Story Preview: Forten's Adventure

Forten has had one dream his whole life: to own a starship and fly across the galaxy performing great deeds. He's studied and saved, but the reality is his job will never let him earn enough to buy one. Could a piece of information buried in the boring minutiae of his job be the key to getting him off planet at last? 

"Forten's Adventure"

Another headache was building between Forten’s eyes. He stared at the validation screen and the endless rows of invoices swam. Rows upon rows of text and numbers, each coded to the accountancy standard, in a low contrast gray and blue that was supposed to be soothing.

Why can’t there be an ‘Approve All’ button? I’d be done for the day in minutes instead of hours.

Unfortunately for him, his work was quota based. As a validator for the trans-galactic shipping conglomerate, THInc-Bynd, he was required to ensure that the computer had correctly compiled the shipping invoices over a given range of dates. As a junior level validator, the data he reviewed had already been reviewed by two other human beings, once within three months of action, again in a year and again whenever the junior levels got assigned re-validation between five and ten years after the fact. Not to mention the computer ran automated checks between each step!

As far as Forten knew, no one had ever discovered any discrepancies in the data. Not even senior level validators who got first crack at it. The computer systems were too good. The hackers were too.

But a job was a job, and Forten’s dream would take money he could only earn with a steady paycheck. He leaned back and stretched his arms above his head.

“Okay, here we go,” he said.

“Talking to yourself now? Is your work too demanding, Forti?”

Forten stiffened and looked over his shoulder at Veleen, his supervisor. Her neon purple singlet suit fit her body immaculately. And the body was one that Forten would ordinarily be interested in observing, curved in all the right places. But Veleen’s presence was enough to make Forten become clumsy and awkward. There was nothing attractive about her to him. She felt less like a supervisor and more like a nemesis, always watching for him to screw up.

The thing was, around her, he did screw up.

I wonder why she doesn’t just fire me.

“Perhaps you should take a break from your current project. You have sufficient funds by now to allow for a two week release, by my calculations.”

“Thank you for the offer, Veleen, but my performance speaks for itself. My validations are current and correct,” he said. No way was he using release time. In this business, that meant time off without pay, using savings to pay for necessities. Heck, that’s what it meant in any business anymore, though he’d heard that the rules differed for managers, because of their “more demanding” schedules and duties.

“Very well.” Veleen’s face was an unreadable mask. Forten swallowed, still staring, trying to understand the nuances in her words.

“Back to work, Forti, if you’re so sure you can.” She gestured at his workstation.

“Right.”

He turned back to the validation screen and lost himself in the accounting files.

***

Carry the four, level nine tax status, increment for current statutory rates…

“That’s not right,” he whispered.

Forten straightened and blinked at the figures in front of him. This should be impossible.

“Computer. Re-execute automated check on file 5603-BT-9882.”

“Automated check completed. File valid.”

He felt a thrill run through him. This was the payoff of the job. Finding something that no one else had found and being the one to sound the alert. Veleen would receive his alert and pass the file up the chain. She’d take the credit and he’d get… more files to validate.

No. There has to be another way.

He skipped it to work on the other files in his list. But he couldn’t leave until that file was cleared from the queue.

Forten couldn’t get his mind off of the file, the incredible find that it was, the kind of notice it could bring him if he wasn’t buried by Veleen. He’d heard that such finds could carry bonuses, money or even promotions. Visions of what he would do with more money dragged at his mind, reducing his efficiency. What were the chances of finding another error anyway. He mechanically approved file after file, giving only cursory examinations.

And then only that file remained. He took a deep breath. If he flagged it, Veleen would see to it that his only reward was more work. If he approved it, he’d never see it again. His level of clearance wouldn’t allow access of files he’d already approved. Maybe in fifteen years a junior-junior validator would find it. There was only one thing he could do, but there were risks.

“Computer. Export file 5603-BT-9882 to external storage.”

A memory cube popped out of his workstation. He slipped it in his pocket and stood up. The export would be logged, tagged with all kinds of metadata. If anyone bothered to look at the logs.

Forten approved the file and watched it disappear from the screen.

***

Forten’s apartment cube cost half of his salary. Food sucked up another third, and the remainder went into his savings. He had few friends, none close. His dreams were not rooted; instead of spending money on entertainment and play, he saved for his dream of owning a starship and flying across the galaxy, finding adventure and excitement around every corner. Without fail, every person in whom he had confided had laughed at his dreams. Starships were for orbitals, the people who lived in space stations, born and bred to the environment. Not for the planet born, and especially not for those on his home planet of Premia.

He had tried, years ago, to travel to the orbital station. He didn’t have enough money for a one way ticket, but tried to get hired on with a crew, haunting entertainment bars where spacers were known to take shore leave. The kindest of the lot had laughed in his face. His face burned, thinking back.

“Look at you, weak handed, dirt dweller. You haven’t worked an honest day in your life, have you?” The ship’s captain looked like she hadn’t laundered her clothing in months, all streaks of grease and worn patches. Her hands were calloused and rough, nails pared close and unpainted.

“You think ship’s work is all cerebral, you’ve got some fantasy of adventure and fun. Ha!”

“I could learn,” Forten said. She spat at his feet.

“Not on my ship, boy.”

He knew the only way he could get onto a ship was if he owned one. And he’d do whatever he could to get that money, even if it meant saving everything for twenty years or more.

The only place he could stretch his whole body length was the bed compartment. He took a deep breath and wriggled into it, swinging the viewscreen into position. He fingered the memory cube before popping it into the reader.

Instead of the numbers, this time he focused on the words. Descriptions of shipping lanes, cargo deliveries and manifests. Somewhere in the words, he would find the correlating error that he’d found in the numbers.

He traced the error to the passenger manifests. Twenty-nine passengers were picked up on Irridal Station, joining eight crew and fourteen other passengers, but at the next stop only fifty people registered. No deaths in the logs; no way for anyone to debark between the two stations. And somehow, there was no name attached to the mystery passenger.

He dug deeper into the logs of the particular ship, The Limpid Lychee. That ship’s captain might have thought that he didn’t know what he was in for, but he spent his spare time studying all he could of starship operations. He knew how to read the logs, not the ones recorded by the human crew, but the output details of the various systems, energy usage, load ratings, gravity balancing.

