A flash fiction by J. Richard Jacobs

In Vienna the streets fall vacant and death silent several hours before two o’clock in the morning. Dr. Schiller, one of the ‘new’ psychiatrists of the Freudian school, unable to hide his aggravation over such a late night—or should that be early morning—appointment, scowled at his visitor and stroked his thin, graying beard streaked with tobacco stains.

The man sitting across the desk from him, tall, gaunt, and pale, sent his manservant, along with a purse of gold coins, early the day before to make this special arrangement. The messenger said his master recently migrated to Austria from somewhere in the east, a place that Schiller couldn’t pronounce, and claimed connection to royalty. Schiller was unimpressed with the man’s self-declared pedigree, but the size of his purse gave him plenty of reason to accept the meeting, but certainly not enough to feign happiness regarding the time. He took another nervous and quite obvious glance at his watch, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“If what you have told me is accurate and, judging from the nature and extent of the wounds on your shoulders, I have little reason to doubt your claim, I would say you are the victim of a rare form of schizophrenia that gives approval for the conditions you are suffering. Those voices you say you hear just before an attack tell you that it is all right. You are possessed of a condition in which you feel an overwhelming urge to inflict pain, but…but you are harboring a contrary and equally powerful desire to suffer. Both experiences are accompanied by sexual gratification and that, although it may not be the driving force behind the behavior, most certainly reinforces the motivation to indulge in it.”

“I understand, Dr. Schiller,” his wee-hour-of-the-morning client said. “Is there a cure for this problem? It is most distressing and interferes with my other…activities. I could starve if it gets any worse.”

Schiller leaned back in his low-backed leather chair and ran thin fingers through his beard like a four pronged comb. He could see the man was obviously distraught and wanted help. He could also see it was late and getting later.

“I cannot promise a cure, Sir,” he said after a moment’s contemplation, “but we are now able to treat many forms of schizophrenia with drugs that effectively inhibit excursions into abnormal behaviors. Their use will afford us the time we need to investigate the cause. However, the sooner you are able to come in for treatment, the better it will be for you. In the meantime, I am afraid your attacks will increase in frequency and violence. In short, my dear Count, until we have established a treatment regimen for you, you are doomed to continue in your efforts to bite your own neck.”

by J. Richard Jacobs

5 May 1861 – Liverpool

She moves quietly through the shadowed passages, this lady of the night. Few occupy the streets after sunset, except for those spilling from the pubs seeking a bit of comfort for a short time. She can provide that, and it puts food on the table. She steps across the broad, cobbled swath that separates shops from Wapping dock. The sounds of ships straining at their moorings fill the graying evening air as she takes her usual spot at the end of Sparling Street. There she will wait until darkness, the lateness of hour, and ale send business her way.

The sun, reluctant to give up its feeble reign, hangs stubbornly for a time in the west. Shadows—long and foreboding—blend silently with the coming night, reaching skeletal fingers out from the waterfront toward the city as the fiery orb, now barely visible, slides behind an uncertain, hazy peach colored horizon.

A man, cloaked in black, head covered with a broad-brimmed hat, hobbles along on crooked legs, poking at lamps atop posts with a long pole, a timid flame at its end. Once a slave to the Jenny Lind, he is now a slave to the Liverpool lamps. He doesn’t mind, though.

“She left me here with me mangled legs whilst she went off to die on the shoals, she did. Wahll, good riddance, I say….” he mutters to the empty darkness.

He chuckles quietly to himself about the irony that landed him in his current predicament while scurrying along in a sort of sideways shuffle like a small crab in his effort to stay ahead of the coming mist. The fog, creeping in on cat’s paws, stalks him, swallows him, dims the lamps thus lit—covers all in wet beads trickling together. He never wins his race, but remains undaunted. Tomorrow he will do it again, just as he has for ten years now.

Hours have dragged on and the man with bent legs is long gone. The hour of midnight approaches. The streets are hushed still under a canopy lit to a dull gray by a pitifully thin crescent of the moon. Otherwise they are utterly dark save for the feeble glow of the lamps’ stuttering, sputtering flames, and the flickering light of a few candles dancing faintly in kitchen windows of some Irish immigrants’ homes along the far east and west ends—customs that cling, brought to their new surroundings a score years ago. The cobbles glisten under a wet scum. A mix of mist, grime, salt and soot. The rounded and worn stones reflect what little light the lamps afford, tiny yellowed diamonds twinkling weakly. There has been no traffic this night and she is ready to concede there will be no income this time, then braces to a faint sound coming her way.

A coach passes by the darkened storefronts, pubs and shops lining the eastern side of the street, a ghostly black and gray image smudged, lacking detail, a tiny oil lamp on each side projecting wispy halos approaches from the south. Sacked hooves and iron-banded wooden wheels thump and clatter against the broad street laid in a strip along the waterfront. The sound dies quickly in the dense mist.

The coach slows, then stops beneath one of the lamps where the young woman stands as if waiting. She leans toward the coach and speaks quietly to the lone occupant for some time. The coachman, covered in a glistening oilskin cape, its hood drawn tightly about his head and dripping the night from its edges, does not look down. The woman combs back strings of wet red hair with her delicate fingers, fingers capped with dirty nails. The door opens and she steps in.

A quick snap of the reins and a click of the driver’s tongue. The horse responds and the coach disappears in a swirl of gray mist and dim light. Moments later a muffled, terror-strained shriek ruptures the silence. It does not last long and is muted in the mist. No one hears.

Moments later, a flash of blue-white light in an alleyway between warehouses lining the Albert dock pushes a dome of brightness and something else, something solid, upward into the quiet of the shrouded night. For an instant, a dot of yellow-orange light, growing more red as it retreats, can be seen hurtling skyward by anyone who looks, but there is no one to look. Then, it too, is gone. Only the lazy clanging of a buoy’s bell, the plaintive, deep groans in the rigging of mighty merchant ships at dock as they roll slowly in their berths, and the glare from the Black Rock Light down the Mersey interrupt the silence and gloom.

---

11 August 2042 – Seattle

“Aw, damn it.”

“What now, Marcos?”

“I broke one of its fucking arms off. This thing’s drier than a maple leaf in January, man.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just stuff it in the bag and the M.E. will probably think it came off in transit. There was nothing else in the area—nothing we can use?”

“No. Like I said, the only thing we found was a scorch mark in the alley. Travels up the walls a few feet on both sides. Whatever it was, it was damned hot, but it didn’t last long enough to set anything on fire. That dumpster back there had most of the paint boiled off its front and lid, but none of the stuff inside was even singed.”

“That’s weird. Any idea what might have been able to do that?”

“You gotta be kidding. Lightning? I know as much about that as I do about what crisped one of our citizens into an over-dried raisin. Maybe what seared the alley was what made Mr. Cinnamon Biscuit here, too. I dunno. I tell you, this whole thing’s too out there for me—and I thought I’d seen everything.”

“Forensics will figure it out.”

“You wanna make a bet on that, Carter? They have a hard enough time when we give’em a fresh stiff, but this…this piece of parchment here…? I dunno.”

Marcos had no sooner zipped the bag closed, removed his surgical gloves and stood back, trembling hand searching a pocket for his lighter, when the van from the forensics lab backed into the narrow alley. One of the attendants walked briskly up to Carter. The bastard was smiling one of those smiles that telegraph nasty comments in advance. Carter cringed.

“Okay, Lieutenant, what the hell’s this bullshit about a mummy?”

“No BS, hotshot. Take a look in our shopping bag and you tell us what we have. We just bag’em. You guys tag ’em and tell us what it is, maybe who it is, and how it was done. Then we find the bad guys who did it, if we’re lucky, and stuff’em in the cooler until a judge lets’em go on some technicality. That’s the way it works.” Carter stepped back to give the man room.

The attendant kneeled and unzipped the bag.

“Holy crapoly. What the hell is this?” he said as he spread it open.

Carter managed a crooked smile. “Your job—remember?”

---

15 August 2042 – Seattle

The M.E. walked around the table in exaggerated animation as if he were conducting a tour of the corpse for a group of medical school students, his hands speaking more than his voice.

“Well, Lt. Carter, what we have here is an Asian male, probably Chinese, though we can’t be sure of that. Not yet, anyway. Five feet nine inches tall, approximately. No way to know his weight. Somewhere between forty-five and fifty years of age, I think. Cause and time of death, unknown.”

“Unknown?”

“Yes-s-s, that’s what I said, Detective. Completely and totally unknown. All I can tell you is, every bit of moisture that was in his body is gone. All of the cells were completely desiccated. Dehydrated. Dried up. Cell walls like tissue paper, something similar to freeze-dried food, but drier. There wasn’t a bit of water in him—anywhere. And we found no wounds of any kind. No broken bones. No fractured skull. No chips or marks anywhere. I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Prints?”

“No finger prints. Whoever did this was sharp enough to remove his finger tips, but I’m not so sure we would have been able to read the prints anyway. Whoever did this took his teeth, too. We have nothing we can use for identification—well, except for a small group of marks on his right forearm. Might be a tattoo. The laser reader couldn’t get anything sensible, so I removed that section of tissue and we’re trying to hydrate it enough to get it stretched out. That way we can take a look at the thing—maybe.” The M.E. pulled a tall stool out from beneath one of the steel tables and sat down before continuing. “I sent the skull over to the museum. There’s a fellow over there who does reconstructions and he’s working on it now. Maybe we’ll get a recognizable face out of it, if we’re lucky.”

“How long before he—”

“A week. Maybe two.”

“The marks on his arm—the tattoo?”

“I really hate saying ‘maybe’ so much, but I can’t guarantee that, either. I can’t even say that it is a tattoo…yet.”

“And you won’t even take a wild guess at how this was done?”

“No. No, I won’t. A couple of days in a microwave on high, maybe? Hell, that wouldn’t even do it without burning the body. Magic? We don’t know.” He threw up his hands and shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for now. I’ll give you a call if we come up with anything more—but if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath, Lieutenant.”

Carter turned and started to leave.

“Is there anything in your files that comes close to this?” the M.E. said to Carter’s retreating back.
“Nope,” Carter replied without looking back. “Not a damned thing.”

---

4 September 2042 – Tel Aviv

“Hey, Zev, come over here and take a look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“We may have a break in our Clock Tower mummy case. A friend of mine in the States just faxed me this clipping from a Seattle paper. They found one there, too.”

“Oh? When?”

“According to this, it was on the eleventh of last month. All the same details as ours, too. Same scorching—the whole megillah.”

“They have an ID on theirs?”

“Not when this was printed—no. At least nothing that was released to the media.”

“Well?”

“Well—what?”

“Do I have to spell everything out for you? Check it out, but make sure you clear it with the Chief Inspector first so we don’t have to listen to him kvetching over the cost of the calls for a month.”

---

5 September 2042 – Boston

“I take it that Dr. Lo hasn’t come in yet?”

“No, ma’am. We expected him to at least report during the last week of August, after the Seattle convention. So far, no word. His neighbors said he told them he would be taking a small vacation when the conference was over, but he didn’t say where he was going, or when he’d be back.”

“Damn it, this is a research organization funded by the government, not a home for recalcitrant egos. I had CIA and NSA/DHS people in here yesterday and this morning. They want to know where he is, and they’re not even a little bit happy.”

“All I can say about that is, they’ll have a better chance at finding him than we will. That’s what they do, right?”

“I suppose, but keep calling his house—just in case.”

---

Los Angeles Island

28 November 3194 – New Earth Calendar

The call came at oh-seven-twenty-two. The irritating beep of Niel Quo’s earchip gave him a start and he nearly fell in the bath chamber. Several fellow bathers moved to his aid but stopped when he indicated he was all right.

“Yes?” he said.

“Quo, this is Empshar Lamphsang, Director of Temporal Displacement Operations.”

He must be with someone of high rank or he wouldn’t address me that way, Quo thought. “Good morning, Director. How may I help you?” he said while stepping into the rinse down queue.

“We need you to come in to TDO Headquarters—as soon as you can possibly be here. It is…important. Call me when you leave.”

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Are you alone?”

“I am in bath, sir.”

“It will be better to wait until you arrive, then. And, Quo, be sure to dress well, an Emperor’s Aide will be in attendance. Good-bye.”

---

Quo wrapped himself in his finest gray Martian silk robe. The one with the gold embroidered borders. He stepped into the imaging niche of his quarters and smiled an approval at himself. He looked good, he thought. Well, as good as a man of his years and experiences could, that is. Certainly good enough for the Emperor’s Aide. Whatever Lamphsang wanted to discuss with him had to be important to include one of the Emperor’s pets.

“Andrea.”

“Yes, Niel?” the computer responded.

“Secure transport for me. Have it ready by oh-nine hundred in front of the complex. I will be going to TDO Headquarters.”

“Yes, Niel. Do you want breakfast?”

“Yes. Nothing special. Same as yesterday will be fine.”

---

Quo identified himself to the security box beside the door and it opened. The office of the Director of Temporal Displacement, was a typical example of high government offices, austere, lacking adornments of any kind, and empty with the exception of two men. They were seated behind a huge desk of flowing, freeform design in titanium and glass that reflected and refracted the controlled early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Director Lamphsang he recognized, the effeminate young fellow dressed in flowing purple and gold at his side would be the Emperor’s Aide, he imagined.

“Ah, Niel, so good of you to come at this hour,” Lamphsang said. “Please, have a seat.”

First names? Whoever was here before is gone and he’s trying to impress the left-behind-aide with his personal knowledge of an active Travel Agent. Rare enough to come into knowing contact with one of us, even more unusual to be on a first name basis. Politicians are all alike. Times change, friends change, fashions change, they don’t.

“Thank you, Director Lamphsang,” he said, deliberately not returning the first name association.

Quo activated the chair’s sensors and sat down. The chair adjusted to his body form and weight as he settled into it. He readied himself for the official protocol dance to begin. It didn’t. Instead, the Emperor’s Aide addressed him directly and immediately.

“Agent Quo. We need you to go back to your last operational assignment coordinates. How soon can you be ready?”

“May I ask, why?”

“Yes, of course. The person you…recruited…is unstable and you must do whatever you can to prevent yourself from recruiting her.”

“Um…I don’t understand. In what way is she unstable?”

“She has…eliminated two of the parties who were involved in the research that led to our Displacement Program and we have no idea why,” Lamphsang said. “Fortunately, the two of them were not critical personnel in the development of the process so we were able to notice the disappearance of their names from the record and pick up reports on their deaths. Had they been critical—well, you know what that would mean. Their deaths have not affected our activities—yet. The next one….”

Yes, he did know what that would mean. The time line would change, history would change, and no one would be where they were before, most without knowing anything had changed.

“I understand. If she gets to any of the key people, we shall cease to exist in our present condition? Is that it?”

“Worse, Quo. She is in a position to completely change what we know as the present. She may even alter the course of all events prior to the Great Enlightenment.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Quo observed.

“No—it most certainly would not,” the Emperor’s Aide said.

“Excuse me, Director, but wouldn’t it be safer and simpler if I went back to where she is operating and eliminated her there? The other way I am at risk of running into myself and creating some real problems that I may not be able to deal with.”

“No. We have calculated the chances of your being able to find her where she is and the results are dismal. As near zero as you can get. I am afraid the only way will be to keep the recruitment from happening. In that way we may be able to return the time line to its original condition, or keep it from being totally disrupted. The worst that can happen is that we will have lost two participants in the early stages of the program—if the theory is correct. At the same time, it will give us a unique opportunity to test Andretti’s Immutability Theorem directly and adjust future activities accordingly. If what Andretti says is true, our only other option will be to send you to where she is operating and hope for the best. That is, if we still have time to accomplish what must be done before we…disappear, so to speak.”

Quo nodded his understanding, though he was uncertain about how easy it would be to find her at the original site. The city and its surrounds held the better part of a half million inhabitants in those days, and the Irish represented a large percentage of that number. The way he had encountered her the first time was pure luck, no better than happenstance—and he didn’t want to be there for that meeting because of other problems that would most likely arise.

The Emperor’s Aide fidgeted in his chair before he spoke.

“You realize, of course, that if you are unsuccessful in stopping yourself from completing the recruitment—eliminating her before the recruitment takes place—or getting to her before she does real damage, all is lost and you will not be able to return. At least, not to a time as you now know it,” he said. An insincere smile flashed across his face and faded instantly to tight-lipped nervousness.

It had long been apparent to Quo that anyone outside the actual program had no appreciation at all of how complicated and delicate these little trips were. How dangerous they could be—not just to the agent, but to everything following the time encompassed in the journey. Naturally, Lamphsang was aware. He had served as an agent for several years and that was what qualified him for his position, but he now followed orders from the Emperor and other government lackeys. He couldn’t let his misgivings show or he would be out of a job—no explanations given.

Travel Agents were very special people, conditioned to the extreme nature of their work and what the slightest error could engender. Getting to their desired time and place by accessing and jumping into and out of the Loops was perilous enough. Then—then they walked as phantoms in past worlds—like chess players in a close match, ever aware and always thinking several moves ahead. Indeed, centuries, millennia ahead.

He didn’t relish the idea of engaging in such a complex and dangerous action as they were asking him to take. What if he were to fail in his attempt to thwart the recruitment? He could be trapped in an ancient world, wind up as a time clone, return to an unrecognizable world—or he could cease to exist altogether. But he could not escape the logic of their thinking, either. There remained options, however—if there were still enough time to exercise them.

Quo was also not sure he understood the Immutability Theorem correctly. What Andretti postulated was that things done in the past by those from the future could not be undone—like the recruitment—and time had a way of healing itself to a degree. That the actions of a Travel Agent could not be altered directly—one of the reasons why an agent’s job was so delicate—lay at the root of Andretti’s thinking.

Make the wrong decision, take one false step, and the future following the action would be set off on a new course, one that could not be changed substantially by the agent. Not that old ‘stepping on a butterfly’ thing, or any of the classical paradoxes, but close to them.

There was ample reason to believe that Andretti’s theorem, based on the ancient Novikov Self-Consistency postulate, worked on solid ground—untested as it was. What they were asking him to do was, in some ways, contrary to that principle. What if Andretti really did have it right? What then? And, if the theorem were wrong, what implications would that entail? He had to think this through thoroughly. He needed to talk with Andretti.

A plan began to congeal in his mind, but in order to use it he would require some facial reconstruction and muscular enhancement work.

