on, until the last one in the chain sends it down to Earth right where I stand. And it all happens at the speed of light.

A waterfall of golden radiance, as wide around as a dozen men’s wingspans and as bright as the noonday sun, rains down on us. The vampires’ bodies burn to ash before they can so much as flinch.

Einstein was a human, bitches.

 

____________________

 

It wasn’t until David VonAllmen’s high school professor thought one of his short stories was suspiciously high in literary merit and threatened to have him expelled for plagiarism that he realized he just might have the talent to be a real writer. David’s writing has appeared in Galaxy’s Edge, New Myths Deep Magic, and other professional publications. David is the Grand Prize winner of the 2018 Baen Fantasy Adventure Award. He lives in his hometown of St. Louis with his children, Lucas and Eva, who write some pretty darn good stories of their own. Links to his works can be found at davidvonallmen.com.

 

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