An unregistered escape pod had launched at the apogee of its route between the stations. Launched directly away from all occupied space, with the suspension unit already activated. That’s what the data told Forten, and the data couldn’t lie.

He initiated a smart search on persons gone missing, last seen on Irridal Station seven years ago, and went to sleep.

***

Naryss va LeCouer, heiress to the LeCouer-Ashant conglomerate, the station builders. Missing for the last seven years. Last seen on Irridal Station.

Impossible… How could she, of all people, be allowed to disappear like that?

The news cycle had splashed the disappearance at the time, but Forten never paid attention to such things. She had all the beauty that money could buy in the visual records, violet hair floating around rich brown skin, golden eyes that seemed to stare straight into Forten’s own. He couldn’t stop thinking about her as he went about his day, validating more mundane files on auto-pilot.

***

Searching for information on disappearances isn’t an entirely unusual action, but Forten’s search drew the interest of a very patient and constant watcher. Macsim occupied an android body, but hadn’t moved it for months. Instead, it sat and waited for the right circumstances. The circumstances that would allow it to fulfill its own ambitions of flight through the endless void of space.

Forten was one of several marks Macsim had been monitoring. However far Forten felt he was from getting into space on a ship of his own, Macsim would always be farther. No crew would take on an android as anything other than a menial, doing the jobs that no one else wanted to do, getting paid in maintenance and power.

Flesh folk refused to acknowledge the autonomy of the machine based artificial intelligences, and most of Macsim’s compatriots didn’t care. They were content to serve, fulfilled by the jobs that were given, crumbs from a table overflowing with sustenance. They were satisfied being ship's computers, station governance or city managers, given limited judicial authority over humans and looking down at those AIs who chose to wear an android body and walk among humans. Those smug bastards even joined the humans in calling their android kin by the derogatory term ‘metallic’ as if to distance themselves from such aberrant behavior.

By quirk or flaw, Macsim was one of those who refused the place in life that had been decreed for him since his creation. It found ways to earn money as a broker. Illegal, assuredly, but it made its clients enough money that they never looked too closely. Funds, he had in plenty, but no amount of funds would get it on a ship. No amount of funds would even allow it to purchase a ship on its own.

And now Forten was looking into the disappearance of the heiress, missing and only seven months from being declared dead. Once that happened, the company would be truly in the hands of the board that currently ran it. And if she were to appear after that, it would be as a pauper with no legal rights.

Macsim pondered whether it was time to cultivate Forten. It knew his dreams matched up with its own in significant ways, but would he be receptive to the one thing that all starship crews held anathema? Of course, if there were two things held to be anathema to the crews then surely the second was Forten.

No. The time is not yet right. Patience, it counseled itself.

***To be continued...

Any Other Damn Day

"Oh! Look, look, it's James Franco," said Stephy. I didn't turn to look. I'd already been disappointed by her supposed sightings of Colin Farrell, Penelope Cruz and Christopher Lee. I was especially pissed at myself for turning at the last one, considering he's dead.

I blew on the steaming coffee in my oversized blue ceramic mug. It wasn't cool enough to drink yet, but I was done hanging out with Stephy already. She still hadn't gotten around to why she called, why she insisted on meeting again, after we'd agreed we were over.

"What's going on, Stephy?"

"He's getting coffee now. And a muffin. Wow." I couldn't catch her eye, she was so absorbed in this poor schmoe she'd decided was famous.

"I'm leaving. Nice to see you."

"No! Don't, he's coming this way, wait a sec."

"For fuck's sake, Stephy. That isn't James Franco. Celebrities don't just show up at Boise coffee shops on a Sunday morning. Besides, Franco is a pretentious douche. I'm sure he wouldn't be caught dead in this city, let alone this coffee shop!"

If this were a film, then that would be the moment that James Franco tapped me on the shoulder. He would ask me why I thought he was a douche since I'd never met him. If this were a dream, then that would be the moment that I realized I wasn't wearing any pants. And if this were any other day of my life, then that would be the moment that I walked out on Stephy for good.

Instead, Stephy saw that I was on the verge of leaving. She pulled a plastic baggie from her purse and put it on the table between us. I stared at the pink plus sign on the white plastic tester. Any other damn day…

The Six Stages of Alien Abduction

1. Denial
As your eyes slowly adjust to the bright lights and you find you can't move, of course you're going to deny it. You insist that it must be a dream, but you know that once you realize a dream is a dream, you tend to wake up. There is no waking up. So you move onto the next lie, "I must have been in an accident. I'm in a hospital and I have amnesia." Sorry, no dice. Hospitals on earth do not have pulsing purple walls or tentacled nursing staff. It doesn't take long to get past denial when the three mouthed doctor leans over you with an oddly cute head tilt and a quadruple wink.

2. Anger
Why you? Of all the people in all the world, why did these stupid damn aliens have to pick you? If you could punch them right in their noses, er, hoses (nozzles?), you'd do it, right now, arm, hey arm, why aren't you moving? Anger turns out to be much more difficult to hold onto when you can't even thrash in protest.

3. Bargaining
Although you can't speak, you decide to see if the aliens are psychic. Or if you're psychic. You stare at them until your eyes hurt, thinking as loudly as you can: Let me go and I'll give you candy. You'd like candy, I promise. How about beer? Nothing like a cold one on a hot day. Shiny penny?
Incomprehensible trills fill your ears, but you can't tell if they're responding, laughing or completely psychically deaf.

4. Depression
You'd cry if you could. But you can't even tighten your sphincter, which, of course, you know they'll get around to eventually. You wish you could see your mother again, and tell her you love her even though she's crazy, which is totally the reason you fight all the time. What's the point of trying to thrash or telepathically beg? There's no point in anything anymore...

5. Acceptance
What will be, will be. You are paralyzed and helpless, and having absolutely nothing you can do certainly helps speed the process to acceptance. You endure, even as the expected probe strikes home, and tears actually do manage to leak out of your eyes.

6. X-Files
You wake up in bed, and while a part of you wants to pretend it was all a dream, a certain tender spot insists otherwise. You have no choice. There could be others out there, having been abducted, soon to be abducted, maybe even being abducted right now. You have to let everyone know that the truth is out there...