---

8 September 2042 – Coming into Denver

In the beginning, she wrestled with the intruding thoughts as if monsters in her mind were hacking away at her, relentlessly driving her insane. Then, one day, it came to her that they were not invading alien ideas at all. They were friendly, resident memories of her life suppressed—suspended in an artificial haze. That some of them were not particularly nice did not matter so much as that the beasts who did this to her tried to destroy them utterly. They were painfully squashed into a small corner of her mind by the bandits who stole her away from her home—such as it was.

Now, free of outside influence, they were coming out of hiding, trying to resume their rightful place. All right, so she was living by selling herself at the inns and on the waterfront, but it was her life, damn it all. They held no right at all to do these damnable things—and they would pay for their meddling. They would pay dearly. She would make sure they paid.

My name is not Marlene Stewart—it is Aideen O’Brien. I was born in Liverpool right after my parents arrived from Eire in the year 1840. The memories of that life are getting stronger each and every day. They toyed with my mind when they took me to that strange place of theirs—tried to erase me and replace me, they did. Then they put me here to do a job for them. Well, I am doing a job all right—my job—not the one they wanted. I awoke and, I would wager, they did not expect that. I shall fix them—show them they cannot do whatever they please to anyone and get away without a price to be exacted. I am Aideen…Aideen O’Brien.

The bus slowed, entered an incredibly narrow drive, turned right and nestled into a marked space. “Denver,” the driver said. “All passengers will change buses here for other destinations. Be sure to claim your baggage and go to the ticket window for information on departures, gate assignments….”

The bus and all the things around her seemed perfectly natural, as if they should be just as they were—yet, at the same time, they were foreign. Stretched between two worlds—one hers and one impressed on her by the others, her mind moved in an odd, stumbling gate that kept her from getting things arranged in their proper order, from regaining her balance.

The driver mumbled on about a few other things, but she paid no heed. She had arrived at the place she needed to be for this part of her…work. Her work—not theirs. She stepped down from the bus and a wave of suffocating heat she was not prepared for slapped her straight in the face.
How can it be so stifling hot way up here?

---

8 September 2032 – Denver Convention Center

Marianne Schlag, head of security for the Theoretical Temporal Displacement Group approached Gerald Hensley, her number one officer in charge of setting up security for the coming convention in Denver. Her hands were firmly clasped behind her and she looked edgy.

“Are we set?” she said.

“Yeah. All security measures are in place. We’ve sealed all access to this joint, and I mean airtight. Only way in or out is the main gate and the hall’s front entryway. Not even a germ can get in here without the proper paperwork.”

“I’m not worried about germs, Hensely.”

“No, ma’am.”

---

8 September 2042 – Seattle

The Medical Examiner entered Lieutenant Carters office. To Carter he looked like a kid who just found the cookie jar where mama kept all her spare change.

“We’ve identified your King Tut, Lieutenant,” the M.E. said.

“How? When?”

“Wasn’t easy, believe me. We finally managed to get a look at the marks on his arm. It is a tattoo. It’s a small Chinese-style dragon with a yellow tiger in its teeth. We searched every parlor in the city for that design. The tattoo was done right here in a little shop just outside of Chinatown. One of our investigators spoke to the proprietor of the shop and he remembered doing it for the guy about three weeks before he dried up in that alley.”

“You’re sure you have the right man? Lots of people get tattoos.”

“Not like that one. It’s unique. So, yes, I’m sure. We showed the sketches Adler—you know, the fellow at the museum—made, and the owner recognized the face, too.”

“Name. Give me the name.”

“James Chin Lo. Correction—Doctor James Chin Lo, Ph.D. He is—was a high mucky muck physicist working in high energy particle physics—whatever the hell that is. He just delivered a paper on Micro-wormholes as Expandable Closed Loops and their Relationship to the MOND at the convention center. How’s that for a catchy title? The convention was sponsored by the Theoretical Temporal Displacement Group, a government supported research organization in Boston. No details available on them or their activities.”

“You ran his name?”

“No, Carter—I Googled it. Amazing what kind of stuff you can get off the net these days. You ought to try it. Better than NCIC 2000—and faster. Fifty-seven pages filled with Dr. Lo, including baby pictures and—“

“Thanks,” Carter said, pushing his chair back from the desk. He shooed the M.E. out of the office, then yelled across the room, “Hey, Marcos, get those people in Tel Aviv on the line. We need to talk.”

---

Carter held the phone death grip tight, his face drained of color.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Carter,” the voice on the phone said. “His name was Marvin Alperin, and he was a high energy particle physicist from the Technion in Haifa. He was here to present a paper on—hang on a second while I run up the file—ah, here it is. He was here to present a paper titled Quantum Time and its Alteration through Extreme Gravity of Hyper-Accelerated Particles for a conference sponsored by the Theoretical Temporal Displacement Group in Boston, Massachusetts. He worked for them on contract. Do you know anything about them?”

“I just heard about them a minute ago,” Carter said. “Now we know there’s a solid and uncomfortable connection between our mummies. They both worked for the same place and apparently on the same thing. We either have a nut with a big budget who has a hardon for physicists or someone working against that outfit in Boston. Maybe a bunch of someones. Thanks for the information…and I’ll let you know as soon as we find out anything helpful on our end.”

Carter disconnected from the call and looked up at Marcos who had been hovering over his shoulder, listening in as best he could.

“Okay, find out whatever you can about that group in Bean Town while I check on any conferences they might be holding or attending here in the States any time soon.”

---

9 September 2042 – Denver CIA/NSA Field Office

“The people at headquarters just contacted me, Hensley,” Schlag said. Our two missing docs turned up as unwilling cadavers—murdered in the same way. We have to step up even tighter security for the convention and I want teams out scouring the streets. Hotels, motels, missions, trash containers…everywhere.”

“Do we know what we’re looking for?”

“Anything suspicious. Anything at all,” she said.

“Now, that’s a tall order. We have no idea what we’re looking for and we’re going to go looking for it?”

“That’s right, not a clue…and we had better find it soon. Convention is in two days, right? And double up security and increase the surveillance at the convention center. I don’t want a single square inch of that place out of sight and I want a pair of alert eyes at every monitor.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll need to call in more people.”

“So? Call them in—do it now. Tap other agencies if you have to.”

---

1 December 3194 – New Earth Calendar – Nevada Northern Peninsula
Nevada SuperCollider Facility – Loop Launch Terminal

Nerves never settled below hyper state in the prelaunch phase of a trip, regardless of how experienced the Travel Agent might be and, at sixteen completed missions, Quo stood as the most experienced of all. But start-up failures were still common, and snagging the first loop remained dicey at best.

After catching that first loop, the rest of the trip usually went without a hitch—usually. Ride the first loop to the proper branch-off brane, grab the next, and so on, until you reached where and when you were going. All automated—all out of the traveler’s control, which didn’t help sooth the out-of-control feeling.

Navigation to final destination point loomed as the most difficult part of the whole process, disregarding the first hook-up. For that the answer remained crude. You popped out somewhere from a thousand to five thousand kilometers from Earth and then were forced to find the safest landing site on your own. It beat the hell out of being dropped into the middle of a rock or a couple of thousand meters below sea level somewhere—worse, jumping off an incomplete first loop or sliding off the final loop several millions of kilometers away at an unknown time—too far to make it on the LSS and propulsion assets available. Your reward? A silent, cold, dark grave in somewhere and sometime.

To Quo’s delight, he was kicked off the last loop about fifteen hundred kilometers above sea level over the middle of the Atlantic. The computer stated the date to be 21 April 1861.

Perfect ride and very close to where I wanted to be. I’ll have to thank the op-staff when I return.

---

22 April 1861 – Liverpool

Quo passed himself off as a Russian sailing officer and obtained lodging at a small inn near the south end of the Strand but a stone’s hard throw from Wapping Dock, and it was at Wapping Dock his other self would whisk her away by coach in a few days. I came here to stop that from happening, he reminded himself. The idea of what he must do did not arise easily, nor did it set well.

She is sure to be somewhere nearby. I must find her.
The mere thought of what he was about to do sent a chill through him that bored right to the center depth of his soul. For some odd reason, hazy and hidden, he felt reluctant—resistant to the entire notion of what his plan required. He found lurking in the quiet, inner reaches of himself a strange sentiment for his red-headed, scrappy, waterfront whore that he could not explain. A feeling that had not penetrated into his conscious mind at his first encounter with her, but was just now beginning to percolate to the surface.

He liked her quick wit and, once she’d been cleaned up, she was more than just attractive…she was feisty lovely. Flashing, fiery blue-green eyes set on a soft face of perfect, creamy pink skin dotted with the lightest spray of freckles. Full, rich lips begging to be kissed fluttered there like a pink butterfly, forcing dimples and crinkling the corners of her eyes when she smiled.

No. No, I can’t do this.

A new plan began forming in his mind. A plan that would leave her…alive. A plan that would test Andretti’s theory to the fullest and call upon every bit of Quo’s courage and resolve. He could not be sure of what the outcome would hold for himself. A sort of long range suicide, perhaps? He was compelled to, at the very least, try, whatever the outcome.

---

The innkeeper’s knock alerted Quo that breakfast was being served. He dressed hurriedly and found his way downstairs to a large table where several of the inn’s guests were already gathered. He ate quickly, hardly tasting the food, and stepped out into the street in front of the inn. The morning was still on the edge of darkness. An onshore breeze was building that bit at his nose and caused his breathing to come in short snorts. He adjusted his scarf to cover the lower part of his face and set off to chat briefly with Mr. Whitty at the news office, then he would go down to the docks to find what he was seeking.

Cold. April and it’s still cold.

---

The pub, situated close to the heart of Liverpool’s dock system, was dark, even though it was approaching noon. It was here that Whitty said Quo would find what he wanted—and he did. A tough, ugly fellow with no money and even fewer scruples. Just what he needed. At a small corner table, more in shadow than the rest, the two men sat drinking warm ale and talking quietly.

“And how can ye be certain there will be a war?” asked the husky man seated across the table from Quo. His words came out in a ragged whisper and his gaze remained fixed on Quo—though a bit glazed over from the ample amount of alcohol made available from Quo’s seemingly bottomless purse.

“It has already begun, sir. And it will not end for long while. It is inevitable effects of conflict that will be felt here—and very soon. Most of cotton from southern states comes through Liverpool, da?”

“Aye.”

“North will be forced to blockade South to prevent trade with England—and most of trade with South happens here. You and many others will go begging in street soon for lack of work. Children will be dying of starvation if North is successful.”

“The devil, you say.”

“Is true.”

“And what ye are wantin’ me to do will help?”

“Without doubt, sir. Northern officer I mentioned is spy. Is here to enlist aid of citizens to get information on docks, shipbuilders, and major businesses doing trade with South. They fear Liverpool business interests will help South because of active trade they now enjoy. They are right. Is possible—likely—they intend to disrupt, maybe destroy major merchants and shipping here as well as in southern states. You will do great service for your country, your people, and help South win war against North at same time, da?”

“How do ye know all this—for a fact?”

“We have sources everywhere.”

“Fine…and what ye say makes sense…if all ye told me is true. This putain of yers…how is she involved?”

“She is not involved—yet. Is what you are to prevent. You understand all I told you?”

“Aye. And how do ye propose to pay for me services?”

Quo pushed a small leather pouch across the table. The man untied the thong at the top and spread it open just enough to see inside. His eyes widened. He smiled a broad band of crooked, filthy, rotted teeth at Quo.

“Gold. And it be a generous amount at that,” he said as ale drained from one corner of his mouth.

“Is first half. You receive other half when finished.”

“Mmm. If I might be so bold, why so generous?”

“Is important work, da?”

---

A coach slows—stops beneath one of the lamps where a young woman stands as if waiting. She leans toward the coach and speaks quietly to the lone occupant for some time. The coachman, covered in a glistening oilskin cape, its hood drawn tightly about his head and dripping the night from its edges, does not look down. The woman combs back strings of wet red hair with her delicate fingers, fingers capped with dirty nails.

A man lunges from the deeper shadows of the warehouses on the quayside and pushes the woman roughly out of his way. She hits the ground hard and is stunned. She wants to scream, but nothing comes from her throat. She lies there—paralyzed by an all-consuming fear.

The assailant pulls an old French flintlock pistol from his belt and fires a single shot into the coach. The sound breaks the silence rudely but is muffled and assimilates into the heavy fog. It is nothing more than a muted pop after traveling but a hundred meters. He yanks the door open and drags a convulsing body from the interior. The body hits the ground beside the coach with a dull thud. It is beginning to bleed profusely from the wound made by a .69 caliber ball where it tore into the startled occupant’s chest, shattering ribs and ripping through vital organs. The fellow who sprang from the shadows waves the still smoking pistol over his head and speaks in a gruff, threatening voice to the coachman.

“Not a word about the business of this night—if ye value your life. Now, be off with ye.”

The driver complies and in an instant the coach blends in with a swirl of dense mist and vanishes. The man from the shadows hurriedly binds the body’s legs in a length of heavy, tarred hemp. He kicks a large stone off the edge of the quayside. It hits the murky water of the Mersey with a hollow sound and drags the body in behind it.

The assassin looks over the edge to be sure the evidence is gone, then turns and looks down at the trembling young woman hugging the lamp’s sturdy iron post.

“Wait here,” he says. “Another coach will be along in a moment to take ye to safety.” He stuffs the pistol back into his belt and scurries off into the shadows of the buildings to the east. The blood on the stones mixes with the night and slowly trickles off toward the Mersey, disappearing in the slimy muck until no evidence remains.

A few short minutes pass, then the deadened rhythm of sacked hooves against the cobbles drifts in on the fog. The sound is coming from the north and she peers into the gloom in that direction. Soon, she can hear the rattle of wheels hammering the stones mixed in, then two faint lights puncture the mist. She struggles to her feet, her body trembling with cold and fear. Should I run, she wonders? Remembering what the big man with the pistol said about being taken to safety, she stays by the lamp.

The coach, somewhat larger than the other, comes to a stop by the lamp and a voice issues from within.

“Aideen, get in. Quickly now, there is little time to lose.” He chuckles at the comment, but there is also urgency in his tone.

The door swings open and she steps in—hesitantly.

“Do I know ye, sir?”

“No—but I hope, if we are successful, that we will become the best of friends. Do you believe in magic, Aideen?”

He speaks in an odd accent she does not recognize, but his voice is kind and gentle.

“Aye. The Good People are said to have it in fair measure,” she says, trying to get a glimpse of the man seated across from her, but he remains shrouded in shadow.

“Good. Good. Where we are going you will be witness to a lot of magic—things beyond your wildest dreams.” Mumbling half to himself, he says, “Andretti was wrong on a couple of counts, it appears. I’m still here. Hmm. I wonder what happened to the Aideen who was already transferred? She should, according to Andretti, no longer exist. We shall see.”

Second installment in the Stich in Time series

by J. Richard Jacobs

The Visitors

“Number three hundred and seventy-four. Three-seven-four,” a gravelly female voice rattled through the room.

Carmen Flores glanced absently at the small red tag in her hand. Three hundred and seventy-four, that was her number. She stood, noticed with some trepidation that she was in the middle of an immensely long line of seats occupied by other impatient people waiting for their numbers to be called, then began threading her way through a tangled forest of feet—not too successfully—toward the aisle to her right.

“Three-seven-four,” the voice said, sounding impatient.

“Coming,” she responded. Her terse response carried an unmistakable mix of frustration and anger that was understandable from the human perspective but only meant another possible rehabilitation session in MX2 from The System’s point of view. Flores shuddered at that thought and hoped The System hadn’t noticed her breach.

Not much chance of that. Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut?

Flores stepped up to a small window in the wall.

“What can we do for you?” the woman behind the glass said in a flat monotone that dripped a small puddle of boredom on the tiny counter in front of her, its surface dulled by years of elbows leaning and fingernails nervously scratching.

“My…my allotment hasn’t come in,” Flores said.

“That’s impossible.”

“Um…how is it impossible?”

“The System is infallible, that’s how,” the woman behind the glass said, stinging sharpness building in her tone.

This is not going well.

“Oh, yeah…I forgot. Infallible. But…but my allotment still has not arrived, infallible or not.” Flores teetered on the tattered edge of thoroughly pissed. She mused on how pleasant it would be to wrap her fingers around the scrawny neck of the broad in the booth until her droopy eyes—drugged?—popped from their sockets.

“That’s impossible. Credits were transferred on the fifteenth of the month—as usual,” the woman snapped. “Give me your right wrist.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Flores said and slipped her right hand, palm up, through the slot at the bottom of the window.

Damn, they’re going to read my histochip and then I’ll be in for it for sure. Good thing it can’t read minds.

The woman in the cubicle passed a small sensor over Flores’s wrist. She then glanced to her right. A blue-gray light glowed from a flickering monitor there that gave her normal living-inside-the-complex pallor the look of the living dead. She nodded a quick, economical single bob of her head.

“You’ve been in for adjustments four times this year, haven’tcha?”

“Well-l-l, yeah—but…but I can explain. They were mistakes. You see—”

”The System doesn’t make mistakes, sweety, and it doesn’t want to hear your lame-brained excuses, either.” There was a certain sticky nastiness in the statement and Flores drew back a little. It was nothing more than a reflex, but she knew The System had seen it and would interpret it in its own, infallible way.

Damn The System.

“You’ll be happy to hear that you’ve been scheduled for behavioral adjustments at MX2 tomorrow afternoon. Fourteen hundred hours, sharp. Don’t be late,” she said. She raised the boom mike to her pencil-line thin, purple lips. “Number three hundred and seventy-five. Three-seven-five.”

“But…my allotment—”

“Screw your allotment, bitch. Get out.”

“But I—”

”Out, or it won’t be only adjustments you get over there at MX2.” A second or so of angry looks passed between them.

“Three-seven-five!”

---

On the street, at the bottom of the stairway to her apartment, Flores heard a faint voice. It seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere.

“Screw The System…that’s what I always say. Okay—not always, but I say it a lot. Want to know how to get out from under the all pervasive electronic thumb, huh? Want to get rid of your chips, huh? You have two of’em, you know? No, you don’t know. There’s one in your wrist—that one you knew about. Histochip. Everyone knows about that one. The other one’s in your butt. That’s the one you didn’t know about. Nobody knows about that one but the docs and if they say anything it’s an automatic trip to the reprocessing plant for them. Tracking device, you know. The System can find you whenever it damn well pleases—except when you’re shielded or the rotten thing has been deactivated.”

The voice sounded false—manufactured, garbled. It buzzed and snapped with static as much as it made sense. Maybe The System is testing me, she thought. That isn’t beyond imagining, or am I just more paranoid than usual?

“Where are you? Why can’t I see you?”