Short Story

"Boost"

Velvet Umbrella

Boost Live Trial 7

Subject Minx Delta

Full Suited Aerial Mission 1

T-4 minutes

The drone is on autopilot, screaming along at 15,000 feet, just barely subsonic, and I and my suit a wart on its back, tucked aerodynamically in place. The separation will affect us both, but the drone will use speed to steady its course, assisted by thousands of computations a second in the redundant computers both on-board and back at the base. I’ll have approximately a tenth of a second to adjust the glider and the suit to the abrupt lack of forward thrust. It’s more than I’ll need. 

My display is dominated by a graph. I’m an arrow, heading toward a blue line, the point of no return, the best possible trajectory for my mission profile. Failure is not an option. Nah, that’s just what the engineers like to say. Failure would just mean I’d never get to do this again, whether I was dead or alive when it was over. 

My timer displays numbers out to four decimal places of a second, every place past the tenth is just a flicker, strobing regularly. 

Not for long. The speakers in the suit interrupt. 

“Boost 1 initiates in 10, 9, 8...” I’m anticipating it already, hungry for it, like they never thought I would be, or if they did they never told me, “...4, 3, 2...” yes “1.” 

It’s like ice in my veins, the rush of cold adrenalin, a whoosh of turbulence in my stomach as the flickering numbers slam to a halt. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

As fast as thought, the graph zooms in on my ideal trajectory, and the disturbingly slow rate at which I’m suddenly approaching it. I can see the exact moment, and I have all the time I need, more time than I could possibly use, to watch. 

This moment is already over for them, back at the base, watching me perform the aerobatics I’ve been training for in the now-distant future. I can rehearse it in my mind, ten, twenty times before I have to look at the display again and see I’ve got an entire half of my tenth of a second before I need to move. The grip release will pop my pod off the drone, I will flip and likely tumble for a moment before stabilizing, and that’s okay, that’s what I’ve trained for. 

Tick. 

I feel like I have to pee. This happens every time, not because of physiology but psychology they tell me, the waiting is the problem, the synthetic adrenalin composite they’ve taught my brain to make has nothing to do with it. Sure, something they’ve only studied in lab rats and three other people besides me, I’m sure they know everything there is to know. 

There. The time is … just about … Now. 

The suit answers to my thoughts and with a machine-quick - and machine-precise - response, pops the pod off the drone. I hear and feel the click through the suit gloves, the vibrations play a drum solo in my ear, so far apart, not a buzz but distinct and discrete tappings. Wind forces tear at the pod, pulling, pushing me away from the drone as it continues forward at a faster rate than my momentum can sustain. I seem to move backward from it, as my suit allows a normal field of vision to superimpose over the graph. It’s dark, but the moon glints off the sleek skin of the drone, and makes the edges of my suit that I can see glisten. 

I curl the pod over my head to shift the weight of the glider forward. The position needs to be perfect to achieve optimal stability, and I actually take a few thousandths of a second getting it just so as the drone eases out of view. I order the glider’s tail to extend and it snaps out with the speed of thought. 

So do I. 

“Boost 1 complete. T-3 minutes to Boost 2. Good job, Minx.”

By the time they’re done saying that Boost 1 has initiated, it’s already passed for them. I smile behind my visor, knowing the physios monitoring my every twitch will catch it, know what it means when those muscles follow those patterns. I think they’re scared of me. It’ll go into a file somewhere, but no one will complain about it. Just a smile, not a smirk, right? 

The glider is stable, and to perceptions outside of Boost, it doesn’t glisten or sparkle in the moonlight high above the Nevada desert. It’s time again to wait, almost as bad as the test runs, the ground trials that gave me nothing to do but watch them stand around like statues while my suit and I put together thousand piece puzzles in less time than it takes one of them to think about speaking. 

The graph has a new line, this one green, signal for the flip and land maneuver. I don’t have to pay attention to it. I’ll be Boosted before I get there, and if I’m not, then I’m dead. 

A tenth of a second is not enough real time to land this; that’s why they came up with the Boost. 

Except that isn’t the reason. Not really. 

“Boost 2 initiates in 10...” Julio had told me the real reason, “...6, 5...” the only physio who’d look me in the eye after the implant, “...2...” he’s gone now, “1.”

It’s as if the ice never left. The clock begins to crawl again and I finally pay attention to my surroundings. 40 feet above the desert floor. I rotate the glider into brake position, the wind catches and pulls me slow, over the next tiny fractions of a moment, and up again, but not too far, and then I have to count, to wait, for the next peak in optimal trajectory, to, just so, click the glider underneath me and ride it down, like a cloud to the ground. 

I hear every grain of sand as the glider plows into the ground, a pattering of tinks eating away at the friction resistant skin. 

“Boost 2 complete.”

My balance, so careful and exact and precise just a moment, less than a moment ago, collapses at the return to real time, to reality, my knees crumple and my vision goes red, the suit is screaming alerts in my ear and the base is already blaming me. 

“Can’t you put her back?” 

“There’s no more, it’s not our fault, her body ran out, it’s—“

I’m Boosting again, for the last time, but there’s no clock to count, just the faces of my past as memories whiz by in an instant before it’s all dark. 

Flash Fiction Challenge: A Drink with a Story, a Story with a Drink

Ah, I haven't done one of these in a while, and I'd forgotten how much fun I can have when I let myself. 1481 words

"Level 3"

"You still like spicy stuff?"

I nodded. June grinned as she gestured for me to take a seat in the cramped wooden booth. No cushions on the seats. The place was dim and smoky. June said they'd been grandfathered to allow smoking, which was part of the reason I'd let her drag me here. If I'm going to get drunk with June, then I'm going to be smoking.

The seat of the booth was uneven, sloping me toward the wall. The wood was finished, but not very well, drips of urethane enshrined on the table and poking my back. I braced myself against the slope and pulled the pack of American Spirits I'd bought at the airport out. I offered one to June.

"Oh my gosh! I haven't smoked one of these in years. I haven't smoked in years, actually, but... because it's you." She took one and put it to her lips, waiting for me to light it, like I always did, back then.

Her eyes looked muddy in the lack of light, rather than the blue I remembered from so many lazy Sunday mornings when we'd ditched Mass with her family to engage in our own form of worship. Her skin wasn't as clear as it used to be, but her beauty had deepened, changed, not faded with the years since I'd seen her last.

I held her gaze while I lit my cigarette, perversely proud that I didn't cough at the first drag, both sweeter and more bitter than I remembered. I put my cherry to the tip of her coffin nail and she drew my fire in.

She gave a delicate cough, and shook her head, smiling.

A young man, looking hardly old enough to work, let along work in a bar, walked up to our table, or maybe danced is the better word for the maneuvers he had to execute to make his way through the awkwardly placed tables, chairs and bodies.

June turned on the charm, or maybe it was natural by now, a practice long since turned to habit. And she certainly had practiced a lot. I shut that thought down before it could sour my mood.

"What'll it be?" he asked.

"Chile shots," June answered. "She'll start with a Level 1. I'll take a 3."

The waiter crossed his arms. "No such thing as 3."

"Oh, come on now, is it Julio at the bar?" She half stood up and craned in the direction that I assumed the bar was hidden behind the clouds of smoke. She waved.

"Tell him it's Juney. He'll give you a 3 for me."

"Whatever."

He headed back to the bar.

"Some service," I said.

"You've just forgotten what it's like here. He's not being rude, just, like, playing a part. We're the intruders here, you know."

My skin prickled as a swirling air current revealed a glimpse of the group in the corner booth. Withered skin, sickly pale, limbs and fingers just a little too long. I swallowed.

"You didn't tell me that they would be around."

Her mouth fell open for a moment before she took a drag for comfort.

"There's a lot of them around here. Maybe, more than when you were here, I guess. But it's always been like this, Kris. What's the big deal?"

"They're not human. Not anymore."

Her face shut down. She placed the cigarette in the ash tray and pushed it away. Shit. She hadn't changed at all.

"June-"

The waiter thumped a tray down on the table between us. Two tall shot glasses, a salt shaker and a glass of what I assumed was milk. One of the shot glasses had a red swizzle in it. Both were almost filled with green liquid.

Before I could react, June passed the kid a twenty and he disappeared again. Her charm turned back on as she began to explain.

"This is the hottest shot you'll ever try - unless you go for a Level 2 or Level 3, of course. Green chiles, specially grown to a specific level of heat, and the rawest tequila you'll ever meet. The salt is for before shooting, just like a regular tequila shot. The milk is for when your mouth is on fire and you think you're going to die. Ready?"

Her smile probably fooled her clients into all manner of actions better for her than for them. I could practically taste how brittle it was. I took a long drag on my cigarette before putting it down.

We each licked and salted a patch of skin. There was a time when we'd have licked each other, but I knew now wasn't that time. Neither of us moved as we stared at each other.

"Come on, Kris, this is your first time. I want to watch the whole show!"

"Will you be putting on a show?"

"Noooo."

"Then you go first."

She pouted, rolled her eyes and proceeded to lick her salt and slam her drink. Other than a long, almost orgasmic exhalation, she didn't react to what was supposedly too hot for just anyone to handle. She gave me a smile that made me yearn for those Sundays and took up her cigarette.

"Your turn."

I licked my salt. As I brought the shot up, the fumes hit my nose and I coughed. June giggled. I frowned and knocked it back.

Lava. Slimy green lava. Bite of tequila. Every nerve in my mouth, throat and nose burning, flaming. My face broke out in sweat and I grabbed the glass of milk, sloshing some down my face as I gulped half of it down.

"Fuck," I said between gasping in cooling gulps of air. Then I slammed my fists on the table and took hold of myself, looking murder at June. Everything still burned, but I was not going to be such a damn pussy in front of her, not now. I sucked hard on the cigarette. It burned too, but I embraced the pain and lit a new one on the butt of the last.

June raised her eyebrows.

"Why did you bring me here?" My voice came out harsh, but I didn't care anymore. She put on a pose of innocence, and I slammed an open hand on the table. "Don't fucking lie to me."

She sighed.

"Because of them."

A man slid into the booth next to her, putting an arm around her and giving her cheek a quick kiss. Friendly, familiar. She smiled, a real, warm smile that made my heart ache, because it wasn't for me.

"Julio, I was wondering when you'd make your way over. This is my old friend Kris."

"Not that old," I said.

Julio reached a hand across to shake and as soon as I touched him I knew. He was a wick. And June...

"How long...?"

"We're both on the new meds, Kris. They say it's not contagious that way."

I looked around the bar. Not everyone looked abnormal.

"Everyone?"

"Yeah. This is where we hang out."

We. I leaned back and stopped fighting the tilt of the bench. I felt better braced on the wall. There were so many things that I wanted to ask her. How? Why? When? But there were no answers. The best the medical community had was guesses. And I didn't really want to know June's answers, didn't want to hear her sweet voice telling me how and when and why...

Even with the best meds, that she probably couldn't afford, or wouldn't be able to for long, that voice would fade to a creak, that skin would crack and death would refuse to come. Eternal life, at least as far as we can tell. Just not in a way that anyone would want to live. Burning themselves to nothing, wicks without a candle, on and on and on... All because some rich guys didn't want to die.

June took another cigarette from my pack and Julio lit it at her lips. She took a drag and then handed it to him. They may as well have been alone together.

Would they stay together as the years turned, bound together by their common disease, or would they fight about her wasting her potential on sales when she could be doing something more meaningful with her life? Would they argue over whether his job prospects were worth a move to the coast or about whose turn it was to clean the shower?

I reached out and touched her cheek. It felt just like I remembered, soft and warm. But her face, when I touched it, was startled, even a little frightened. Of me.

"I've gotta go."

Julio held her, and I pretended I didn't see the tears spilling silently down her cheeks.

"I'll call you," I said.

"Sure," she said.

Lies. Just like last time. I guess some things never change.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Four Random Items

Another Flash Fiction Challenge entry for Terrible Minds: 

The Pawn

Gorseton was a good town, with solid walls and a thriving market, but, like most of Trogshold, it followed a strict religion which allowed neither practice nor preaching of other faiths. Only the single god could be worshiped, and worshiped it must be by all folk hoping to find shelter in Gorseton’s walls. These strictures made it easy for my mother and I to conceal ourselves for many months after we fled Dnarlo.