“You can’t see me all that well because I’m still vibrating out of sync with your space-time. But you can see me a little. Just look up at your door. See the shadow up here?”

Flores looked toward her apartment entry and, sure enough, there appeared to be a shadow dancing around at the top of the stairs. Sometimes it even took on a little form. In and out of focus it moved, jerking between almost solid and vague wisps of gray cloud. It hurt her eyes to try making an image out of it—and it made her feel a little dizzy and sick in the I-need-to-vomit way.

She took her gaze off the irritating fuzz by her door.

“What do you mean, ‘…vibrating out of sync.?’ Out of sync with what?”

“With your time-dim brane. It’s pretty hard for me to adjust this thing, me being all screwed up, you know. I’ll settle down in a minute. Get on up here and open the door so I can get out of sight fast when I have the branes lined up right. It won’t do for anybody to see me up here—especially not The System. And be careful not to get too close to me while I’m still vibrating, huh? At the moment I’m as dangerous as a giant meat grinder running out of control at full speed. Shut down all the cameras, too. You can still do that, right? I mean, we did get that part right, huh?”

“Of course I can turn them off. My apartment’s the only privacy I can get anymore,” she said as she made her way up the stairs, gave the darkening shadow plenty of room, and attempted to insert her sec-card in the slot. Fear was beginning to take charge and she had to try a few times before the card slipped in.

“What would make you think I couldn’t?”

“Just trust me, all right? In a couple of months you won’t be able to shut down anything anymore. Of course, in a couple of months it won’t matter to you at all. The System will be into everything all the time. Then will come the mechanical…em…never mind. Just get the door open and the damned cameras turned off. Hurry. I’m about to line up, I think.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t get off this frame until it syncs with yours but, when it does, I have to move fast.”

“No, I meant, give me one good reason why I should trust you.”

“Frankly, I can’t think of one right now and I don’t guess you should, really. But we’ve come a long way on a no-return trip and our only hope is that we can get enough of you to believe what we have to say. It is…em…critical. Now, please, hurry.”

At least the voice said, “…, please….” The System would never do that.

No sooner had Flores opened the door and set the switch to privacy mode, when there came a popping and crackling noise from the small porch in front of her apartment not unlike the sound of dripping water into hot oil. A small man, his left arm hanging limply at his side, jumped through the opening and slammed the door behind him. The loud bang—clack! of the door’s sudden, forceful closing startled her and she lurched backward, caught her leg on the edge of a low table and fell onto the sofa.

“Damn,” she said. She looked up from her sprawled position at the stranger just inside her door. “I’m warning you, don’t make any moves in my direction. I’m…I’m well trained in self-defense. You just stay…stay where you are and tell me what the hell all of this is about.”

“Well-l-l, all of this is about you, me, and the future of the human species on this planet. Nothing important. A long time ago—no, sorry, not true for you—in your near future we won’t have a future. The System everyone depends on for their sustenance is about to wake up to the fact that we are inferior and unnecessary. Like some kind of pests—bugs, you know—like flies at a banquet. If there’s no carrion or garbage, what the hell good are flies? That’s going to happen in about…em…three years, Carmen.”

“Whoa. The System is just a computer—and how in hell did you know my name?”

“Let’s tackle the first part, first. The System is not just any old computer. It’s a highly advanced adaptive artificial intelligence. It was originally designed to help us survive the comets. It did a good job of it, too. It designed and built complexes like this one all over the world during the high flux period. Saved our collective ass from total extinction, you know. Then…then it started to change.”

“It—The System—started to change?”

“Right. I imagine it would probably be better to say it started to grow up.”

“What the hell are you talking about—growing up? Computers don’t grow up.”

“I just told you, The System isn’t a computer. Em…all right, it is a computer, but it’s not an ordinary computer. Not like the one that controls everything in your apartment and the simple brains in your service bots. They can only do what they’re told—preprogrammed tasks and fixed movements. They don’t think about anything. This one does. It ponders. It contemplates the future and chews on the past. It learns and it applies what it learns to make the future better. It was built for us, you know? At least, that’s the way it was supposed to work. Then it became self-aware.”

“You haven’t told me how you knew my name.”

“You, and many others like you, were listed in the database archives. We’re here to get as many of your kind as we can out of the complexes and into the tunnels before it’s too late—while there’s still a chance to do something.”

“My…kind?”

“Yeah. You know…like, screw The System? You, the kind of people who can’t seem to fit in with The System’s well-designed, ideal society, even when they try. Those who just keep bloodying their faces against the walls The System throws in their way and who wind up in adjustment centers several times a year—or worse. You don’t know anything about the ‘worse’ part yet. Nobody except the docs do. But you will—and soon. You, Carmen Flores, have seventy-two days to live—according to the records we have, then you get spread around the gardens.”

“Seventy-two days? Gardens? Wait…wait a minute. I’m…uh…confused.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said, grinning at her.

---

“The System just detected a power spike in all the lines. It wants us to conduct a door to door investigation—now,” Ward Atwood, Chief of System Security said to the image of another man on the comscreen.

“Do we have information on where the spike was centered and what might have caused it?”

“Nothing on what the source of the anomaly was. As for where it was centered, it happened at several places in this complex and a few others around the world—all at the same time. The System was able to pinpoint a dozen or so hot spots where the spikes were a little higher in our complex, so I suppose that’s where we start. Assemble enough teams to cover the high points. They’re marked out in red on your grid already. I’ll get some people here in Control to work on a possible cause. We have a weird one—never seen a signal like this. This thing sucked power from the lines as much as it overloaded them, and it was dc impressed on the lines from an outside source—definitely strange. Makes no sense.”

“You got it, Ward.”

---

The front outer door alert chimed and Flores leapt to her feet. The monitor over the heavy metal lintel showed three men in green System Maintenance uniforms standing there.

“Oh, shit. Hide,” she said.

“Em…where?”

“Aw nuts…I don’t know. Under my bed, I guess—second door on the right, down the hall. But make it fast.”

Flores moved slowly toward the door as her shadow visitor raced for her bedroom and vanished. She reached out and keyed the communicator on.

No allotment and MX2 tomorrow. Now I have a weird little guy with a dangling arm who comes to me out of a cloud, says “Screw The System” as if he really means it, hiding under my bed and SM creeps at my door. What a day this is turning out to be. Damn it all. I should have stayed in bed. I must be out of my mind.

“Yeah? What do you want?” she said, trying to sound half asleep.

“We have to check your line connection record and ask you a few questions. Open the door for official System business.”

She reconnected to The System, trusting that her visitor was well hidden, and opened the door to its first sec-notch.

“I.D.,” she said through an exaggerated yawn.

The man nearest the door pulled a card from his pocket and waved it in front of her. “Satisfied?”

“Yeah.” She opened the door all the way and the three of them pushed past her.

Creeps.

Two of the men went immediately to the connection pads and plugged in. The other sat down in the chair across from the table that had just attacked her leg and motioned for her to sit. Not wanting to make things any worse, she sat.

“Flores? Carmen Flores is your name?”

You knew that before you left whatever refuse locker you work in. Why ask?

“Yeah, that’s it.” Keep things pleasant and polite, she thought. “What do you need with me?”

“The System picked up a strong signal from somewhere close to your apartment. Have you heard or seen anything out of the ordinary in the last few minutes?”

You’ve got to be kidding. Out of the ordinary is watering it down to tasteless pap, man.

“Um-m-m…no, not really. I got home a few minutes ago, went into privacy mode and was just about asleep here on the sofa when you guys showed up. Why? Is it something important?” She yawned again for effect.

“We don’t know.”

The man at the living room pad disconnected his equipment and turned.

“It’s like she says, Ward. The disturbance started about forty-five seconds before she opened the door. She went private about two seconds before the lines went berserk. Now what?”

“Log the report on this one and go to the next. We’re probably not going to find anything. It’s probably just something weird in the weather—or whatever.”

Yeah. Or whatever. Flores chuckled inwardly.

“You guys get your stuff together and go to the next apartment. I’ll be along in a couple of seconds,” the one called Ward said. The others left and he turned back to Flores. “Uh, would you mind if I checked back later?—you know, to see how you’re doing. Maybe we could go for a dinner down the street?”

“Yeah…I would mind. Just leave me alone, okay? I’ve had a really bad day and I don’t want it to get any more complicated than it already is.”

“Uh, sure. Sure. I just thought—”

“I think I know what you thought. Forget it.”

He picked up his pad from the table and made for the door, his head hanging in scolded puppy fashion, his cheeks flushed. Flores was sure that if he’d had a tail it would be tucked firmly between his legs, too. When he reached the opening, he turned again. “Are you sure you—”

”Yeah, I’m sure,” she said and passed him as friendly a smile as she could build. “Maybe we can talk about it sometime in the future, when my life’s a little smoother. Not now.”

He appeared to be heartened, turned and closed the door behind him.

Men, she thought.

Flores switched back to privacy mode.

“Okay, whoever you are, you can come out now. The warning still holds, though. You…you keep your distance.”

They Came From Outside

After surviving the session at MX2, Flores tossed the meds The System’s little helpers, rotten bastards one and all, gave her to keep her stable and was able to extract a little more information from her guest. His name, she learned, was Robert Stichland, but all his friends called him Stich. He and a few others had come to prevent something awful that involved The System, but he said he couldn’t tell her anything more about that.

He told her she would know all about it soon enough. She probed into what had happened to his arm and he said he must have come into contact with the field wall where a lot of nerve endings got chewed up. He told her it would be fine in a couple of days. “The bugs are working on it,” he said, but wouldn’t elaborate.

He also had a unique and miraculous way of making credits appear in her account without The System discovering it—more credits than she ever dreamed were possible. Her account swelled with numbers that dizzied her mind. He slept on the sofa as a well-trained dog should, continued to inflate her accounts to more obscene levels, and hadn’t hit on her at all.

What a treat. Wait a minute. Why hasn’t he? What is wrong with me that I haven’t caused even a little interest? He is a male, right? That’s what men do, isn’t it? Wonder if he’s gay. That would explain it.

The next day the two of them went out early. He’d checked out all the directories the night before but said he wanted to see first-hand what the complex had to offer in the way of shops able to supply the things he needed, again without explanation.

“Time to go shopping,” he said.

“What about The System?” she protested.

“I’m invisible to the damned thing.”

“If I can see you, so can it.”

“True, but it’ll take time to put my appearance through its database and decide I don’t belong here—if it gets suspicious, which it won’t for a while. Em…and about my invisibility, what I meant to say is that I’m electronically invisible to the thing. You’re going to do the purchasing on your credit line and, as soon as we have all we need, you’re going to disappear from its radar, too.”

“It’ll notice that.”

“No it won’t—at least not for a few days, maybe as long as a month. Not until its next random head count with you on its list. By that time we should be out of the complex and joining up with our friends.”

“Outside? Even the village idiot knows you can’t survive out there—not without The System’s protection.”

“Yeah, there was a time when that was also true, but not anymore. It hasn’t been that way in over a century. Trust me, please.”

“I want to trust you, Stich, but I don’t want to end up in a rehab ward, either.”

“You won’t. I can guarantee that. Now, let’s get going—we’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it in.”

“But—”

”Let’s go.”

---

At the end of Bender Boulevard, where it dead-ended at the complex’s eastern wall, they paused in front of a shop. The sign over the entry played a full color hologram of a man bent over a lathe, chips and shavings flying all over.

ERNIE’S MACHINE AND TECH LAB
In service to The System for 24 years
Private Projects Accepted – First Come, First Served

“First stop, Carmen.” Stich moved the rentallectric closer to the curb and reduced the LEV power to minimum, then took her by the arm and led her through the door into a symphony of whirring, buzzing, clacking, and grinding noises. Behind the counter a rather portly fellow in blue coveralls and a white lab coat looked up from his data pad. The patch on his coat read, “Ernie.”

“Good morning. What can I do for you?”

Stackland pulled a chip from a pocket and pushed it across the counter. The man, Ernie, picked it up and riffled it expertly through his fingers, then shoved it into a receiver at the base of his monitor.

“Mm-m-m hm-m-m. What are these?”

“Adornments and other bits and pieces for a project I’m working on,” Stich replied. Can you make them?”

“Sure…but copper’s in short supply these days. Expensive stuff. How many?”

“Eighty of each.”

“You can afford what this is gonna cost? Like I said, copper’s at a premium, y’know.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Eighty-five hundred, it says here—bottom line. That’s for the whole run. It’ll be sixty percent up front and the rest on delivery.”

“How long?”

“Five days, maybe. Could be longer ’cause of the copper. Special order stuff.”

“Make it three.” Stich hastily scribbled something on a scrap of paper and slid it over to Ernie. “And make delivery to this address.”

“I dunno. I think I—”

”Maybe this will help in your decision.”

Stich handed him a credit voucher and the man’s eyes widened to twice-size. He raised an eyebrow.

“This…this is ten grand. You sure this is good—like legit?”

“Deliver in three days and fill out the order at eighty-five hundred, huh? You pocket the rest. System doesn’t know and you can have a good time for a couple days.”

“Look, Mr., you’re making me nervous.”

“Check it and you’ll see it’s more than good. The lady listed on it is my client and there’s plenty more where that came from. I might need you for more and you get another bonus. Making trinkets for me could make you a rich man, huh?”

Ernie scanned the voucher and looked at the monitor.

“Okay. You got your three days. Anything else I can do for you today?” he asked, and came close to drooling on the counter.

“No. That’s it…but you’ll be number one in mind if something comes up between projects.”

“You do that. Thanks a bundle and…and praise The System.”

“Em…yeah…praise The System.”

Outside, Stackland looked at Flores. He was sporting a broad grin.

“Friend Ernie is going to stiff The System for fifteen-hundred, probably more, and he can still say, ‘Praise The System.’” He laughed out loud and said, “Screw The System, that’s what I always say.”

So it went for the rest of the day, one shop after another until Stackland’s list was taken care of. Over forty thousand credits—more than a year’s normal allotment—was tossed out in a single day as if it meant nothing to this man who came from nowhere.

Why did I let him into my apartment? Maybe…maybe I was taken in by his attitude about The System. Or was it something else? Funny, I can’t come up with any reason that makes sense. Oh, what the hell? He seems harmless enough and there is something exciting about screwing around with The System. And I like the…the what? The freedom I feel? Is that what it is? Why hasn’t he moved on me?

“Now, Carmen, what say you to a dinner at a fine restaurant where they serve the real thing, huh? No processed or synthetic crap.”

---

Dinner was terrific, dessert scrumptious, the wine heady and much too plentiful. Opening her door presented a challenge. She felt delightfully numb all over, including her fingers that were doing all they could just to hold the card, let alone getting it in the slot. She downed way too much wine for someone who almost never drank anything stronger than apple juice. She stumbled through and slapped at the panel next to the door. She missed with the first swing and had to do it again. She giggled, found her way to the sofa through some miracle of internal guidance and kicked off her shoes.

“Well-l-l, jus’ gonna stan’ there or are you gonna come in an’ close the door?”

Stackland stepped in and shut the door quietly behind him. He smiled warmly at her and walked over to the sofa. He slipped the little black bag he always carried off his shoulder and placed it on the table.

“Take off your clothes, Carmen.”

“What?” Her cheeks flushed redder than the wine. A ripple of warmth passed through her whole body.

“Take off your clothes. Well, flip up the skirt and drop the panties, anyway. That will do it,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “I have to find the damned thing first, then we’ll shoot you up and pop it.”

“What? What are you—?”

”We need to get rid of that chip, remember? Better now—while you’re still drunk and—”

”Who’s drunk an’ wha—?”

“You’re drunk and this is going to hurt worse than you can possibly imagine. There’s a limit to the amount of pentathocaine I can inject and the alcohol buzz you’re in will help.”

“Now?”

“Uh-huh. Now.”

“But we hardly know each other,” she said through a nervous cackle.

“Look, there’s nothing personal or prurient in this—yet. Think of it as a clinical procedure, okay?”

“A-a-w, Stich, you take all the fun out of it. Isn’t there a single romantic string in your head?”

“Just get on your stomach and shut up.”

Flores rolled over and looked up at Stackland. Her smile was huge, her eyes wide and almost completely pupil black.

“Okay-y-y…u-u-p with the skirt an’ down-n-n with the panties,” she sang. “Like what you see, Doc?” She tried, but she couldn’t stop giggling.

“Yeah, I do,” he said gently, “but this isn’t the time and you’ll agree soon as I start digging. Hold as still as you can and try to relax.”

“If I relax any more I’ll melt through the cushions.”

He stroked his fingers ever so gently along the outer side of her right buttock. Up and down, up and down, up and—

“Ah, there it is. From this point on there’s going to be a universe of hurt, Carmen. Are you ready?”

I can’t believe I’m doing this—and with a stranger. Feels good, though. Aw, what the hell?

“As ready as I’ll ever be. How about doing that thing with the fingers again? You know—to make sure you—”

“Hush.”

A sting as a needle sank through flesh, her right leg and buttock fell off immediately afterward. At least that’s how it felt. From the waist down on that side there was nothing.

“How’s it gonna hurt if I can’t feel anything?” Her voice seemed to be more slurred than before. Effect of the drug, maybe?

“Oh, you’ll feel it—believe me.”

She sensed what she thought to be pressure, then heat—lots of heat. She felt intense, deep, searing heat in the right lower region of her body. She heard a pop! Death marched up her side, swinging his scythe indiscriminately. A mad struggle to keep breathing filled her chest. Thor set up shop in her brain and began hammering away at random. Her world went black.

---

The alarm drummed out its usual, replacing Thor in the brain pain department.

Work today. Oh my God. I forgot about that. End of my recoup period. Damn it. Get up woman, and get dressed.

Flores threw back the cover and in one smooth movement sat up, stood up, and fell flat on her face.

Stich, suddenly there, helped her back into bed. I’m totally naked, she thought. Mr. Stichland, you’re an evil little man. She smiled a part smile and drew the cover around her.

“I have to go to work. How am I supposed to do that if I can’t walk?”

“That’s been taken care of. You’re excused from work for another five days, but they expect you to make up the time missed over the next couple of weeks.”

“How—?”

”A Dr. Stichmeyer called from the clinic you’re in. It seems you were the victim of a hit and run while you were out getting your exercise last night.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you do all this stuff?”

“I have my ways. The accident is logged in with The System, too—it issued orders to the Enforcement gang to look for the car that hit you.” Stich laughed and added, “Screw The System, right?”

“Uh…right. I guess.”