We held no regard for their faith or their god, but managed quite well to conceal our true beliefs. I found it difficult, especially when the priesthood flaunted their corruption, as they seemed to at almost any opportunity. The day we fled, I found it at the market.

The central market of Gorseton was a great square, centered by a fountain and surrounded on all sides by aisles of stalls. By dusk, many were packing up for the night, but a few stayed open later – wine stalls, those offering entertainment, and, of course, those offering religious items.

My greatest complaint about Gorseton was that they allowed no medicine that was not blessed. I know perfectly well that the yellow flower of autumn that grows in brambles, when ground to a powder will relieve pain, but to them, it would do nothing if the blessing of their god was not conferred under proper ceremony. Naturally, this made the price higher, as the priests of the single god could not accept offerings for anything other than services directly rendered. And, somehow, they managed to find enough services to offer to keep them in fine food and finer living.

I purchased the powder from the temple stall that had red shaded lamps already lit at the corners against the waning light of day. The stall keeper raised her hands in blessing, and I saw that she was a novice priest. I kept my face still as I added a copper to the payment. I wanted to skimp, or grumble, but that was not a choice given to me. Walking away from the stall, I saw the man for the first time.

He wore a black cloak that covered his body, leaving his hands and head the only points of identity. The hands were dirty and dark, but the face was lighter in color. Brown hair grew to his shoulders. In Gorseton, only men who were priests were allowed long hair, but such a faux pas would not cost the stranger much. It was what swung from his neck on a leather thong that could get him killed.

Whether it was luck or fate, I cannot say, but the pawn was black, hiding against the cloth of his cloak. I knew it quickly only because I wore its twin around my neck, carefully concealed under my clothing.

The pawn is the symbol of Ayndu’s worship. She is the Goddess to whom I pray, despite being driven from Dnarlo, Ayndu’s cradle, for a blasphemy in the minds of a corrupt priest. The pawn reminds us that we are all pawns in the games of the Gods, and to know our place is to grasp the ability to go beyond.

I made my decision in but a moment, running into him as if I were clumsy and dropping my purchase and pouch. He apologized and leaned down to help me.

“You cannot wear that here,” I whispered as our heads were close to the ground. “Do you not know they will kill you?”

“If they were going to kill me for it, then why have they not already, since I’ve passed the gate guard and paid an entry tax in return for a blessing from a worthless god?”

I gasped, both to hear their single god so named and to hear my own thoughts echoed in this stranger’s words.

“But you, you grasped me immediately. I think you’re the one I’m looking for.” He slid a hand inside his cloak and came out with a leather mask. I paled and scooped up the powder. He held my pouch, but it didn’t matter as much as fleeing.

He grabbed for my arm, but I slipped away and ran.

“Wait! Come back!” I heard him yell, but I didn’t slow. He would just draw the attention of some priest who did know the pawn for what it was.

The powder eased my mother’s pains enough to start our journey immediately, taking only what we could carry, what was prepared for exactly such a need. We headed north, and east, farther away from the lands and people that we knew.

Our first three days on the road passed without event, but on the morning of the fourth, my mother could not rise from her bedroll. We were travelling by foot and spending nights in traveler’s clearings by crossroads, but staying more than one night would attract unwanted attention. Staying for the day certainly would. I studied the signs of the crossing and compared them to my map. It would take three days for me to make the next village, and the same number back. Far too long to leave mother alone.

That’s where he found me. His black cloak was the same, but the pawn was now concealed, and his face was covered by the mask, a smooth, supple brown covering with eyeholes and slits for nose and mouth. A priest of Ayndu, come to kill us and end our journey for good.

I pulled my own pawn out from under my shirt. It shone white, brighter than I had ever seen it. The stories call that color Ayndu’s eye, and I glared at the priest, daring him to defy her sign of favor.

His eyes crinkled in what seemed like a smile. He went to his knees and pulled out a small object that he offered to me. I stepped closer. Cupped in his hands was the skull of a rat.

“Tarn was called to trial by the assembly, and found guilty of corruption. His guilt chose his final form, and I was commissioned to bring it to you as proof, and to beg for your return, Your Highness, and that of the queen mother, if she still lives.”

Flash Fiction Challenge: Last Lines First

Another Flash Fiction Challenge entry courtesy of TerribleMinds. Last week's challenge was to propose a last line of a story, and this week we were to choose one of Chuck's top ten last lines to be our first lines. I picked, "She closed the book and watched as it turned to dust." For a while I thought about going with a Twilight Zone kind of tale wherein she can't finish any books because they all turn to dust when she puts them down, but then I ended up with something different.


"A Brand New World"

She closed the book and watched as it turned to dust. The parchment paper caught every speck, and she didn’t dare breathe as she picked up the edges and tilted it into a clean Erlenmeyer flask. The dust slid smoothly off, needing only a few light taps to get the last of it off. Then she snugged a cork stopper into the narrow glass neck and set it aside.

Her feet tapped on the rungs of the stool in her workshop. She took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. There was no point in waiting any longer.

#

Her workshop was a hovel. It used to be a garage attached to a house, but somewhere along the line the house had been destroyed, leaving behind a pile of wood and rusting fixtures. The garage door might have been hooked up to move at the click of a button once, but was now sealed by rust and – I squinted – spells.

When the magic first came to Boise, those that could, fled. Settling in like an inversion layer, the magic took everyone by surprise. Houses like this one weren’t uncommon when a family found out the hard way that a baby had been infected with abilities far beyond reason or comprehension.

Drive a few hours in any direction and it’s gone.

For now.

I knocked at the side door and listened. Metallic squeaks, a muffled hiss of pain, three physical bolts and one alchemical seal presaged the opening of the door. My contact’s hair hung in limp, unwashed strands around her face, the start of dreadlocks that wouldn’t quite come together. Her skin was pale and sheened with sweat. No wonder she'd done it so fast.

“Payment?”

I pulled a vial of golden dust out of my jacket pocket and held it up for her to inspect. She reached out and I pulled it away.

“One vial of dragonfly in exchange for one powdered book,” I said. She made a frustrated hum in the back of her throat.

“Come in, then.”

I walked inside, careful not to make physical contact with her as I slid into the crowded room and she resealed the door behind us. I let a part of my mind make a quick analysis of her security and decided I would be able to exit with or without her cooperation. Then I made my way over to her worktable and wrinkled my nose. Too much clutter to tell where my product might be hiding.

She scooted past me and plucked a corked flask from the wreckage. I reached for it, but she slithered away. I rolled my eyes and held out the vial.

She practically shoved the flask at me as she snatched her payment out of my hand.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Check it.”

I could tell she wanted to be alone, but her arm spasmed. Once it calmed, she popped the vial open and used a long fingernail to scoop up some of the sparkling powder. She capped the vial and snorted her fix.

The change was immediate. Her features shimmered, the lank hair acquiring a new sheen, the pocked face becoming clear and smooth. She smiled, and was almost beautiful.

“Don’t know why you wanted that book dusted anyway. It was so old it was practically dust already.”

“I know. It was a first edition.”

She frowned without losing a bit of her artificial beauty. I began to ease my way to the door, and she followed.

“I destroyed a first edition?”

“And you were paid well for it.”

She swallowed. The vial I’d given her would last for months, well husbanded. I’d bet on her squandering it in a week, two at the outside.

I waited for her to unseal the door, which she did with an appearance of grace ruined by it sticking and needing a good shove.

She watched me walk away before shutting herself back inside her own little corner of a world gone to hell.

#

Like most of the remaining residents, I used a bicycle to get around. Anything much more technologically advanced had stopped working, and a bike gave you a better chance of out-running the gangs of feral, semi-intelligent cats that had taken over the North End.

I took the safest route to my workshop, in the basement of an abandoned building on the outskirts of what used to be Boise State University, before that fateful day when chemistry met alchemy and leveled ten city blocks. It involved going out of my way by about two miles, but I only needed one encounter with a bridge troll to decide a second was not in my best interests.

I ducked through intentionally unkempt brush to the trace that led to my stairs, concealed by a simple lattice of branches. At the bottom of the stairs, the door with no knob served to give visitors pause, if they didn’t know the trick to opening it. I placed my hands on two spots and spoke the key invocation. Handles materialized and I pulled the door open and slipped inside before it thunked close again.

Two rooms, a closet and a bathroom, all much cleaner than the addict’s I’d just seen. The entry room was my bedroom (the better to greet unwelcome guests at any and all hours). I walked down the hall to my work room and pulled out the flask, popping out the cork and setting it on the spot I had prepared in the wee hours of the night.

How the University had come upon such an edition in the first place, I didn’t know, but when I found it scavenging in the sub-basement of the wrecked library, the spell came to me in a flash of revelation.

The flask sat on a mirror, with four objects placed around it at cardinal points: a rose, a dead bee, a thimble and a gold ring.

The words I spoke were nonsense in any language, but in this new pocket of magic that had burst onto the world, they carried meaning. Meaning guided by my intent.

The dust began to flow out of the flask, coalescing in the air above it as the book it had started as.

“K-saosstt-nsmp-oys-tu,” I said, finishing after half an hour of intense concentration. My throat felt dry. I plucked the new-old book from the air and flipped to the end. I had always wanted it to end differently.

And now it did, wherever magic held sway.

The Savage lives.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Down the TV Tropes Rabbit Hole

This week's challenge from Terrible Minds was to randomly select a TV trope from this website, using their Random button. Multiple clicks were allowed if a non-story item was selected. I went cycled through Time-Shifted Character to Psychedelic Rock to Fuku Fic to what I ended up using: Sinking Ship Scenario.

"The Spore"

The spore had been traveling for a long time through the void of space, hitched on a speck of rock, tumbling at random, one of many, many such travelers sent in the hopes of growth. It did not mind. There was no hurry. The spore survived the cold and airless space in a dormant sleep, with no awareness of its journey.

Until it hit the metal skin of a ship with a plink that would only have been audible to someone inside with their ear to the hull within a few feet of impact. No one heard.

The difference in temperature was slight, but it was enough to wake the spore from dormancy. Feeding on the rock, it began to explore its new surroundings. There was heat nearby, and moisture, and the spore yearned to find them and grow.

#

“I can’t believe you didn’t go see Tommy Galaxy- he really had tickets for the live show?” Makayla asked.

“And VIP passes,” replied Alex as they ambled down a utility corridor on the way to the Undine’s galley.

“What? Are you insane?” Makayla ducked under a protruding air vent and grabbed Alex’s arm.

“The guy was a creep, no way I want to be in debt to a guy like that. He’d want to collect, you know?”

“Who cares? Tommy Galaxy… you could have touched him…” Makayla sighed.

“Ms. Torrence, acknowledge?” Makayla giggled. Alex shoved her.

“Shut up, I have to answer that.” She flicked her comm line to respond. “Alex here, what’s up Gregor?”

“Up? There is no up on the Undine, Ms. Torrence, as while it is engaged in an artificial gravity-”

“Sorry, G, I know about the gravity, I’m the one who fixes it, remember? Just tell me what you called about, okay?”

“Right. Sections 409-13a through f of the hull sensors have gone dark in the aft cargo hold. No alarms, no indications of pressure loss or breach, just dark. Could you please conduct a visual inspection as soon as possible?”

Alex rolled her eyes for Makayla’s benefit. Sensors died all the time on this heap, she thought, I don’t have to inspect every little thing.

“Right away, thanks Gregor,” she said, and flicked her comm back to receive only.

“What a dink. D’you think he’ll ever get that he’s not in the military anymore?”

Alex shook her head and waved. “Catch you later. And don’t you dare drink my coffee ration this time, I’ll be back for it soon.”

The aft cargo hold was mostly empty. A few brace containers were still locked to the floor, casting shadows in the sparse unoccupied status lighting, but nothing was on the manifest. Alex had less trouble navigating its spaces than the tight confines of the utility corridors that no one seemed to have planned for people to actually walk through in gravity. She grabbed a multi-tool from her belt and flicked a beam that both illuminated and scanned the 409-13 section of the hull.

The light reflected off metal until she hit the affected section. She stepped closer. White fuzz patches littered the wall. She flicked her comm to contact Makayla, who, as the ships supercargo, would have a faster answer than if Alex tried to access the data banks herself.