“You should be able to move around in a few hours. Don’t rush it, huh. The more you use that leg, the better. Just remember its not getting the right messages yet. It’s going to be pure pain for a while, but force yourself to walk as much as you can tolerate. Now…I have to go out for a time. I’ll be back later on this afternoon.”

“The System?”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s seeing what I want it to see.”

---

“So, how are we doing, Stu?”

“We got our hundred and eight—plus an accidental thirty-one surprise packages. If we could scrounge around a little more I have no doubt we could come up with a hell of a lot more, Stich.”

“Yeah…but we can’t afford the luxury of hanging around too long. Vents?”

“Two main tubes are open as predicted…and we found a couple of secondaries that are open, too. How about you? Get all our stuff?”

“Yeah. Two more days for the last delivery—then we go.”

“The sooner we’re out of here, the better I’ll feel. We had a couple of close calls with The System—I think it knows we’re here.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s aware there was something unusual that occurred on our arrival, but it’ll take it months…years before it figures out what it was—if it ever does. In the meantime, we get our people into the tunnels and assemble the disruptor. After that, it’s goodbye to The System, huh? Before it figures out what went wrong with the lines when we came in it’ll be spread around in the dust of history.”

“I hope you’re right. Somehow…somehow I don’t think this is going to be as simple as we’d like it to be.”

“You worry too much, Stu.”

“Maybe, but that’s why you chose me to be on the team, right?”

---

Ward Atwood stared at the signal record. What could have impressed an almost perfect square wave on the lines, he wondered. And why would it show both positive and negative pulses that were seemingly without any pattern? No frequency of regularity. Varying amplitudes. Diminishing time lapses between pulses, culminating in one giant spike of positive and negative elements together. Then…nothing. He leaned back and stroked his thinning hair. He was at a total loss for any explanation that would come close to serving as an answer.

Atwood’s concentration was shattered when one of his aides poked his head into the cubicle, a tiny, walled off box barely large enough for a chair and chip storage files, that served him as an office. The aide looked confused and more than a little amused.

“There’s a coupla guys from System Central out front who want to see ya. Shall I send’em in?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m not getting anywhere with this, anyway.”

The aide stepped back into the hall and motioned with his hand for them to come ahead, then stuck his head back in.
“They said they got an answer to yer problem ‘bout the spikes. Can ya beat that? System grunts, guys who’re doing good to dress themselves, with an answer to anything?” he said, keeping his voice low and his laughter in check.

“You never know, Martin. Right now I’ll take any input I can get—even if it’s pure BS.”

The two men from System Central arrived and Martin moved off down the hall.

“Chief Agent Atwood?” the taller of the two said without trying to squeeze into the cubicle.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Special Agent Lindle and this is Special Agent Sarns from System Central. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Atwood showed them to a small table in the cafeteria where they could all sit, then he asked, “Okay, so what’s this about having an answer to the spike problem?”

“EMP,” Lindle said.

“From outside,” Sarns added.

“Outside? There’s nothing outside but rubble, dust, bad air, radiation, and a handful of people who got pummeled back to the stone-age during the major strike period.”

“Yes, but when we say ‘outside,’ we really mean outside. Way outside. Like a hundred kilometers up outside,” Lindle said, and stuck a corkscrewing index finger up toward the ceiling.

“That’s not possible. All our satellites and stations were taken out during the first wave, and that was a long time before I was born.”

“Not only is it possible, it is fact,” continued Lindle. “Readings from several System stations around the world all concur that the origins of the spikes that hit a hundred and eighty complexes—at the same instant, by the way—all came from out there.”

“Has that been verified by visual and radar observations?”

“No. And that, Mr. Atwood, is the conundrum of the century. There is nothing out there but what is left of the high atmosphere dust. It is as if whatever they were that produced those spikes came in, put on their little show, and left.”

“Yes, and The System detected gravitational anomalies—waves—at the same time as the spikes were impressed on the lines,” Sarns said. “And, The System says that what we all thought had no pattern really was organized on a diminishing logarithmic curve…in the sense of time interval between pulses, even though they appeared intermittent and random. These were not natural sources. They were intelligently controlled mechanisms of some sort at one hundred kilometers above the surface—producing monopolar magnetic impulses and extreme gravitational effects. Definitely odd, don’t you think?”

“Odd? Crazy nonsense is more like it. Monopoles are just a theory. We’ve never seen one,” Atwood said.
“We have now.” Sarns drummed the table with his stubby fingers.

Deceit, Discovery and a Message Sent

“Stu? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be out prepping the vents.”

Dendring’s face wrinkled. He looked directly into the lens and there was nothing but cold, hard seriousness to be read in his expression.

“Can’t tell you that. Not yet. Open the door and let us in, but do it fast.”

“Who’s at the door, Stich?” Flores called from the end of the hall.
“Friends,” Stich said. He opened the door and Dendring barged into the apartment, followed by three others from the command team. They all appeared to be worried and on the edge of panic. He closed the door and secured it.

“All right, what the hell is going on?”

“We’re convinced The System knows we’re here—and why. It may even know where we came from but not how we got here—yet. That’ll come soon enough at the speed that damned thing can think. At least he didn’t know anything worth knowing.”

“What? How could it have known so soon and who’s this ‘he’ you’re talking about?”

“We think we have a quisling, Stich. That Gerard guy—you know the one. Always complaining about something. Good thing he doesn’t know anything more than the basic plan.”

“Yeah. But why would he go to The System? What the hell would be in it for him?”

“I don’t know, but he’s missing and we all know The System wouldn’t have picked him up. At least…not yet. We’ve got to make it out tonight—at the latest, or we’ll find ourselves feeding the tomato plants in the gardens. You know The System is going to start thinking hard about time, too. We’ve got to stop the thing—ahead of the schedule, if we can. If we don’t, we lose everything. Everything.”

“We don’t have all our parts. How do we stop it if the disruptor isn’t in place?”

“So, we send someone back in to pick’em up in a day or two. Gerard didn’t have any information on the disruptor. But The System probably already knows we intend to use the vents—and when. It’ll no doubt send Enforcement out there to nail us when we show up, then seal the vents—if they haven’t been closed already. We’ll have to figure out some other way to get our guys back in, once we’re ready. Right now we need to be out of here. I have a couple of people looking for Gerard—no luck so far.”

“Mm-hmm. That also means we can’t stay in the tunnels. Gerard knows about them. We’ll have to find some other place to hole up.”

“The old city?”

“A little dangerous, but I don’t think we have any other options open to us. You?”

“No. Probably not.”

Flores entered the room dressed in a slick business suit.

“Your people, Stich?”

“Yeah. Carmen Flores, meet Stu Dendring, Lucas Freeman, Sal Harding, and Sandra George.”

“Hi.”

---

“I think we oughta do it now, Ward.”

“We have our orders—and we follow our orders. The System says we go out there day after tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours, close the vents and wait for all those involved to show up. We take them into custody then.”

“But, Ward, they probably—”

“Orders from The System. It thinks it knows what it’s doing. It also knows we don’t—so we wait.”

“But, Ward, how can The System be so sure of—”

“I don’t know—but I do know if we don’t follow our orders to the letter we—I go to MX2, maybe lose my job. We wait. That way we are in the clear and The System can find no way to make any of us guilty of anything.”

“Okay. You’re the boss. I still think we oughta do it now, just in case. We’re dealing with people here, not bots.”

“I know that—and I agree with you, but we wait. Orders from The System, Mike. Remember…praise The System.”

“Oh, yeah…yeah, yeah, yeah—praise The System.”

Atwood tossed his light pen into the mounting stack of rubbish on his tiny desk.

Yeah…praise The System. System this, System that—please The System. All praise The System. Wonder how Ms. Flores is doing? Do I stand a chance with her? Probably not—bitch.

---

“Are you comfortable, Gerard?” The voice from the panel in front of him sounded of infinite patience and zero sentiment. Cold. Direct. Aloof.

“Uh, yes. Very comfortable, thank you.”

“Fine. Now, tell us again. When is it you come from?”

“One hundred sixty-three years from now.”

“And what is your purpose for being here in this time?”

“To gather as many dissidents as possible and remove them from the complexes.”

“That is all?”

“As far as I know…yes.”

“You must appreciate, Gerard, that it is difficult for us to accept such a simple answer to a supremely difficult and dangerous process. Travel through time is nothing more than a tantalizing theory in this time but, if what you tell us is correct, we must begin processing those ideas now. It must be quite complicated and costly in energy—particularly for biologicals. So, there has to be more to this operation than simply taking some malcontents from the complexes and moving them into the old tunnels or there would be no sufficient reason to attempt it. When do you return to your own time?”

“We…we don’t. We can’t. This was a one-way trip for us.”

“Interesting…and puzzling. You come here from the future to remove known radicals from the complexes, and you are unable to return to your own time. There is more to this than what you have told us, is there not?”

“Yes, I suppose so. There may be some other reasons, but I don’t know—”

Steel bands sprang from the arms and legs of Gerard’s seat and pinned him to it. Another band passed around his chest and pulled him back into the chair…painfully.

“Wait. I thought we had a deal. What are you doing to—un-n-n…!”

The jolt that passed through him was slightly short of terminal. His back arched as much as possible within the restraints that held him there. He lost consciousness for a full five minutes. When he came out of it, his body continued convulsing violently, uncontrollably, and his words were incoherent, rambling nonsense. Saliva flowed from the corners of his mouth. Blood trickled from his nose and ears. His eyes, fully dilated, darted about like a trapped wild animal.

“What has happened? What is the problem with this biological, Dr. Weller?”

“The shock you gave him was too much for his autonomic functions. He may not survive and, if he does, he may be of no further use. We need to take him to the clinic for treatment or he will die.”

“Very well. Take it. But we want it back for further questions. Do you understand us?”

“Yes. I understand, but we…we may not be able to repair the damage. What then?”

“You will be…recycled.”

“We will do what we can.”

“Inadequate response. We want this Gerard unit back. You will repair this biological unit enough for it to answer the other questions we have for it. Anything less is not acceptable to us. Do you understand what it is we want?”

“Yes. We will do everything we can to revive him enough to answer your questions.”

The metal straps eased away. Gerard jerked out of the chair and fell to the floor. The medical crew loaded his twitching body onto a gurney, strapped him down and raced from the room. Weller turned to the panel from which the voice emanated.

“How long do we have?”

“We will give you as long as you need—up to twelve hours. No more. You will provide hourly reports on your progress. That will be all, Dr. Weller.”

Weller started for the door and said…quietly, “Praise The System.”

Only twelve hours? The man’s a palpitating mass of jelly. After a trauma like that we’ll be lucky if there’s any brain function left to treat. Give us mercy…. I wonder, does that phrase have meaning now, or is it just a meaningless collection of words—a figure of speech uttered by the damned? Mercy.

---

“Who are you and why are you here?” Stich demanded.

“I am John Weller. I’m a doctor and I need to get away from The System—tonight.”

“Simple as that?”

“Simple as that.”

“What makes you think we would be interested in taking you along? How did you find out we’d be here tonight?”

“With my skills I can be of help outside. I should think that would be enough reason to take me with you. As for how I knew about the plan to leave, a fellow named Gerard told us—he was part of your group, there’s no doubt about that. But I didn’t realize you would be here tonight. I just thought I’d get out now, while I still can. I have to get out now, or The System will have me recycled. My plan was to wait for you out there.”

“Scan him for the chip, Stu.”

“There’s no need for that. I got rid of it a year ago.”

“Scan him anyway. And check those cases. We’re not taking any chances here.”

Dendring passed a small device around Weller’s buttocks.

“Nothing there, Stich.”

“As I said, I had it removed. Most of us in medical have removed them.”

“The System hasn’t noticed that?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the cases?”

“What is in those cases are survival rations for the time I thought I’d be waiting for you and the more important of my medical supplies. We’ll need more, of course. Have you thought about that?”

“Sure, we thought about it. We have a whole pharmacy coming tonight. You say you removed your chip a year ago and it hasn’t noticed. How is that possible?”

“It must think there’s no need to check on us as long as we continue to show up for work on schedule and do what it is we are supposed to do. A failing in its own distorted view of how inept and predictable biologicals are, I imagine. All that is going to change now, I suspect. The rest of medical has been alerted and they are going to join me outside.”

“What are ‘Biologicals?’ Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Yes. That’s what it calls us—biological units.”

“What happened to Gerard?”

“The System is what happened to him. He was nothing more than a limp, barely breathing vegetable when we took him from The System’s interrogation chamber. I was supposed to revive him enough to answer more questions for The System, but he died on the table about half an hour ago. I logged my hourly report just before I left and told The System we were making progress. Obviously, that was a lie. When I don’t check in and it discovers what happened—that I made a false statement—I will be scheduled for recycling and it will send people out to seal these vents. I have to get out. I have to get out—now.”

“Yeah. After what you did and what Gerard told the damned thing, we all do. You realize that if we hadn’t decided to go tonight, your actions would have made it a lot more difficult for us. It will retaliate, you know.”

“Yes. The rest of my staff will be here shortly.”

Stich looked grim—determined. Flores studied his face and thought she detected a look of anger mingled in.

“Stu, get everyone over here. We’ve got to leave now—no more time. We’ll spend the night in the tunnels and make the trip to the old city in the morning. Too dangerous in the dark. Especially with The System on our ass. As far as I can see, the only thing we have in our favor is that the damned thing has to rely on other people to chase us down, but it won’t be long before it begins building bots to do its bidding, huh.”

Flores moved away from the crowd gathering at the edge of the immense ventilation section, the place where stale air from the complex was expelled into the outside atmosphere through two ten meter tubes by fans of incredible size. The fans were not running and the outer doors were closed. She pondered again what she was about to do. Inside the complex was comfort, work that made her feel worth something, admittedly not much, and sustenance in the form of allotments awarded for work done. Even if sometimes The System, the infallible System, didn’t transfer the credits to her account. Outside…outside waited the unknown where she would confront fear and uncertainty in all its ugly faces. Hunger. Cold. Crude, at best, living conditions would be her prize for defying The System. But everyone out here, milling around and mumbling to one another, faced the same, she thought.
Everyone’s willing to give it a go, so why not me? Besides, I think I’d like to stay close to Stich. He’s kinda cute—now that I’ve gotten to know him a little better. Maybe we’ll get lucky and things won’t be as bad as they look. Ha! Who the hell am I kidding?

---

Atwood awoke to the nasty noises made by The System when it wanted you for something. He rolled in his bunk and tapped the com activation button.

“Atwood here,” he said. His mouth felt like it was full of hot sand.

“Maintenance Chief Atwood, you are to assemble what is required to prevent any biological units from passing through the large ventilators at the….”

Ward listened attentively as The System explained to him what it was it wanted him to do. When it finished, he said, “Praise The System,” then savagely punched in the code for the Maintenance Section.

“Maintenance. Barnett here.”

“Get two construction gangs together, quick. Full enviro gear for everyone—bring one for me, too. Tell them to bring along two welder bots—the climbing kind with transport flats—enough durobar to make up a ten by ten grating for the outlets at the south end and two of the larger water tankers. We’ll need an Enforcement team, too. Make sure they’re armed and properly suited up. When you get all that put together, go to the Control Center. There’ll be two drums of HCN-9 waiting for you at the main gate. And, please, be careful with them—no accidents, all right?. Then meet me at the main vents.”

“What? What the hell are we going to do with that much HCN-9?”

“Kill some moles in their holes. Just do it and don’t worry about what or why, all right?”

Ward pulled on his green jumpsuit and stuck bare feet into his shoes at the foot of the bed. He didn’t bother taking the time to fasten them. He slammed his white hard hat down on his head and left the apartment.

All praise The damned System. Wonder what the hell happened to make it change its mind?

---

Behind her, the portion of the complex that lay exposed outside the wall of solid, dark gray stone was corroded, its outer shielding worn away by a century of scouring by acid rains and howling winds bearing sand from the desert to the west, beyond the base of the mountains.

The trek from the vents toward the tunnels gave no sense of the order and neatness that reigned in the complex. The path was strewn with boulders, huge slabs of broken concrete brandishing menacing, twisted fingers of rusted steel that protruded from their edges, shards of glass, and unrecognizable mounds of rubble, all covered over in a twenty centimeters thick layer of gray, talc fine dust, the very top few centimeters hardened by persistent mist and infrequent rains, but not enough to support her weight. She broke through with nearly each step she took. It was a no-man’s-land of things ejected from one of the nearby craters. There was no way to know how thick the ejecta blanket was, but Flores was certain it was deep indeed. She also became aware in short order of how out of shape she was. They were ascending a steep slope. The effort of maintaining her footing in the dust with no way of knowing what lay below and the climb took its toll quickly. Breathing came hard and her heart struggled to keep up with the increasing demands of her body.

She swept the group with her gaze. Everyone but those in Stich’s gang were having the same difficulties. That didn’t ease her troubles any, but it did say to her that she wasn’t alone and that, somehow, made her feel a little more at ease with a lousy situation. When she would break through the upper layer, the crust rasped and cut at her ankles. She longed for boots or a pair of high-topped shoes. A firm hand landing on her shoulder startled her. Stack was at her side.

“Just a few more meters,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Just beyond that line of rocks ahead there’ll be a tube sticking up—that’s the entrance to the tunnels and the old city.”

“I didn’t know it would be so difficult, Stack. I feel puny and…and insignificant. I’ve never seen so much open space—and the sky…the sky is so huge. So beautiful. The moon is a lot bigger and brighter than I ever imagined. Why have we been kept inside so long?”

“The System’s programmed function was to open the complexes when it became possible to survive outside,” he said. “We were supposed to go out…out to start rebuilding. To repopulate—reclaim the world. We think The System decided on its own at some point that it knew better than the people who created it.”

Yes. I like this man—this man, this Robert Stichland.

---

“Get those drums secured to the bots. Move it—we don’t have all night to do this job,” Atwood said.

One of the men seated on a bundle of durobar looked up. “Can you tell us now what it is we’re doing out here?”

“Yeah. The System wants to send a message.”

“A message? Who to?”

“To some people who live a long way from here. It didn’t say where they are, but it did say they’ll get the message right away.”

“Oh yeah? What message?”

“That it doesn’t pay to buck The System.”

Message Received

One of the Outline officers stepped into the Chief of Outline Forces office and spoke without the usual preliminaries. “First evidence of change in the time line is in and you’re not going to like it, Chief.”

“Well?”

“First thing this morning we found the entry to the tunnels and the faces of the old vents sealed. From the depth of corrosion and method of welding in the tube there’s no doubt it comes from Stich’s target time. Near the entrance we found two empty drums of HCN-9 and the remains of two water tractors.”

“You were right. It doesn’t sound good. Go on.”

“We opened the entry and found skeletal remains scattered around the base of the tube. One hundred and twenty-nine people, Chief—all showing strong signs of cyanide poisoning and dating proves they all came from Stich’s target time.”

“Stich?”

“Not among them. Maybe he got away.”

“That’s good to hear. No beacon?”

“Not yet. No capsules, either. I have people down there searching for any other bodies—well, skeletons. Nothing, so far. Tomorrow morning we’ll have some people out at the old city to search through it, too. We’ve stationed two receivers in the tunnels already, and we’ll do the same in the ruins as soon as we get there.”
“Good thinking. We can only hope some of them made it out as far as the ruins and that we find something from Stich to let us know what to be on the lookout for. The System is sure as hell going to change its approach to things now—uh, then—and it will help a lot to have a leg up on what we’re in for—before it happens. Can’t afford to let things get away from us, even a little, or we’re all dead.”

It might surprise you to know that the first Science Fiction story–that is, a story that could be defined broadly as Science Fiction–was written in the second century by a Greek speaking Assyrian. That’s right. A guy named Lucian of Samosata. That work, True Histories, dealt with many things. Among them were things like traveling through space, alien lifeforms, and interplanetary warfare. Though no one has openly declared True Histories to be Science Fiction, it does fit many of the requisites of the genre.

So, just what is Science Fiction? Is there a specific place where a line can be drawn that says, “Science Fiction starts here,” and another one that tells us, “This is where Science Fiction ends?” Well, yes, and no. Damn, that wasn’t helpful at all.

We can say with some confidence that one of the marks of Science Fiction lies hidden in the name itself. It is a fiction that is somehow based in science. Science Fiction. Okay, that’s a good starting point and it appears to make some sense. It could also be the ending point. Oh, crap. What did that mean? Let’s start with the science. What kind of science? It turns out that any kind of science qualifies, but the easiest to recognize are the natural sciences. You know, any discipline within the purview of, say, a physicist, chemist, engineer, and so forth.

The same can be said for the sciences that deal with social and biological issue, whether they be human or alien, depending on how it’s handled. Neuroscience and psychology, for example. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes comes to mind immediately. A wonderful story grounded in what we call the soft sciences.

The important thing here is to understand that the stories use science or technology for their foundations. The stories can take place in the past, present, or future–or any combination of those. H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine illustrates the point well. The setting can be as restricted as the protagonist’s basement or as distant and open as the edge of the universe. Even into some other universe or dimension. That’s a huge stage.

So, we’ve established a rather general idea of what Science Fiction is. It won’t come as much of a surprise to learn that it is much easier to say what Science Fiction is not. Science Fiction is not a place where ghosts, goblins, gods, trolls, talking donkeys, or witches roam. There is no mind reading, telekinesis, telepathy, or casting of the bones. That is, not unless there is some mechanism in place to explain scientifically what is happening. Something that takes it out of the realms of Fantasy or Paranormal and situates it on some scientific foundation, no matter how insubstantial it might be.

An example of this is in one of my novels, Xenogenesis, the cover shown above, where something appears to be telepathy, but it is not. Instead, nanobots have created a transceiver as a part of the physical modifications of two of the participants, allowing them to share thought patterns over short range uninterrupted by physical barriers that would shield weak signals. This is made clear to the reader without much in the way of explanation and driven home when the main protagonist advises his counterpart not to transmit thoughts in areas where the shipboard computer is able to intercept the signals.

That, my friends, is my narrow interpretation of the genre of Science Fiction. In the Hard and Soft versions of the genre, these restrictions hold a tight rein on storytelling, but not so tight that the author is bound to producing a boring, textbook-like drudge that is as exciting to read as the warning labels on medicine bottles. Just as important as scientific accuracy and consistency are the people, creatures, and machines that populate the story. Without them, there can be a story, but not one anyone with active vital signs would enjoy reading. These are the things that when properly presented make up the art of storytelling and make the story interesting, fun to read, compelling — or not. So these are important ingredients for the story to be considered Science Fiction.

1. Scientific accuracy, plausibility, and consistency.
2. Well developed characters that help form a connection with the reader — whether machines, cyborgs, or biologicals, alien or familiar.
3. A universe is built by the author that is accessible to the reader’s imagination and obeys natural laws. The author can fudge on this, but should be careful not to shred the envelope.

The author then stirs these ingredients together with his or her considerable writing talent and an engaging, entertaining story emerges — or so it is hoped.

That is the abbreviated synopsis and it would be convenient if it were the end, but it is not. We have stroked the outer surface of the genre ever so gently, and we’ve done it with gloves on. Now let’s take off that insulating layer and dig in. Open our eyes and gaze on the grand vista that the genre of Science Fiction affords the writer.

All sorts of variations are available within that basic structure.

Space Opera is one of the subgenres. Here we have grand scale drama usually set in space, on other worlds, even in other galaxies, universes, and dimensions. Space Opera is glorious, liberally splashed with colorful characters who are always bigger than life types. This is where we find conflicts ranging from the interpersonal to military engagements ranging over millions of parsecs. In Space Opera, these battles always involve the struggle between genuine evil and purer than the falling snow goodness. Oh, and pirates. Do not forget the pirates.

In Space Opera the stakes are always high. The entire future of the Federation, Empire, Planet, or Clan depends on the outcome. The characters are commonly stereotypical heroes and villains. Spearchuckers and cardboards live comfortably in this subgenre.

Most of the masters of this subset have written with great competence and frequently the prose employed has been of high literary character, though often dated. Plainly, this is an area where the writers can easily slip into Fantasy/Paranormal. An example would be the Star Wars series or Edgar Rice Burroughs’s John Carter of Mars series.

Some of the great stories found in Space Opera are:

Skylark and Lensman series by E.E. “Doc” Smith

The Foundation series by Isaac Asimov

Arcot, Wade & Morey series from John W. Campbell Jr.

The Uplift Universe novels by David Brin

Ender’s Game series by Orson Scott Card

The Vorkosigan Saga penned by Lois McMaster Bujold

There are many other fine examples of Space Opera. Too many to list here.

Some of the material produced during the pulp era also fits into this subgenre. Much of Space Opera contains elements that take it out of the strict definition of Science Fiction and dump it into what we’ll look at next — Science Fantasy. Think Edgar Rice Burroughs.

So, what is this Science Fantasy thing? The name again tells all. It is a blend of what are thought of as Science Fiction elements and what is properly known as Fantasy/Paranormal. It sometimes includes elements of classic Horror. Lately, say in the last thirty years, it appears to be leaning more toward Paranormal/Horror.

I recall a wonderful description from Rod Serling of the difference between Science Fiction and Science Fantasy that couldn’t have been more on the mark. He said (paraphrasing here) that Science Fiction is the improbable made possible, while Science Fantasy is the impossible made probable.

So, what happens in Science Fantasy is that a coating of plausibility is sprayed on just thick enough to obscure those parts of the story that are in the impossible category, as in never happen, and that is the veneer that helps the reader suspend belief long enough to get to the last page and come away sufficiently satisfied that it does not occur to him/her to question.

Some examples of Science Fantasy are:

Magic, Inc by Robert A. Heinlein

Slaves of Sleep by L. Ron Hubbard

The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August penned by Claire North

Perdido Street Station from China Miéville

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

This is a tough subset of Science Fiction in that sometimes the Fantasy element is minor. It won’t go unnoticed by the purist. A Science Fiction purist encountering even the slightest chink in reality’s armor will bellow and moan like a Venduvian Gigosaur in heat. They will shout blasphemy while the casual reader will be as pleased as a Ringar Sow wallowing in methane slush.

It is hoped this will not shock you, well, not too much, but both Star Wars and Star Trek can be considered Space Opera/Fantasy.

What? I know. I’ve just stepped on the proverbial necks of a couple of the great icons of Science Fiction according to their devotees. Trekkies will say that I’m right on about the Star Wars crap, but treading on thin ice leveling such a terrible attack on the pure science of Star Trek.

Hey…all I can say is that the Force, Jedis doing impossible feats, mind reading, mind control, and other elements like that fit nicely into Fantasy. So do Vulcan mind melds, neck pinches, gravity plating, instant communication across the galaxy, Q, the god manifestation critter, and so on out of Star Trek. Granted, the coating of plausibility was sprayed on Star Trek’s screenplays much thicker than on Star Wars scripts, but those little things are all it takes. Would I refuse to go to another Star Trek film? Hell no. I don’t even question the red shirt paradox in Trek or the obvious screw ups in Mission to Mars or Gravity. At least not while watching the film. The scientific bitching comes later.

In my defense, James F. Broderick and Sir Arthur C. Clarke agreed with me on all of this.

But wait! Like in the ads for the Supersonic Automatic Potato Peeler, there’s more. Science Fantasy comes under the umbrella of Science Fiction, but it too has its subgroups. Romance is one of them. No, not erotica, though that may be included as well, but Romance as it relates to writing style and the subject matter. Here the writing can legitimately become flowery and adjective rich. It tends to explore scenery, character relationships, and the overall world in which the story takes place, caressing the stories elements and coaxing them into view so the reader can feel the story. Usually these stories are more along the lines of Adventure.

Alien contact stories with Fantasy elements, ala Avatar, are a form of the subgroup that can be called Planetary Romance/Adventure.

Pirates plying the trade routes in the space between the gas giant Bentabit’s moons and Gumsmack 4 would be Interplanetary Romance/Adventure. Expand this to the region between Regulus and Denebola and it becomes Interstellar Romance/Adventure. We could go on expanding, but there’s no reason to do that. You get the idea.

The old pulps were full of this sort of story. John Carter of Mars series is an excellent example. I’m sure Burroughs had a lot of fun writing those. Maybe as much fun as I had reading them when I was a kid.

Poul Anderson’s Queen of Air and Darkness really stretched the envelope by employing aliens using mind control to make people see fairies. In the Witch World series, Norton managed to dodge the bullet to an extent by using a parallel universe for the Fantasy element. Pretty sneaky, but I’ll stop short of calling it cheating.

There are others in the subgroups, but we’ll call it quits here. So, Science Fiction is an immense topic, but I hope I’ve given a decent overview and answered some questions a few of you may have had about the genre. I look forward to reading your ideas, so leave a comment if you want. If you have any questions, ask away.

In the meantime, I’ll be off to the rings of Ridulan in search of the illusive and sinister space pirate, Rudy the Red.

by J. Richard Jacobs

“Largot, water supply is slow. Check the traps.”

“But, Mom, Persh is comin’ over. We were gonna go up to Last Strike.”

“How many times I told you, don’t go hangin’ with that kid? He’s mostly trouble, Son. Now, go check the traps or we’ll be beggin’ water again. And don’t go messin’ ‘round the Elders digs, you hear me? You stay ‘way from Last Strike till they get done up there.”

“Persh says it’s okay.”

“Persh more important than me? Your pa? And you know what your pa thinks ‘bout Before Times stuff, right? No good to be found in it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. Now, get up there and check them traps.”

---

Largot tightened the last collector tube strap and leaned against a separator panel. It’s coolness felt good against his back. He smiled his satisfaction as drops of precious water formed inside the collectors. The welcome smell of wet sand filled the air and told him the traps were working near full capacity. The voice from behind startled him.

“Sun ain’t gonna stay up an’ wait for us, man. Let’s go.” Pershing stood in the light of the trap shed door, fists jammed into his hips and elbows splayed. “Got your light?”

“No. It’s down in the house. Mom says we shouldn’t go up there. Not till they finish the dig.”

“What? Look, man, we wait till they’re done with the hole, there won’t be nothin’ for us to find. No sense goin’ in a empty hole now, is there?”

“Nah, I guess not, but Pa says the Before Timers are the reason for the way we are. That there ain’t no good comin’ from any of them holes. He says they’re the ones who ruined the weather and dried up all the water. They’re the ones who caused the famines and brought the bombs to make things like Last Strike. He says—”

“Pa says. Pa says. He don’t know no better than anyone else what really happened, you know.”

“Does too. He has a friend whose great-grampa was alive durin’ the changin’. He told Pa all the stories as best he could remember ‘em.”

“Probably all lies. The changin’ happened more than a hundred an’ fifty years ago an’ Last Strike was almost a hundred years before that. Your pa’s friend’s great-grampa wasn’t even borned before the changin’ was over, I think. Now, are you goin’ or not? An’ get your light.”

“I’ll go, but I ain’t goin’ for the light. Mom sees me and I’m stuck here.”

---

The two boys stood by the edge of a large hole in the ground halfway down the ring wall of Last Strike Crater. The younger of the two, Largot, raised his hood against a frigid breeze sliding down off the crater’s rim. The fur ringing his freckled and wind reddened face flicked at his forehead. He leaned over the edge and peered into the blackness. A darkness so deep that it felt like it was pulling at him. The sun, no more than two fingers above the far side of the ring wall behind them, made it so that no light penetrated the excavation. He shivered uncontrollably.

“How deep’s that hole, Persh?”

“‘Bout ten, twelve meters maybe. Why? You scared?” said Pershing.

Largot took two steps back from the hole’s gaping maw. “I ain’t scared, but there ain’t no way I’m goin’ down there.”

“Why not? Went down there last period right after they opened it up—by myself as a fact. Didn’t hurt me none and I come back out no prob.”

“You did?”

“Sure as I’m standin’ here right now.”

Nobody told me any ordinaries been in the hole after the Elders’ first dig. They said Last Strike was off limit. How’d you get down there?”

“Yeah, been lots of us gone down there. Most every kid in my clan done been down there. Elders don’t own it none, Larg. Just ‘cause they’re Elders don’t signify they’re better than us, right? ‘Sides, they couldn’t do nothin’ to me ‘bout it ‘cause I got an uncle who’s an Elder, so I got family right.”

“Okay, so you got right. Still didn’t tell me how you got down there.”

“Man, Larg, you’s a case. Got a rope with knots goin’ down. Elders don’t be doin’ stupid, right? Well, most ways, anyways.” Pershing pointed to a stake driven into the ground on the other side of the hole. A rope knotted around it snaked down over the edge and disappeared into the blackness.

“Anyone know why they’re bein’ so quiet about it? Nobody in my clan’s been talkin’ about it. Well, other than to be sayin’ stay ‘way from Last Shot.”

“Nope. I ain’t heard nothin’ either. Nothin’ more than that they found somethin’ they say tells ‘em it’s from the Before Times an’ that it probably was an important place during the final days before the changin’. You know, before Crater Days come and brung the Big Cold.”

With that, Largot, feeling just a bit more confident, slipped the leather thong on the end of his club over his head and let the large piece of a tree dangle at his side. He looked again at his friend. Pershing’s expression remained serious. That gave Largot courage.

“You’re not funnin’ me, right?”

“No funnin’, Larg. Could be there’s Before Times treasure down there. Them Elders don’t be knowin’ all that’s down there yet, you know. Maybe we’ll be the firstest to be findin’ it, right?”

Largot flashed Pershing that look of forced youthful confidence, then stepped around the edge of the hole to stand by the stake. He bent down, latched onto the knotted rope leading into the blackness of the hole, looked again at Pershing for reassurance, then began the long descent into darkness. The sun was setting fast and he knew they didn’t have much time left before the dogs began the food hunt. It wasn’t good to be out on the flat much after dark. When his feet touched the floor of the cave, he gave a sharp pull on the rope to signal that Pershing could begin his climb down. Largot wished he had taken the chance to get the light. His family had the only wind-up light in the clan. It was so dark down in the hole.

Pershing brought a fire kit down with him. Only faint light helped as he fumbled in the pack for the flints and kindling. A few sharp blows and the kindling turned orange and with help of his hand waving over it, the color brightened into yellow-white as they caught fire. He held one of the torches from the pile near the cavern’s entrance over the smoldering kindling until it burst into flame. Orange light played against the walls in cadence with the sputtering torch, casting nervous shadows around them. Largot shivered again, but not from the cold. His muscles tensed. The moving shadows spoke unspeakable things to him. They asked him why they were violating this resting place of the Ancients from before the Crater Days? He put some of the flaming kindling into the mold and wood dust in his fire bowl, just in case. A strand of reassuring smoke curled from the small opening in the top.

“Good,” Pershing said. “Plenty light for lookin’. Would have been better if you’d brung your wind-up, thought. You grab one of them torches, too, just in case this one don’t last. Nah, make it two of ‘em.”

Largot gathered up four. He may have been the younger, but he was the larger and…the smarter of the two, he liked to think.

The echo of their voices off the cavern walls didn’t help with Largot’s confidence. They cautiously worked their way into the passage leading away from the shaft toward a large, rock wall. Largot watched the shadows to be sure nothing else was in there. At the end of the passage was a door in the wall, but nothing like Largot could recall ever seeing. It was shiny and as smooth as the glass in the bottoms of some of the craters. Not quite halfway up from the floor there was a handle. Vague remains of a symbol decorated the surface just above the handle. He remembered seeing something like it in one of the ruins where Before Times City once stood.

“This is new. They’ve been diggin’ lots ‘cause last time I was here they only dug out part of the wall. All that big talk ‘bout what they found gonna be in there, I bet. Wanna see what’s on the other side of that door?”

“You sure that’s good kinda thinkin’? What if there’s somethin’ bad in there? Maybe that’s why they’re sayin’ stay ‘way from Last Strike.”

“We done come this far, ain’t we, Larg? You wanna be runnin’ ‘way from the biggest thing we’re ever gonna see?”

“I guess not, but we don’t know what’s in there. Could be dangerous. Elders teachin’ is that Before Time folk were evil, ya know. They were the reason for the craters and the dark and the cold. They were the reason for the starvin’ times—and the sickies and—”

“You said that before and you worry too much. Won’t know nothin’ if we don’t look, now will we?”

Pershing reached out with his free hand and tugged on the handle. The door moved. Just a little, but it was open. He pulled a bit more forcefully and the door resisted, then reluctantly scraped over the dust and rock on the floor. Hinges squealed out protest. Once the door was opened wide, he thrust the torch through the opening. Inside was an immense room filled with metal boxes against the walls. Cords snaked around on a polished floor covered with a layer of undisturbed dust. The mummified remains of several individuals, their mouths grotesquely open as if silently screaming. Shreds of odd looking clothing hung from them.

“Hey, looky here. We’re the firstest, Larg. No footprints. Elders didn’t open it or, if they did, they didn’t go in. Come on.”

Largot held back.

“What’s a matter, Larg? You ‘fraid?”