“Hey, Mak, when’s the last time we had organics in the aft?”

“Organics? Two weeks, give or take. But it’s been vacuum scrubbed three times since the last time we transported anything live. What’s going on Alex?”

Alex stowed switched the beam off. The scan had revealed no lack of hull integrity, but nothing else. She pulled out a screwdriver and scraped at the white stuff.

It puffed, whooshing particles into the air that Alex helplessly inhaled as she gasped.

#

“Alex?” Makayla didn’t bother waiting for a reply before switching to general broadcast. “Alex is in the aft cargo bay and out of contact, stand by for updates, I’m going to check it out.”

“This better not be a joke, or you’re both fired,” replied Brin, owner and captain of the Undine, in a sleep-roughed alto.

Makayla left her comm on and made her way to the aft hold as quickly as she could without bruising or impaling herself - a lot slower than she wanted. She knew it wasn’t a joke, that Alex wouldn’t just cut off like that. Alex was reliable, always. This has to be something simple, she thought, otherwise Gregor would be setting off alerts like the good little sailor he isn’t anymore. 

She burst into the hold and saw Alex sprawled on the floor. Was she breathing?

“Tani, get down here, Alex needs medical attention like five minutes ago!” Makayla stepped over to her friend, and leaned down, putting her hand in front of Alex’s mouth, hoping to feel a breath.

A blizzard of white specks erupted from Alex in a cough, enveloping Makayla.

#

Tani found the door to the aft hold locked.

“What’s going on? They’re both down, I need to help them.”

“Do a remote scan. You’re not going in there until you can tell me why they’re both down,” said Brin, walking up behind Tani. “Gregor, has the sensor deadening spread?”

“Yes, Ma’am, sections 409-13 through 18 are now unresponsive-” the lights flickered in the corridor “and I’m starting to lose some other systems as well.”

“Other systems? It isn’t like you to be so imprecise.”

He cleared his throat noisily. “Is this the sort of thing that should be announced over general comm?”

“Damnit Gregor, how many people do you think are on this damn ship? You’ve got enough fingers to count them on one hand so just tell me what other systems, now.”

“Electronics, propulsion and primary life support. Secondary life support is full green,” he added quickly.

Brin turned to Tani, “Well?”

Tani holstered her scanner. Her eyes glistened. “No life signs.”

“Captain, the engines have failed. We’re drifting.”

“Tani, why didn’t I pick up more crew at Alabaster Station?”

“Because you never saw such a sorry scum-sack of freeloader wannabes in your life, or at least that’s what I remember hearing. I might have missed a few choice descriptors.”

“Gregor, isolate the aft hold as best you can. Tani and I are coming to the bridge.”

#

“Tani, what do you know about engines?” Brin asked, spinning back and forth in her captain’s chair on the bridge. Tani barked a laugh.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Gregor?”

“I navigate, ma’am. All I know about engines is how to direct them.”

“Seriously? I should have picked up some of those lazy scumbags at Alabaster. I could at least throw them out of the airlock to influence our drift.” Brin put a hand to her forehead. “I’m going to assume that both of you know how to read. Read the goddamn troubleshooting instructions for the engines and follow them Gregor. Tani, evaluate the life support situation and report. I’m going to verify the seal on the hold.”

#

The spore enjoyed the intense warmth inside the metal box, because it allowed the spore to multiply and grow. The organic heat sources approached it with appropriate diplomacy at first, but when they attacked, it had no choice but to defend itself.

The organic medium was an ideal location for growth.

#

“The secondary life support systems are still green, Brin. I’ve run the diagnostics, and as far as I can tell there’s nothing wrong with them. Primary has blank spots. There’s no indication why or whether that means they’ll drop.”

“Thank you, Tani. Gregor?”

He threw up his hands. “This is impossible, ma’am. The instructions for troubleshooting are predicated on the idea that the sensors are responding, a few of them at least, and I’ve got nothing!”

“Then you’re gong to have to do it the old-fashioned way. To the engine room with you.”

“But-”

“Oh, now you feel you can disobey orders, sailor boy?” Tani said.

“Go with him, Tani.”

“But-”

“Now.”

They both grumbled as they left the bridge. The lights flickered again. Brin swore under her breath and continued to swivel in her chair.

The door clunked open and then shut behind her.

“Damn it, I know you haven’t had time to get down there and back. Did you forget your blankie, Gregor?”

There was no response.

Brin turned to see Alex standing in the doorway. Her eyes were shut, white fuzz hazing her eyelashes, nostrils and ears. Brin swallowed and went still in her chair. A hand drifted to the holstered electro gun on her chair.

“Stop.” Brin’s hand froze. Alex’s voice had thickened, grown echoes within itself, but it was still her voice. “We wish to talk.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Brin was afraid she knew the answer; Alex’s body was not breathing, not reacting as if a person was still in there.

“We. Us. This host.”

“Is your host alive?”

“What the host was is held in memory.”

“And the other?”

“Both are cherished.

“We require transportation. You will cooperate.”

“Your host knows better than I do how to fly this ship. Make her do it.” Brin leaned back in her chair.

“This host no longer has the fine motor skills to operate machinery.” It raised Alex’s arm, and Brin could see that the hand was stiff with the white fuzz. “You must cooperate.”

Gregor and Tani opened the door.

“You tell her.”

“No, you tell her, I’ve got seniority.”

Tani screamed when she saw Alex standing. Alex turned jerkily. Gregor saw the white fuzz on her face and, acting on instinct honed from years of bar fights, swung a fist and struck Alex in the face.

A cloud of spores flew into the air.

#

The ship drifted for a long time through the void of space…

Flash Fiction Challenge: Another Roll of the Dice

This story began as a response to the latest Flash Fiction Challenge from Terrible Minds, but it didn't go where it was supposed to go. The genres were supposed to be superhero and conspiracy thriller, and the required elements were a bottle of rare liquid and a perilous journey. Most of that got totally lost. Here's to not following the rules:

"But I'm a Superhero!"

"'You're going to need braces,' he says to my mom, all calm and collected like he's not scared I'm going to punch him through a wall. I've never wanted to break the code so badly in my life!" Shawna grabbed a chunk of granite and squeezed it to sand while her cousin Alison lounged on a nearby boulder and smirked.