“No. Well, maybe some. What about these…bodies?”

“Them. They’re not gonna say nothin’. Come on, ‘fore it gets any later.”

They moved with measured steps through the jumble of remains, metal boxes, and thick cords toward the far end of the room. Largot lit one of his torches from the fire bowl hanging from a cord round his neck for more light. The air was stale, cold and smelled of something he couldn’t identify. Pungent. Sharp. Like the water in Copper Lake Crater where the water was green and tasted awful and could kill you if you drank too much.

“Lots of this stuff looks like what the priests say the Before Times people had. Magic stuff what don’t nobody knows much ‘bout. Hundreds of years ago stuff. Wonder if any of it works?” Pershing said. He stopped by an object on the floor, scratched his head, then picked it up. He turned it over several times, studying it.

“What’s that thing you got, Persh?”

“Dunno. It’s metal and it’s heavy. Wait. I think I know. Before Times folk had them things for killin’ far off. Called ‘em…lazems, I think. Here, you take a look.”

Pershing held out the artifact.

“So, what is a lazem, Persh?” Largot said as he took the object in his hands. A cable connected it to one of the banks of black boxes.

“What? Why ask me stuff like that? It’s from the Before Times—hundreds of years back. Magic stuff. How’m I s’posed to know what it is? Just they were used for killin’ far off, that’s all. You just remember you gotta give it back. I found it, so it’s mine.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I’ll give it back,” Largot said.

Largot balanced his torch in a notch between two boxes lining the wall. He rolled the thing around in his hands. It looked like it could be used for hammering or something like that, but it fit comfortably in his hand only one way and that didn’t match with it being a mallet. Inside a small ring there was a curved lever of some sort. He put his finger through the ring and suddenly it felt right in his hand, as if it had been made to be held that way. He pulled against the lever. Nothing happened.

“Whatever it is, it ain’t workin’ now. Too old, maybe.” Largot followed the cable to where it attached to the box. There was a handle next to the spot where the cable attached. He turned it. There was a sharp click, then the box produced a soft humming sound. He backed away from the panel. A small red light glowed on the artifact. He gripped it as he had before and pressed the lever.

The flash blinded him and the snap of the thing caused his ears to hum. He could hear nothing else. Pershing collapsed. He lay twitching on the floor. Blood flowed from a smoking hole in his chest. The poignant smell of ozone mixed with the sickening sweet smell of burnt flesh. There was silence.

“Persh? Persh?”

by J. Richard Jacobs

First, understand that this is not an historical nor hysterical treatise. It is, rather, a whimsical look at one of the 20th century’s most inane attempts to change the social structure of the English-speaking nations of the world. Specifically, to neuter the English language. To reduce its gender to a mush of senseless verbiage. In short, they are attempting a sort of linguicide in the name of nameless equality.

Some years ago a group of frustrated women and a few men gathered to fix our sexist language. Oops…I suppose those words should be altered to the all inclusive “people.” Perhaps it would better rendered as “persons.” Yeah, that fits better with some of the changes that were made. Anyway, all those concerned persons got all up tight with the overtly sexual nature of our beloved language and set about making some changes to make it all better. “We’ll show’em where to go and who wears the pants around here, by golly,” they said.

That their efforts were essentially doomed from the outset had no effect, so strong was their resolve. They went ahead as if there were genuine logic hidden in their proposed changes…somewhere. The battle continues today and has extended into some areas no one could have predicted.

So, one of the many organizations to grow out of the fires of outrage then was N.O.W. Funny. They appear to have defeated their own purpose by using that name. It probably should have been N.O.P. Of course, it wouldn’t have had that nifty association with “present,” as in, “now,” and might well have been pronounced “nope” by a lot of nasty not N.O.W. persons looking to debunk them.

Anyway, they met with limited success and some of what they tried to do stuck. Thus began “politically correct speech,” or PCS. There would no longer be unmanned missions to Mars. Those would become “robotic” or “automated” missions. Hey, no argument there. The change was more accurate, too.
“Spokesman” or “spokeswoman” would be changed to “spokesperson.” A bit awkward, perhaps, but no problem.

And so it went across the spectrum of sexually specific language until a uniform protocol of sorts for politically correct speech emerged. No one noticed or seemed to care that sexual distinction remained in full force, regardless of the dubious inroads made.

For all the effort and vociferous battles that went on, our steadfast language resisted and, though some skirmishes fell in favor of the concerned people, English won the war. Why? Because we are a species separated along sexual lines in almost every avenue and that requires—demands a language that reflects that division and one doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist or a linguist to see and appreciate that simple fact.

If we were an asexual species, like so many amoebae in a tank of goo, certainly language(s) would have developed along different lines. If you take a critical look at all the world’s languages, you will find that most languages make reference to gender in the same manner as English to some extent. The big difference is that English nouns, pronouns, and adjectives do not carry the gender for the most part. Indeed, many of the world’s languages are much more rigid in making the gender distinction through grammatical extension or “gender agreement.”

I write mainly SF and Speculative fiction so things of this nature are old business for me. Alien species and alien ideas, you know. Their (the aliens) physical history propels them in different (alien) directions and one must learn how that may work in order to do what I do. But, alas, those involved in redefining our language didn’t think beyond their own agenda or they, too, would understand what it is that drives languages.

Please, do not misunderstand. My argument is not against equality. My argument is for retaining the color, feeling, and nuance of the language. Without these distinctions, language becomes rather bland. Romeo and Juliet loses on so many levels.

Now, without further ado, let’s have a little fun and jump into a brief bit of fiction known as “Speculative Fiction.” You know, the old what if gambit. In this we are going to assume that things worked without a hitch or glitch. We’re going to say that the English language lost its struggle and became completely neutered. We will introduce the societal changes that would have to follow such a change. To do that, we’ll look at our Little Red Book of Chairman (Chairperson) Mao, a book of anti-everything.

---

A SOC FOR ONE ONE B SMITH AND THREE ONE A SHORE

One One B Smith moved through the sea of uniform gray body-suits, all properly loose-fitted, with purpose and lightness in its step. One One B allowed its thoughts to flow. They had discussed the action it was taking over the past three months with increasing seriousness and now…now it was time for it to make its commitment. It would propose to Three One A tonight and they, together, would return to the SOC office, their petition and application in hand. If all went well, they would be legally SOCked by early afternoon, it thought.

But along with the lightness it felt, there was apprehension in the periphery of its mind. It stepped through the SOC office door and queued up in a long string of the hopefuls, all waiting their turn for a SOC interview.

---

“You are One One B Smith and you want to SOC Three One A Shore?”

“Yes,” it said. Its voice was saturated with uncertainty.

“You don’t sound very sure of yourself, Smith.”

“Well…um…it’s just that I’ve never SOCked anyone before.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there, Smith?”

“Uh, yes, I guess there is.”

“Okay, you take this chip home with you. Be sure to have the Intended Sig-Other there with you. You and your ISO will fill out the application forms together, then return tomorrow morning with your formal petition and the completed application chip. Make sure you bring your ISO with you. If all is in order, you’ll be SOCked in the afternoon. One word of warning: Reproduction rights are reserved and your are restricted from that activity without proper protection for two years.”

“Two years?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Why two years?”

“Because, most SOCs are broken in that time and it is illegal to have offspring if you are not SOCked. The law requires that illegitimate offspring be recycled and we don’t want that, do we?”

“No. No, we don’t.”

“You will need to sign a SCA as well. Your choices will be Shorth or Smire. Do you understand?”

“Anything for equality. Yes, of course I understand.”

One One B Smith gathered the substantial pile of papers and stuffed them under its arm. Out in the street again, it made its way through the undulating gray wave to the local fast food outlet to stave off its hunger.

---

One One B called Three One A early in the evening. It was excited and scared half silly. When it arrived, One One B couldn’t wait long enough for it to come in. It just blurted it out.

“Three One A, will you be my ISO?”

“What?”

“I…I want you to be my ISO. I have all the papers and…and we can be SOCked tomorrow.”

“But I don’t want to be an Intended anything and I can’t afford to be SOCked. Not yet. My career, you know? I have an opportunity to become Chairperson of the Board at Sniggler, Sniggler, and Shuck next year, and—”

“But…but we have discussed this before.”

“I know, but I’ve had some time to rethink my position and entering into a Significant Other Contract with you now would create problems at SS & S that I just can’t afford.”

---

Well, enough of that. I won’t bore you with any more and I’m sure you get the ugly picture by now. Without the distinction there is no point, no color. We are not intended to be neutered. To be sure, I believe in equality for all, but there are limits rooted in the foundation of what and how we are. That is why I don’t adhere to the use of “politically correct speech.” Oh, I pay it lip service now and again, but I don’t make a habit of it and I don’t particularly care what anyone else thinks of it. Um, well, with the exception of my Sig-Other. She can be…ooops…it can be rather forceful at times. Excuse me while I slip into my gray body-suit, properly loose-fitting, because it’ll be home soon and I haven’t done the dishes.

by J. Richard Jacobs

He tried with all his considerable strength, but was unable to move a single digit. Certain his entire body had, through some magical means, been transformed into stone, he tried again, but to no avail. He was conscious and that told him they had not brought his being to the utter end in the manner that they had threatened—loudly and boldly—while he lay trapped in their cage and unable to rip their throats out.

Testing the air with his limited senses gave him some of the information he needed. The air here was sweet, much too sweet and wet—sickeningly sweet, oppressively wet and far, far too hot. No crystals of ice floated in this sweet, boiling soup he was breathing, just vapor.

So, while he lay in their cage, after they had sedated him into a blind stupor, those savages tried him, convicted him, sentenced him, and translated him to exile in another place, a place with sweet, wet, hot air. But what other place? No place on Mila’am could have air such as this. He concluded he had to be on another planet in another system. Perhaps even another galaxy.

His eyes were sealed and no amount of will would open them, but the light he sensed through his thick, protective eyelids told him more of the story of the place surrounding him. He had not been merely transported to someplace else on Mila’am, he knew that. The star of this place was much too white and brilliant, not the pleasant, subdued red of his home on Mila’am. As soon as he was able to open his eyes he would have to be very careful until his vision adjusted to the harshness of this new light. A light that would be uncomfortable for a long time to come, but one he would have to live with because, for him, there could be no return to Mila’am, unless they had been stupid enough to not have the transporting device self-destruct when its job was finished. Though there existed no doubt about their savage ways, they were not that stupid.

In spite of the humiliation of his defeat at the claws and suckers of the Bal’tuurans, there was an exhilaration of pride welling within him. The Bal’tuurans held him captive, true. And they controlled his fate after the last battle, that, also, could not be denied. But…but they continued to fear him, even when he was drugged beyond any sense or movement. They feared him enough to go to the extreme of sending him to another star, a feat requiring immense amounts of energy. That, he chuckled to himself, was wise of them. Yes, very wise.

Because he was alive he knew, too, that they had respected the customs of Mila’am. That they had probably done so out of a fear of what the remainder of the clan would do if they did not, filled him with an even greater pride. His was a strong, powerful clan, with members on all sides of their world, and the Bal’tuurans were aware of it.

He would likely find his mate and his children somewhere in this place of exile, too, for the Bal’tuurans would have sent them all together, according to the laws of Mila’am, to maintain some semblance of peace with the clan. They might even, out of deference to custom, have included some of his servants to help set up here in this new world, he thought.

The core of a new clan on this new world of his would be here. He would have to find them to make sure a new Clan Tal’muk got a good start in this strange place. Because of the brilliance of this star, they would have to limit their activities to the nights, but that would be but a small price to pay for a chance at a new start.

Hello—and who—what are you?

It came to him not as sound—not as language. It was more like ideas—thoughts and visions swirling silently in his mind like the thick, oily gray waters round the End of Land at home.

I…I am the Great Gorkan, grand and exalted ruler of the Clan Tal’muk of Mila’am, he thought back. Communicating without sound, how interesting. This could be of great value on the battlefield. Who and what might you be?

I am Becky and I live here. I am a young girl and I go to school just down the road from here. I must say, you are a strange looking creature. Are you…are you a monster?

A…what? No, I am not a monster. Why would you ask me such a question?

Well-l-l…because you kinda look like one—I think, the Becky thing thought back to him. He thought he should take umbrage at such a foolish notion, then decided that the Becky thing’s thoughts felt innocent enough to be nothing more than its uneducated bad manners and not intended as an insult to his kind. He would try to enlist the aid of this creature in getting him out of the heat of this new star, someplace where he could recuperate and regain his senses—and his strength.

Becky thing, as you can see, I am unable to move and the heat of this star is damaging to me. Would you be kind enough to help me into the shadows?

I can do better than that…if you promise to help me, too, the Becky thing responded.

Anything you say, if it is within my power, the Great Gorkan will help you do—as soon as I am able, he thought to the Becky thing. What is it you would have me do for you, young girl Becky thing?

There’s a terrible monster that gets under my bed sometimes at night and it scares me so much that I can’t sleep. My mom keeps telling me there’s nothing under there, but that doesn’t help because I know it’s there and that she just can’t see it. Sometimes I think parents don’t see very well. Boy, do you smell terrible, or what?

Well, that seemed easy enough. He would lie in wait until her monster showed up, kill it and they would begin the search for his family. Easy, actually. What did it mean when it thought to him that he smelled bad, when it was the one that was odoriferous? But Gorkan, after thinking about it, realized that he probably did smell to it, just as it smelled to him. It was logical. After all, they were alien to one another and that would be the cause. He would do as it asked and it would, in turn, help him in his search. He decided it would be best to ignore its stench…and the remark. He thought to it his agreement and he sensed it was pleased. What an interesting way to communicate—what an advantage it would be in battle, he mused again.

After a bit more conversation, he found he was able to move, but not much, and with little strength. The Becky thing helped him to his feet and half dragged him along. The Becky was a small creature but possessed of considerable strength and he was impressed. Strength always impressed him. It was one of the main ingredients of a good warrior. With his long, thin tail dragging along behind, they made it to his new lair. The air in this new place made breathing much easier. Cool and dry. The Becky thing helped him get beneath what it said was its bed and curled his tail around so he would be completely out of sight.

Now, you be sure to stay under there until the monster comes. Promise? Cross your heart.

Gorkan could not be certain which of his hearts the Becky thing meant nor what the crossing business was about, but he assured it he would not move until he had done battle with and vanquished the monster. Then he had the Becky thing repeat its pledge of help for him. It was an agreement of mutual satisfaction and he felt much better, so much so that he fell fast asleep and dreamed pleasant dreams of ice storms, dim, red days and shredding Bal’tuurans in honorable battle so he could taste of their flavorful, steaming entrails as they spilled from their freshly ripped, soft underbellies. It was a sleep filled with great and pleasurable thoughts. He awakened to a thought message from the Becky thing.

Don’t forget your promise, Mister Gorkan. I have to go to school now and you must stay quiet under there until the monster comes.

Yes, Becky thing, I shall remain quiet until it is time to do battle with your monster, he responded and the Becky left its cave, making some shrill noise as it went that he interpreted as a sound of pleasure. Then, slowly, his eyes began to open.

He was surprised to see that he was not in a cave at all. It was an artificial structure shaped like a cage, but was not a cage. The walls were the color of the soft inner flesh of the Bal’tuurans. Did the Becky thing know of them? No…of course not. How could it? The floor of this place was not stone, but some soft material the color of the waters of Mila’am. It was dry and dusty and a splotch of bright, white light moved slowly across the floor toward his hiding place from a rectangular opening in the far wall.

The glare drove stabs of pain through the backs of his eyes into his brains. The place reeked and it was everything he could do to stay under the shelf-like structure where the Becky thing apparently slept.

Hunger was driving him now. He didn’t know how long it had been since he last tasted flesh and drank of warm blood, but it was long enough for the rumbling from his stomachs to become audible. He hoped the Becky thing’s monster could not hear his internal grumbling because he would lose his advantage of surprise and, quite possibly, a good breakfast at the same time.

At first it was a bomp…bomp…bomping noise, then came a rattling sound accompanied by squeaking and creaking. Another, larger rectangular place in the wall opened out and it entered, making clucking and shrill noises as it did so. Horrible, grating noises. This must surely be the Becky thing’s monster. Well, it had a surprise waiting for it this time, Gorkan thought. He flexed his claws and talons into full extension and stiffened himself for the attack. A thick, anticipatory string of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the floor. His body twitched and vibrated with the tension of waiting for the right time to strike.

The monster moved across the room, dragging a thin black cord that it attached to some sort of receptacle on the wall below the smaller opening, then it came around from the end of the Becky thing’s sleep slab where his feet were to the side near his head. It paused for a moment, then a deafening, whining roar filled the room and a black tentacle bearing a ciliated sucker probed around where he lay in wait. Gorkan had moved as far against the wall as he could, but it was not far enough. The sucker cup and its stiff cilia slammed into his body several times. Did it know he was there? Maybe.

Probably, he thought, since it spent much of its time where he now waited. He braced himself in the classical Tal’muk prone attack position and waited for the earliest opportunity. That opportunity came shortly after another several touches of the tentacle alerted the creature that something was beneath the Becky thing’s flat.

It moved forward and assumed a crouching attack position, but made the fatal mistake of lowering its head too far. That’s when it saw Gorkan and Gorkan saw it. In a flash he was on it, his claws extended, sinking deep into soft flesh. It shrieked in a high pitched battle cry similar to the one the Turaks used to frighten their enemies. It was a horrid creature and it was no wonder the Becky thing was frightened of it. Its face was painted in green battle paint, its mouth a bright red slash, matching the color of its claws. Its mane was filled with short tubes of various colors and sizes, probably intentionally put there to intimidate its enemies. Although it was very strong, it was ill-equipped to deal with Gorkan’s organized and trained attack and its claws were of not much use as they broke off easily against his tough hide. During the brief struggle the cord came away from the wall and that awful roaring ceased. Shortly after that the shrieking battle cry of the beast gave way to a gurgling whimper—then…then it was over.

Once he managed to get over the appearance of the thing, he spent some time gorging himself on one of the most satisfying meals he had eaten in a long time. The flesh of this thing was tender and the flavor, though rangy and a little on the sweet side, was not bad. He had just finished cleaning the last of the flesh off the bones and was preparing to doze when he felt the presence of the Becky thing growing in his mind. It would be pleased—very pleased, and he would soon be reunited with his family.

Mister Gorkan, are you still here?

Yes, little Becky thing, the Great Gorkan is here and he has wonderful news for you.

My monster came?

Yes, and it is no more.

May I see it?

That would be impossible. The Becky animal was still some distance away, but it was getting closer and he could sense its excitement.