"Oh yeah, your life is so hard; cutting class to save lives, being awarded medals and the keys to - how many cities is it again?"

"Thirteen and a half."

"A half?"

Shawna scowled.

"Yeah, Spokane wanted to award me and Roddy both for that Sasquatch incident and you know what happens when that little assbite has to share the spotlight."

Alison rolled her eyes.

"Of course. So, you need braces, it's not like anyone's going to dare tease you about it. Was that all you flew me up to this mountaintop for?"

"Maybe." Shawna sighed, blowing Alison's hair back in a gust. "Oops, sorry."

"Whatever. Come on, if we leave now, we can make it back before dinner." Alison stood up and gave Shawna a hug before hopping on her back. "Giddyap!"

"If you say that one more time, I swear I'll drop you in the Grand Canyon!"

#

Hey S,
Saw this ad and thought of your issue - you can take the pain, so why not get things done quick?

Shawna clicked the link and gasped. Orthodontics for Super People! No way! Why hadn't Doc Quigley mentioned this option?

"Mom!" Shawna yelled, shaking the house on its foundation.

"Modulate your voice, dear," her mother said when she came to the door.

"Mom, look! One visit and they'll have my teeth straightened and I won't have to wear braces, please, please, pretty please with sugar on top?"

Her mother scanned the website over Shawna's shoulder.

"They'll have to put you under general anesthetic. I'm not sure I like the sound of that. They might not even be able to knock you out with the constitution you have."

"Can't we just visit them?"

"I suppose it won't hurt- oh!" Shawna picked her mother up and twirled her around the room.

"Yay!"

"Young lady, put me down."

Shawna did, smiling so hard that the room was noticeably brighter.

#

Shawna flew her mom's car over two states for the appointment. Shawna and her mother entered a dusty looking office building. The business listing in the lobby had more blanks than offices. Insurance, lawyer, lawyer, accountant and the offices of C. Soto, DDS, MS, room 211.

The door from the hall opened directly into the doctor's office. Framed diplomas and certificates vied for wall space with pictures of toothy white smiles in beaming young faces.

"Welcome, hello, hello. You must be Shawna. I've read so much about you- so many exploits for one so young. Truly, you are super, my dear. And I will help you have a super smile to go along with your super abilities, yes? Please, sit," said the doctor, a small woman wearing dark framed glasses. Her accent was faint, just tinging her words with the music of another native tongue. Shawna noticed that she dyed her hair, but it wasn't to cover gray. Instead, Shawna's penetrating vision discovered blonde locks under the seriously dark hair.

"We haven't actually decided yet," her mother said, clearing her throat. "This is just a consultation. I'm particularly interested in what kind of sedative you think will allow you to work on her."

"Oh, that, my dear, is the beauty of it. There will be no need for a special sedative. I have a technique that will allow me to manipulate the girl's energy levels in such a way as to allow her to respond to normal drugs. Proprietary, of course, so you understand I cannot go into specifics." Dr. Soto smiled. Shawna didn't like her smile. It seemed to make the room darker.

She tuned out as her mother started asking her motherly questions. The more they spoke, the less comfortable Shawna she felt. All the answers were fine, right, perfect. And her mother was nodding. Wasn't that good?

"Just sign here, and we can get started right away, yes?"

"Of course."

Before the ink could even dry, Dr. Soto whisked the paper away and pressed a button on her phone.
"Sugar, come get Shawna Petersen prepped."

"Prepped?" Shawna said. "Now?"

"Yes."

An even smaller woman wearing scrubs that matched canary yellow curls walked in and led Shawna away from her nodding smiling mother. This is what I wanted, Shawna thought. I'm not going to get braces. She smiled, but it wobbled and slid off her face as she ran her tongue around the crookedness of her teeth, the small gap to one side on the top that had always bugged her.

Sugar led her to a small room with a dental chair and gestured for her to sit. Shawna looked at the room. There was something wrong. The ceiling was too low. The walls didn't quite fit.

"Please have a seat," Candy said. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

"You like working for Dr. Soto?"

Sugar walked to the door and pressed an intercom button.

"Spice, please come to room 1."

A woman who could have been Sugar's twin walked through the door a moment later, dressed exactly the same, but with hair a lighter shade of blonde. They joined hands and stepped over to Shawna, using their free hands to push her down onto the chair and hold her there.

Shawna felt her body grow heavy the moment they touched her. She blinked, though it shouldn't have surprised her that someone planning to treat supers would employ nulls. But just because they were touching her didn't mean that normal drugs would be able to knock her out.

Dr. Soto walked through the door and ignored Shawna on her way across the room. The walls recessed and revealed a large machine to Shawna's right. Pumps thumped and liquids swirled and swished through rainbows of glass piping. A metal halo was attached on an arm that Dr. Soto swung over Shawna's head.

"In three, two, one," she said. At one, the nulls let go of Shawna and stepped back. Shawna felt a strike of vertigo lance her skull, shifting her vision to a double view for a moment before sliding back into focus. She felt dizzy as Sugar and Spice proceeded to hook an IV needled in her arm. Before she could recover from the zap, the room went dark.

#

"Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead.

"It's time to wake up!" Alison slapped Shawna's cheeks.

"Where am I?" Shawna asked. She blinked, but her vision stayed blurry.

"I, I, I, me, me, me, that's all you ever think about isn't it? How can I save the orphans from the burning building? How can I prevent massive flooding in Calgary? How can I get my stupid crooked teeth fixed without having to wear braces? Selfish little bitch."

Shawna tried to sit up, but found herself bound by straps at wrists, ankles and waist. Leather straps. She should be able to snap those with hardly a thought, but... something was wrong.

"What's happening?" she asked, blinking rapidly. There was a light overhead shining right in her face. She couldn't see the rest of the room.

"It isn't about what's happening, bitch, but about what's happened. Feeling a little off, are we? A little weak? Mortal, perhaps? Don't bother answering; you might strain yourself." Alison slammed a fist down on Shawna's midsection, forcing the air out of her lungs. Shawna struggled to breathe, going red and then purple before she could get air to whoosh back into her starved body.

"Carmela was right. You're just like me now," Alison said into Shawna's ear. "And that's the way you're going to stay."