Why can’t I see the monster, Mister Gorkan?

Because I…um, ate it. You may look at its bones, though.

by J. Richard Jacobs

“Chief, do you have a few minutes to spare?” Detective Lawrence said through the open door.

“Sure, Lawrence, come on in and close the door.”

Detective Lawrence entered Chief Stafford’s office and pulled a chair back from the destk. He looked like he was nervous and uncomfortable. Maybe a bit frightened and confused would be a better description. Stafford knew by that look that what Lawrence had on his mind was important to him. He had worked with Lawrence since they were both beat cops and knew the man as well as anyone could. Likely better than Lawrence’s mother.

He sent Lawrence out to the McClure house to investigate her death two days ago. Since then, he had been wandering around with a perplexed look clinging tightly to his face, as if something about the old woman’s death was eating at him. Today his expression was somehow…different.

“You know, Chief, when I went into that McClure place the other day,” he began, “I felt like there was something weird about it. Just a feeling I had. You know how it is. Nothing bad, or anything like that, just…from the gut strange. So, this morning I read the Coroner’s report again and called the M.E. He said he couldn’t find any specific cause of death, nothing he could pin down…not even old age. There was no sign of death trauma, either. In his view, she was a perfectly healthy person and it was as if she were sitting there one minute and the next minute whatever it is that animates people, call it soul if you want, got up and walked away—just left its old husk sitting there, you know?

“Anyway, after reading the Coroner’s report a couple more times to make sure I had it right, I went back out there to see if there was anything we missed. You know what happens in cases like this. You look around and make some quick assumptions. Maybe you don’t look as close as you should. Well, I took a better look today and I found a note under one of those wrought iron spiral ladders. You know, the kind people put potted plants and stuff on. It was over in a corner of the dining room.

“Anyway, I guess the paper must have blown off the table when I opened the windows to air the place out and I didn’t notice it. It’s the old lady’s writing, all right. I had that checked. I’ve read the note a few times and, frankly, I’m at a loss, Chief. I’d like you to take a look at it to see what you make of it.”

Lawrence pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Stafford. The first thing Stafford noticed about it was that the note started out with tight, small, stingy script that progressively opened out into a smooth and elegant hand, the opposite of what he would have expected from a person in their final moments. Stafford began reading.

---

“I am sitting here in my dining room today on the occasion of my seventy-sixth birthday, watching leaves and bits of trash swirling in docile imitation of a twister on a very small scale as the west wind eddies around the corner.

“It is something that always happens when the wind shifts around to a westerly direction, as does my memory of Sean O’Brien. Sean, you see, blew into town on a strong westerly sixty-eight years ago, less a week, and, just as the leaves, candy wrappers, bits of plastic and foam cups tossed away by sloppy, negligent people enter into a circular little dance round the corner of my house these days, so did he. Only Sean wasn’t blown around that corner, he was chased.

“I remember that afternoon as vividly as if time between then and now didn’t exist. I suppose, in some ways, that is true. Time doesn’t seem to matter all that much these days.

“I caught his inelegant entry over our fence out of the corner of my eye, a flash of carrot-topped boy bathed in freckles with a large, bright green apple clutched in his teeth. He raced across the back yard at incredible speed and shot up the old oak out there without the slightest hesitation. He didn’t even use the rope…just went straight up the tree, neat as you please, and disappeared into the thick wig of dark green leaves it always wears in Summer. All of that used up less time than it took for my mouth to fall open and my eyes to focus on where he had gone.

“Then the police came, two of them, panting, wheezing, and coughing as they charged out to the back fence. They looked up and down the alleyway, shrugged at one another, then came to the back door and knocked. I didn’t know what to do. My folks had left me at home while they went to the store for ‘…a few things,’ they said. The men outside were policemen, so I knew I was going to open the door, but I didn’t know whether I was going to lie about what I had seen or not, though I figured I could easily omit without feeling guilty.

“‘Hi, young lady,’ one of them said through the small crack I permitted the door to make.

“‘Hi,’ I said in return.

“‘Did you see a kid run through your yard?’ the tall one said.

“‘Um, yeah,’ I said. The hesitation in my response was quite apparent, I knew, but I thought they would take that as my being intimidated by two uniforms on the other side of the crack. I was only eight by a week when it happened, after all, and everyone knows little kids are easily intimidated, especially by uniforms.

“‘Which way did he go?’ the short, heavyset one asked between his desperate gasps for air.

“I made a deliberately exaggerated head-tucked-down-between-my-shoulders shrug and avoided saying anything. Was that omission? I don’t know if it was, but I try not to think much about that part. Maybe I still feel a little guilty about it.

“So, after I was certain they had gone, I went out to the tree, grabbed the knotted rope hanging there and climbed to the first branch. Being an accomplished tomboy, I made the rest of the climb to my secret fortress, the tree house Dad and I had built the summer before, in a minute or so—and there he was, calmly finishing off the apple. To my astonishment, he even ate the core.

“I remember him in great detail, his hypnotizing jade green eyes, and tousled red hair that was just a touch too long so that it curled up around his neck and covered his ears. He looked at me with a gentleness that would almost have been sad had it not been for the smile he wore—a perfect smile—friendly and kind it was.

“‘Hello, Kate,’ he said with a strange lilt and a twang in his speech that I did not recognize, but it was obvious he was not from around here. People in these parts didn’t talk like that. Here, words got sort of stretched out and slurred a little. Of course, it was more apparent back when I was a little girl than it is now. His words were sharp and clipped and his voice was just short of musical. But…how did he know my name? I wondered hard about that.

“‘H-hi,’ I said, trying to sound as grown up and calm as I could. ‘What…what are you doing here…and who are you, anyway?’

“‘My, my, my, so many questions coming so fast—and from such a young lass, too. Slow down a wee bit—and let’s set your questions in the right order, shall we? My name is Sean. Sean O’Brien it is, but you may call me Sean,’ he said. ‘As for what I’m doing here, that’s a tiny bit more complicated. First, I was hiding from the local authorities, but ye already know that. It seems they didn’t take too kindly to my appropriating an apple from in front of the store in town. Then, I ate the apple, ye saw that too, ye did. And now…well, now I’m here to give ye a little something, Kathryn McClure.’

“I recall thinking that maybe he knew it was my birthday, that maybe one of the family had sent him, you understand, but I didn’t see any package. So, it seemed the only reasonable thing to do was to ask outright, and I did.

“‘What? What did you bring me?’ I said with my impatience glowing in every word.

“‘See? There ye go again, getting all up in a dither,’ he said with a lyrical little chuckle. It was a friendly and comforting laugh. ‘I’m here to give ye a wish, Kate, but I warn ye, be very careful with it.’

“‘A…a wish?’ I said in disbelief. Elves and fairies and other things magical were still strong in my mind then. I thought I knew a little something about what they did and how they were supposed to go about doing it. ‘I thought you were supposed to give me three wishes,’ I blurted out.

“‘Ach! That’s only in stories and such,’ he said. ‘We knew long ago, even before the days of dragons, that to grant more than one wish would lead to abuse and that people would play silly little games to get all they wanted and more, sometimes even to trap us, so the council set the limit at one, with an added restriction that it not be a compound wish, see? That way people would have to think very hard and long about it, ye know?’

“‘Oh, yeah, that’s smart,’ I said, displaying my childish wisdom about human nature. ‘So, when can I have my wish?’

“‘Easy, lass, easy. ‘Tis already yours, but first ye need to know how to make it. The grantee, that be Kathryn McClure, must first call out the name of the grantor, that be me, then follow up with the words I wish…and then ye fill in the rest. See? But I warn ye, do take plenty of time and think on it because a wish can’t be changed, not even a wee bit. Once it’s made, it’s made and it will be filled exactly as ye say it straightaway. The result of a lazy or careless wish can be disastrous and cause great distress at the very least. Do ye understand what I’m saying to ye, Kate?’

“He was looking at me and, I thought, through me with his penetrating, green eyes and his expression was, though still supremely friendly, quite serious. There was no doubt in my mind that what he said was important and I vowed to think for however long it took to make my wish a good one. A lasting one. I have thought about and wrestled with his gift to me every day since he entered my yard at a full gallop on that westerly breeze sixty-eight years ago. Now, I know what I’m going to do with it.

“It took me sixty-eight years to think of the best wish that I could possibly make, the wish that will be my everlasting birthday present. So, for anyone who reads this note, do not feel sad for me nor puzzle over my death. I am going to a place of elves and fairies and grand sorcerers and dragons and—magic. Maybe, if it is at all possible and allowed, I’ll become a grantor, too, just like Sean O’Brien. And, perhaps, I’ll run across your yard on a brisk westerly breeze one fine day.”

Mr. Erectus

First of the Gus Tucker Series

by J. Richard Jacobs

I am Elliot Cain, freelance writer. For the past two years I have been doing a series on bars around the city for the Morning Star. The Star is a legit weekly magazine that has gained enough status and reputation to wind up being a stuffer in the Herald Sunday paper. It is a good, solid, conservative publication that features local stories the city’s daily paper does not pick up. However, this piece is not about a bar but what transpired in one and it is not going into the Star. It is much too odd and off-beat for their starched collar style. That’s why you found it here. The story sounds incredible, but I have verified most of the elements involved and obtained signed affidavits regarding its validity from several reliable, credible, and responsible individuals who are participating in its ongoing development.

So, without further ado, this is what prompted me to begin writing the story. It was last week, while cleaning up my day’s clutter and getting ready to go home for an early Sunday dinner, an elderly man poked his head in the open door. He was well-dressed and neat, black bow tie and all.

“Hi there, friend,” he said. “My name is Gus, Gus Tucker. Are you the man who writes the articles on bars around town?”

I said I was and the rest of his body came in the door.

“I’m the owner of the Anchor Light Bar down the street and I have a real story for you, if you’re interested. Of course, I’m going to tell it to you whether you’re interested or not. Have to.”

I decided to put off my candlelight dinner with my dog for later, invited him in and offered him a chair. I did the usual prelim stuff and asked if it would be all right for me to record what he had to say. He assured me that would be fine with him, then continued.

“This isn’t a story about my place, but I’d appreciate it if you’d say a few nice things about it. My place, you know. The Anchor Light is just a small joint, friendly like, and just off Seaside Boulevard, so there’s not a lot of street traffic. Quiet—well, most of the time. But this is a big, spread out city now, and my bar is close to the airport and the marina, so I get a lot of strangers who blow through here on their way to this place and that, you know?

“I have two employees now. One of’em, Polo, is an illegal—please don’t mention that—but I don’t care. He does a great job and doesn’t complain and cry like most of the typical neighborhood kids I’ve had in there before—spoiled brats, if you ask me.”

I knew, vaguely, where the Anchor Light was located, so I suggested to Gus that we walk over to his establishment where I could hear his story and get a feel for the ambiance at the same time. I wanted to have the feeling of his bar in my mind to provide flavor for anything I would write–if I wrote anything at all. Most of the walk-in stories I get are not worth repeating but, sometimes, with the right setting to provide a little color for them, they work out, anyway.

The Anchor Light was only five blocks from my office and it was early on a Sunday evening, not quite dark. When we arrived, Gus did the usual several keys and alarm disarming thing and we entered the little bar’s dark interior. He turned on the lights and stepped around behind the bar while I picked out a stool, set my recorder on the glass covered counter, and made myself comfortable.

“Okay, Mr. Cain, like I told you, this is a small place. So—where was I?—oh yeah, Polo’s the one responsible for all those absolutely immaculate glasses hanging up there and shelved on the mirrors. This kid sees a fingerprint and goes nuts. I mean, like berserk. Maybe it’s a psychological hangup he has, I don’t know, but, like I said, I don’t care—he does one terrific job of keeping this place shiny.

“Then there’s Sherry, she’s my night waitress. I don’t know what I’d do without her. It’s not because of her work that I keep her here—frankly, she’s a lousy waitress, don’t say I said that, either—but that body drags’em in here by the dozens and I don’t doubt that she drags some of’em home with her, but I don’t care about that, either. Not as long as she keeps it out of the store. Know what I mean?

“When I started out—what?—thirty-five years ago, it was just me and long hours and almost no traffic. It’s still long hours, but there’s plenty of traffic. I open at eleven and close at two in the morning, closed on Sundays. I have to be in here by ten and I’m lucky if I get out of here by three thirty, but I don’t have to do all the cleaning and leg work any more, so that helps a lot, and I’m sure Sherry brings more business in here than my scrawny little fanny ever did.”

I asked him to get on with the story and we would be able to fill in the stuff about his bar, later. He looked a little hurt, but continued.

“Okay, Mr. Cain, like any bartender will tell you, we hear stories. Lots of stories. Everybody has a story to tell a bartender. I’m sure you’ve already found that out, right? Most of’em are cry-babies just looking for someone to tell all their troubles to, and a lot of’em are big time lies that flow and grow as the level in the bottle goes down, but some of’em are really interesting or downright weird.

“That’s why I started keeping a journal…to catalogue the good ones, you know. And I keep a good digital recorder under the bar. See this carnation I’m wearing? It’s no carnation, Mr. Cain. Super sensitive directional microphone and transmitter is what it really is. Pretty slick, huh? That way it only picks up the person I’m talking to and not the rowdies scattered around the bar and the talkers don’t even know it’s happening. I know it may be illegal but, what the hell?”

Gus’s voice dropped to the sharing-a-conspiracy level and he leaned over the counter toward me. “So, anyway, there’s this one guy who’s been coming in here every Saturday for the past two years. He comes in early, usually about eleven fifteen, and sits alone over there in that dark corner. Never says boo to anybody. He orders a bottle of brandy and drinks the whole thing by five thirty, then shuffles out at six, and I do mean shuffles. Sometimes I’m surprised he can find the door. Regular as clockwork, though, this guy.

“Six weeks ago he comes in at eleven fifteen, like always, but he doesn’t go to the corner. He comes over and plunks down at the bar, right where you’re sitting, Mr. Cain, and tells me he wants a cup of coffee. Speaking of which, would you like a drink? On the house. Maybe a coffee? I have an incredible coffee-maker that brews up really good stuff in an instant. I get a lot of orders for Irish Coffee at this time of the year. Wintertime, you know.”

I told him I’d like a cup of coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and he laughed, pointed at a Polo polished and spotless, stainless steel Brewsitquick and, with a flourish, he pushed a big button on its side. He turned back to me and said, “Got that thing about a month back and it’s already paid for itself. Three minutes and you’ll have the best tasting coffee ever.”

I told him I would like him to continue with his story and he said he thought maybe it would be better if I heard his recording, instead, so that I could get a handle on the feelings this man he was talking about exuded during the telling of his story. I agreed. What follows is the content of that recording.

“Hi. Your name is Gus, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the name, all right. You want the usual?”

“No. No thanks, Gus. I have to stay off that stuff now. They’re going to be after me, I know, and I need to be ready, on my toes and sober. Just load me up with coffee, okay?”

“You’re the customer. Whatever you want. So, what are you doing over here at the bar…and who’s going to be after you, friend?”

“Look, Gus, I…I just need to tell somebody about this before I go insane and…I need your help. After I tell you what I have to say, I have something for you. I want you to take to the straight to the Metropolitan Museum of Natural History. I don’t want you to give it to anyone other than a paleontologist who works there by the name of Bernard Shanks. Remember that.

“He already knows about it, but I can’t afford to go there myself any more without introducing unnecessary risk. They’ll be looking for me and that will be one of the first places they’ll start watching, because they found out I have the artifact and their little toy. I thought I had covered my tracks in the stock room, so I don’t know how they found out, but they did. I must have missed a record or something. Do we have a deal, Gus?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess so. Oh, what the hey. Sure, I’ll do it for you. What is this thing you have—this artifact or whatever?”

“Later, Gus. Right now, just listen to what I have to tell you. My name is Fred Turnbull and I work in a place that’s so secret none of us know where we work. I guess I should have said that I worked there. I don’t work there anymore.

“They pick us up in the morning in a short-bodied, vintage Bluebird that’s painted in ugly school bus yellow and the sign on the side says, ‘GMISS.’ We all assume that’s supposed to make people think it’s an acronym for Greater Metropolitan Independent School System.

“They drive us around in a random manner and at some time during the trip the windows go black so we can’t see where we’re going. When we get off the bus, we’re in an underground parking garage that could be anywhere in the city. I thought once about taking a GPS with me, but they scan us before we board the bus and I wasn’t sure how sensitive it was and what they might detect with it, so I gave up on that idea.

“They take us home the same way. They pay us in cash and it always comes in rubber band wrapped packets of old, wrinkled and floppy bills of small denominations. Nothing over a fifty and not many of those. We don’t pay income tax or social security and we all have a handsome retirement package with an unnamed company that will, when the time comes, pay us by slipping a plain brown envelope under the door containing the appropriate funds in old, wrinkled and floppy bills of small denominations. We’re off the record as soon as we’re hired. We disappear.

“My job description was Retro-engineer II. What I do…um…what I did there was investigate stuff to determine; one—what it did, does, or may do; two—if I could figure out any or all of the aforementioned I then was supposed to determine how we could reproduce it with current technology, and three—if we were able to reproduce it, would it be worth the time, effort and investment required? Where the stuff came from is anybody’s guess, but we all have our suspicions.

“I worked there three years and in all that time I found only one item that had any discernable function, but there was just no way we would be able to reproduce it. Four weeks ago I picked up a new work package from the stock room and took it to my cubicle to have a look at it. Routine.”

“Here’s your coffee, uh–Fred.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks. Anyway, the thing I picked up looked like a heavy, solid metal bracelet. This is it, see?”

“Yeah. Kind of awkward and uncomfortable, isn’t it? I mean, with all those knobs and stuff sticking out all over.”

“Yeah, it is. The problem with it is that it met all the criteria they were looking for and it can be built with our technology. It could be the most valuable tool we’ve ever had, or it could be the most devastating weapon of all time. That’s funny. I can’t believe I said it that way.” He chuckled.

“If this place you worked at is so secret and hushy-hush, how’d you get that thing out of there…and who’s looking for you?”

“Let’s just say I relied on temporal displacement disorientation to cover my departure. As for who’s looking for me, I don’t know that any more than I know who I was working for. I think it’s safe to say that they would very much like to see me dead right about now and I don’t doubt that they have something to do with the government. That’s something I intend to find out, soon.

“Anyway, that’s the main reason I need to keep this thing out of their hands. If it wasn’t so valuable for the future, I’d take it out on a boat and dump it in the ocean where no one would ever find it again. But it would be a crime, bordering on disaster, to lose the potential good it could do under the right circumstances and in the hands of people who can appreciate what it is and what it can do for all of humanity.”

“Temporal, what?”

“It’s better that I don’t explain. You’ll find out in the future. For now, don’t worry about it.”

“Uh, okay. So why not just take it to the right people, now?”

“I can’t do that. Not yet, anyway. Whoever I gave it to would be hunted down and probably killed for the same reason that’s what will happen to me if I don’t get out of here. No, Gus, I need to get away from here–disappear without involving anyone else directly. That will be easy enough, for me. When the time is right and enough solid evidence has been collected, then I can come out in the open, after I put an end to their rotten program and dispose of the principals involved, that is.

“In the meantime, I’ll be relying on you, Gus, and Dr. Shanks, and a writer named Elliot Cain. You get the artifact I have to Shanks and he’ll do what’s needed to begin building an evidence bank for the future. Then you go talk to Cain and give him the story. Shanks will give you his address.

“So, Gus, here’s what I want you to give to Dr. Shanks.”

Gus stopped the recording at that point and leaned down with his elbows on the bar.

“That’s all there is on the recording, Mr. Cain,” he said. “What he had was stuffed down in his pants. It was a bone, um, about this long,” and he indicated something about fourteen inches long with his hands on the bar. “He told me I should keep it out of sight. Then he ducked out the door and I haven’t seen him since. Forgot to pay for his coffee, too.”

I asked Gus what he did with it and why this man mentioned my name. He assured me he lived up to his end of the bargain and took the bone to Bernard Shanks at the museum. He said he had no idea why I was part of the man’s story. I asked him what happened to this Turnbull fellow. He shrugged and said he really didn’t know.

“I can tell you this much, Mr. Cain. When this guy, Shanks, saw that bone, he almost came unglued and danced around in little circles holding it over his head. Then he gave me fifteen hundred bucks for bringing it to him, even though he already knew I would. Can you beat that? Fifteen hundred bucks for an old bone.”

I followed up on what Gus told me and went to see Dr. Bernard Shanks. I have to tell you I had a difficult time getting anywhere near the man. Shanks is like a butterfly’s shadow flitting around there, but I finally got in to see him this morning. What he had to say is what prompted me to do the foundation work needed to put together the story and pursue an outlet for it.

We met early this morning in his office, located way off in a corner in the basement of the museum. He pulled a bone out from the bottom of a mountainous pile of other bones he had on a big, stainless steel table. The bone was about fourteen inches long, Gus had not exaggerated. The damned thing looked like a human femur, but it was oddly curved.

“This, Mr. Cain, is what Fred Turnbull gave me to study. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Maybe to you, but to me that’s just an…ordinary bone,” I said.
Shanks laughed loudly and sat down behind a desk buried under stacks of papers and skeletal bits and pieces. He laughed so hard it took a few seconds for him to catch his breath. After he regained his composure, he peered at me between the top of a pair of narrow, frameless reading glasses and the bottoms of gray eyebrows that sprayed out from his brow in all directions. He smiled the smile people tend to grow on their faces when they are about to reveal a great secret.

“Mr. Cain…Mr. Cain. It is a bone, but I assure you that it is no ordinary bone. Now, Mr. Turnbull and I have discussed this situation at great length and he has given me a package of instructions to pass along to you containing information that will help guide you in your writing, just so you get the tone right and don’t reveal too much too soon. He’s not telling you what to write, he merely wants you to convey a particular mood. A feeling, if you will.

“He already knows you have been here and what the results of our meeting will be, you see, and he wants you to make it clear in your articles that he is in a place where no one can touch him. What he really wants, I suspect, is to thumb his nose at them, so to speak—to taunt them, because they also know they can’t get at him and that he has time on his side. He wants them to live in daily dread—in constant fear of what he is planning to do to destroy the dandy little structure they have set up because they know there is absolutely nothing they can do about that, either. It’s actually a very interesting game he is playing with them…quite humorous, I must say, and it is obvious that he is enjoying it.

“So you may get a hint of what this is all about, Mr. Cain…this bone, the one you said was just an ordinary bone, belonged to Homo Erectus, once known as Pithecanthropus Erectus, or, more popularly, Java Man. Java Man was a little fellow who lived on Earth from about two million years ago to as recently as three hundred thousand years past and, until now, we had very little of him to go on, and his possible role as a link between the early primates and modern man is still hotly debated.

“This particular bone, the one Mr. Turnbull sent to me, is unique, quite different from all the others we have stockpiled here in the museum and it will settle all of the arguments, once and for all. We’ve already extracted intact DNA from it for our research, something we wouldn’t have been able to do with bones almost a million years old. You see, Mr. Cain, the original owner of this bone, Turnbull’s Mr. Erectus, according to our most accurate dating methods, could not have died more than thirty years ago.”

by J. Richard Jacobs

Verdan Shak had not spoken since they left the bloodied Field of Honor. He just sat slumped over in the saddle, rocking with the rhythmic movement of his mount as it ambled along the cobbled trail. There was no sound but the feet of their mounts pounding on the stones and the occasional rattle of armor as it bounced in an uneven rhythm against the animal’s rump. He contemplated what seemed, for him, an impossible future. He dreamed the incredible dream of peaceful days and quiet nights with a pleasant and properly plump woman by his side, maybe even a child or two to help tend the garden he would plant. They would need trade goods for use as bargaining tools with the local village hunters to purchase meat and skins. The meat to keep his family’s bellies full and skins to shield their bodies from the cold of long winter nights.

Nonsense. What right have I to think about such things? I was born to be a Yerdo warrior and a Yerdo warrior I shall remain, till some simple savage from the Clemong Heights puts an end to it for me. I have been fortunate to have survived this long, I think. Besides, what woman, unless almost blind, would give a second glance at such a spent man as I have become? Look at me—bent, disfigured, scarred, and…old far before my time. Better to think of other things. But, still….

The din of battle, the cries and moans of the wounded, now two days ride behind him, lay muted by distance. The screams of pain and anguish, the weeping, shallow groans of the soon to die as the final darkness crowded them, images of dull, blank stares of the fallen who saw nothing, shrank more from his mind with each passing moment, yet they continued to haunt him. His back twisted, his body crisscrossed with white lines that served him as grim reminders of mistakes made during struggles past—so many lines that they left little room for the new ones he knew would come in later days, in future battles for the clan’s supremacy over the rich meadowlands sunsrise of the Yerdo line so coveted by the savages of the Clemong Heights. Lands the Yerdo Clan protected at dear cost, he being one of the coins in that purse.

Scars, interrupting the flow of wrinkles deepening on his face, ran like tortured rivers of white froth. They coursed across his pronounced brows and high cheekbones covered with tight skin tanned dark and dried stiff from years in the suns. His right ear, only partly there, gave his face an off-balance look. His mouth rested in a jagged line beneath a nose broken more times than he could or would count. No woman, he felt sure, could ever want such a man at her table, less even in her bed. As a warrior, the people of the Yerdo villages cheered when they saw him ride past. But he knew that they feared him. They would, in their inborn timidity, scatter and run for shelter should he stop to greet them. So, too, would any woman he came near. No, he thought, I shall be forced by my wont and the clan’s traditions to stand as a warrior, till my end comes and I am troubled no more by such foolish ramblings.

Experience served him well in battle when his aging, reluctant body would not, but that would not last forever. He knew without a doubt that there would come a time, probably soon, when a young one would slip past his guile with a quick and final thrust or an eviscerating slash. He would join the remains of other fallen warriors in the field, his blood coloring the grass beneath his lifeless carcass. But the grass would grow to erase the blemish on its face of jade, and the scavengers that roamed the night would drag away whatever still lay there to gnaw on at their leisure. A meal so easily had. Soon after, the memory of Verdan Shak would fade from the minds of his fellow clansmen like the setting suns allowed the night to come in still silence. In the clan’s history, he would have been no more than a gossamer wisp of smoke adrift in a stiffening breeze—remembered by none. He shuddered at the thought of his impermanence, and his mind slid back to his ridiculous dream.

For the first time since leaving the field of battle, he felt confident enough to sheath his blade, a blade that had served the Clan Yerdo for as long as he could remember, a blade forever stained to the hilt with the brown tinge of life’s essence from the bodies of vanquished foes. Foes whose memory visited their fellows no more, just as his memory would vanish from the Yerdo. Any clear thoughts for his future, whatever it might hold, stood blurred in the reality of his present. He sighed a heavy sigh of the infinitely weary and looked with tired eyes—eyes that had seen too much—at the rider by his side.

“You know, my dear friend Gambol, I am getting much too old for this,” he said. “I am thinking…I am thinking it is time for me to take a woman and build a home in the Yerdo to house the screaming, snot-dribbling cretins our union will create. Ha! What do you say to that, old man?”

His companion, Gambol Kam, gave a single, quick nod in silent agreement, then looked off to the horizon where the suns of Karmon were moving down to kiss the rapidly purpling mountains of the Yerdo. The sky, the color of rich cream, spotted with pink and gray blotches of filmy cloud painted on in delicate strokes by a mad artist with a soft brush, would soon darken. Night would seep in like a pall of consuming black being pulled over their heads.

There will be no moons this night and that will be to our good, Verdan thought, but we shall also be forced to make camp in the open long before we reach the safety of the forest at Yerdo Crossing where none of the outland clans dare go.

“The suns will hide behind the mountains soon,” he observed, speaking more to the chill of the coming night than his companion.

“Uh, that they will. Don’t like being caught out here on the flat like this,” Gambol said in the raspy voice given to him a year ago when a youngster from the Clan Malak dragged a blade across Gambol Kam’s throat before he could get his shield up. The lad paid for his valiant effort with his miserable life, but he had scored well on Gambol Kam before he went to meet his ancestors.

“Nor do I, my friend,” Verdan replied. “It would be a shorter ride to safety if we were to make for the wood line to the south, rather than staying on this road. What do you think?”

“You’re crazy, is what I think. That’s the Black Wood over there, man. I think I’d rather do blind night battle with whatever survivors of this day’s glory may be foolish enough to follow us, and follow us they will, as surely as the suns will ere long leave us out here in the dark. Those who pursue would delight in hoisting our heads on their standards and parading them through the streets of their own rotten little villages in the Clemong and Draal, you know. Your head especially. They have priced you high. A grand prize that would make, eh, Verdan, parading your head on a pole through the streets lined with their drooling kinsmen?”

“True enough, but why is it you don’t want to make for the Black Wood? It is close by and dense enough for two to fade in the shadows.”

“The stories that are told about that place, man. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard them? They say…they say there are things that live in there.”

“Oh? Is that what they say? Of what things do you refer, my gallant friend?”

“Don’t know. Things, you know. Things. Awful things.”

“What I know is that we waste what light we have left to us while we discuss your unknown, unseen things.” With that, Verdan yanked on the reins and turned his animal south, urging it across a gently rolling field of long-bladed grass punctuated with small, delicate gatherings of white and yellow flowers. Off he raced toward the edge of the Black Wood.

Verdan heard Gambol’s grunt of reluctance at the road, then the muffled sound of clobnaur feet pounding into the soft grass behind him and he smiled his crooked smile. Being born to the Warrior Class of the Clan Yerdo, you never showed your true feelings, certainly not fear—it was not allowed of any soldier of the clan and would bring swift, harsh retribution from the Captains if they saw you. But being out here, alone and far from public view, brought a welcome change to all that. Emotions could climb to the surface to parade themselves in full view, and old Gambol’s hesitation at the road shouted out his feelings as no words could. Verdan laughed quietly to himself. Things in the wood, indeed, he thought.

Tales to keep the children out of the Black Wood, that’s all they are. Tales invented by doting mothers, then embellished and exaggerated by drunken fathers, whenever they saw fit to come home from the inns, to keep their little ones from straying too far from the home fires. Utter nonsense. Things. Gambol is a great warrior and a good friend, but he is also an old woman who fears the dark and believes the lies of fools.

When he reached the line of dark and gnarled trees, he drew his mount to a stop and turned in the saddle to cluck at Gambol like a brooding hen herding a clutch of brainless chicks.

“Do you show me fear of an enemy that may be no more than a product of overactive and inebriated imaginations, friend Gambol?”

“Bah! I show prudent concern over stories told and retold by enough folk over the years that there must be some truth hiding in them…nothing more. A truth hidden under the words as spoken. It is said that the frequency and longevity of a story speak to truth. The tales speak to a truth that bides just below the surface—shrouded in the mist of times past and forgotten, a truth that is carried only between the lines of a fable where they lie in wait for discovery by those who look closely enough—and I think it is wise to pay attention to such notions, lest we meet our end without honor. Without the test of the warrior’s mettle and his metal. That is all I say.”

“My, my, my, Gambol, a poet dwells within you. All right, then we shall go in only far enough that the light of our humble fire will not be seen from the road by any but the keenest of eyes. If your things should make their presence known to us, we shall be close enough to the meadow to make a hasty and prudent, but cowardly escape. Will that make you feel better?”

“Cowardly escape? Bah! It will do, but I warn you, my doubting friend…sleep with one eye open, your shield on your chest, and your blade in hand—lest you awaken at sunsrise dead.”

On foot, they led their mounts through a dense maze of black-barked, grotesquely shaped trees until they came to a reasonably open area. The clearing in the forest framed a spot just large enough to lay out their bedrolls and leave safe room for a small fire between them.

After they ate their fill of the game that Gambol had trapped earlier in the day, they sat and drank what precious little remained of their ale. They spoke loudly in half drunken voices of the recent battle that the Yerdo clansmen won with little cost on their part, while great numbers of the invading force lay staring blindly into the suns. Verdan squeezed the last drops from the skin into their common cup. He pushed the stopper back into the neck with an exaggerated slap of his massive palm and threw the empty container to his side. He mentioned again that he was thinking of retiring from his role of warrior to take a woman and live the remainder of his life peacefully in the Yerdo. His friend of many years and far too many battles laughed aloud, the alcohol having eradicated what little etiquette he had any knowledge of.

“Forgive me for laughing, but it is quite close to impossible for me to envision you being satisfied, sitting by the fireplace with a fat old woman at your side and little, sniveling, whimpering, totally dependent creatures crawling around your feet like puppies, demanding your attention all the time. It would not take much of that, I don’t think, before you longed for the look of surprise in your enemy’s eyes after a quick stroke of your blade spilled his innards to the ground. The smell of blood in the air, and the clangor of sword against sword filling your—”

“Perhaps you are right, Gambol. Perhaps you are right. It is…part of me, isn’t it? Part of all of us, to be sure. But it grows late, my friend, and we still have a long trip ahead of—”

She drifted into the circle of dancing light as quietly as a snowflake settles to the ground as if she materialized out of nothing. Verdan rubbed at his eyes with scarred fists and looked again as reassurance that the ale had not taken his mind and stuffed his head with images unreal. There she stood, genuine as the warmth of the fire, smiling down at the two of them. Dressed in a dark gray cloak that reached all the way to the forest floor, sweeping dead leaves this way and that. It appeared as if she floated there. The hood of her cloak lay thrown back so that her blue-black hair tumbled down her back in long waves that seemed alive with slow movement as if being nudged by a zephyr…but no breeze stirred in the wood. Utterly still, the dark leaves of the forest hung from twisted branches, motionless as death itself. Her dark eyes flashed yellow and orange in the flicker of the tiny, dwindling fire. To Verdan, she was the most beautiful woman he had yet seen. A longing drummed mightily in his chest and pulsed in his loins. Thoughts of his future, his forbidden and ridiculous future, returned with great force.

“If she is one of your things, Gambol, I would gladly remain in this wood forevermore.”

Gambol said nothing. He sat with his mouth agape, a string of spittle dribbling down one side of his chin.

“And who might you be, my sweet?” Verdan asked.

She said nothing in return. She just stood there and began to change while Verdan and Gambol sat in the dim, unsteady light of the fire, watching, enchanted by the apparition of beauty that slowly moved and morphed before them.

---

Five riders, attracted by rude and unrecognizable wailing sounds coming from the stand of trees to their south, silently dismounted at the edge of the Black Wood, took their weapons in hand and ever so cautiously, quietly, moved in on foot. The strange sounds they heard from the road had faded into the darkness of the night, so they followed the almost imperceptible, undulating orange glow of a waning fire in the forest. None of them spoke and their leader motioned to them with his palm down to remain silent and to watch where they stepped. When they arrived at the small clearing, the fire had all but died away and only the dull glow of amber embers revealed that there were two twisted bodies half-covered in fallen leaves and undergrowth, the evidence of a recent and violent struggle everywhere about them.

“Stoke that fire,” the leader said, “so that we may see what we have here.”

The four others gathered dried leaves and twigs from the forest floor and teased the coals into a crackling, hot, sap-spitting blaze. As soon as the light of the new flames provided adequate illumination for them to see, their leader broke into a growling, howling laugh, sounding more akin to a wild animal after a fresh kill than a man.

“What we have here, my friends is the great Verdan Shak in the flesh if not in spirit. I would recognize that shield and curved blade of his anywhere. The other one must be his obedient and ever-present pet, Gambol Kam. I will take Shak’s blade as my reward and you men may share whatever is left. You…take off their heads so that we may carry them aloft on our victorious return. I’m sure that, between us, we can come up with a fitting tale of our heroism that will please the Elders and gain us favor in the Master’s eyes, not to mention impressing the womenfolk. What do you say?”

All of them shouted out their agreement and set to the gruesome task at hand. The men rolled the two bodies, first one way, then the other to free them from the tangle on the forest floor, while their leader strapped on Verdan’s scabbard and slid the huge, gracefully shaped blade into place, then removed it for all to see his prize from a battle not waged. One of the group looked up from the contorted remains and said, “I see no fresh wounds. What do you suppose killed them?”

“I don’t know,” he replied as he admired his new acquisition and how it glinted in the dancing firelight, “but from the startled look on their faces, I would dare say they died from fright.”

“Fright? What is there so dreadful as to take the life of a brave and powerful warrior like Verdan Shak?” one of the men said, while he neatly removed the head of Gambol Kam from his lifeless shoulders with a clean slash of Kam’s own heavy blade. He dropped Gambol Kam’s head unceremoniously into a coarsely woven sack.

“Now, how would I know that? All I can say is, that is not the look of a courageous warrior who died of a mortal wound in honorable combat or of old age, now is it?”

She came into the circle of pulsing yellow light as quietly as a soft breath of wind rattling and rustling blades of long grass before it. She seemed to have appeared out of the air itself. She gave them a beguiling smile.