"Assassination"

ASSASSINATION
By Curtis C. Chen

"So," Jake said, "who killed Abraham Lincoln?"

"And what's his full name?" Andy asked.

"No ID on the body," said the uniform standing just inside the police tape. His name tag said HOLLISTER. "Found the hack license under the front seat. Looked like the killer was in a hurry to leave."

Andy nodded. "So, robbery?"

Hollister shrugged. "Whoever killed him did clean out the car. Glovebox was empty. Took his wallet, cell phone, GPS—even the meter." He pointed to a blank spot on the dashboard.

"Why would anyone take the taxi meter?" Jake asked.

"Data," Andy said. "The meter tracks how far the cab's traveled. Even without the GPS, we could have guessed at where Abe picked up his last fare."

"He's got to have a chip, right?" Jake said. "Where's the ME?"

"Already been here," said Hollister. "Didn't have the right scanner. Said we'd have to wait for INS to show up."

"That's going to take all day," Jake grumbled.

Andy bent down to look at the wrinkled mass of the dead Varna'ut behind the wheel of the taxicab. The alien would have stood over seven feet tall fully upright, but they compressed their boneless bodies to fit into human vehicles. This one had kept its lower body extended, to reach the control pedals and to put its tentacles at the same height as the steering wheel.

Andy reached into the car and touched one of the tentacles still wrapped around the wheel. He pressed his gloved fingers into the spongy flesh and watched as the purple inkblots in the translucent gray skin broke into smaller bubbles.

"Still warm," Andy said.

He followed the ripples of purple up the tentacle into the Varna'ut's torso, and saw a small slick of something brown and opaque—almost like mud—underneath the spot where the limb attached to the body, where a human's armpit would have been.

"Son of a bitch," Andy muttered. "Hey, Jake!"

The other detective walked around the car, followed by Hollister, and leaned over to look where Andy was pointing. "What am I looking at?"

"You see that brown spot there, right under the base of the tentacle?"

"Please tell me that's not anything that starts with 'p'."

"Regurgitation," Andy said. "It's how the Varna'ut greet each other. Honest Abe knew his murderer."

"That's a bit of a reach, isn't it?" Jake squinted down at his partner. "I mean, I say hello to the greeter at Wal-mart, doesn't mean I know the guy."

"This is gastric secretion," Andy said. "Stomach acid. You can smell it, can't you?"

"I'm trying not to."

"Only friends and family get actual regurgitation. Strangers are greeted with saliva—just spit, not vomit."

Jake frowned. "Is there some reason you know so much about this?"

"My kid sister's dating a Varna'ut."

"You're joking."

Andy stood up. "You know, it could be worse. She needs to get the rebellious streak out of her system, and at least an alien can't knock her up."

"Okay," Hollister said, "now I'm going to be sick."



Photo: detail from Taxi queue at King St Station by Oran Viriyincy (via GIMP's "Newsprint" filter), April, 2010

"My Funny Valentine"

MY FUNNY VALENTINE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why did Mary give you a picture of a rake?" Fred asked.

"Why did Mary give me poisonous cupcakes last week?" John examined the crude drawing. The medium appeared to be permanent marker on Galactic Survey Corps stationery. "I'm not sure that is a rake. Could be a hand."

"A hand with nine fingers."

"The Gorshiom aren't good with numbers. And we introduced them to representational art, remember?"

"Maybe it's edible. All her other gifts have been edible."

"That's debatable, especially after those cupcakes."

"I guess she's moved on to more durable tokens of her affection."

"We can only hope." John dropped the picture into a plastic bin labeled MODERN ARTIFACTS. "Maybe I can ask Mary to help us dig."

"Speaking of digging," Fred said, "where are you at with that anthropologist? Landy?"

"Landry," John corrected. "I'm getting nowhere. Every time I start to ask her out, she thinks I'm asking for some kind of scheduling favor and puts up her defenses."

"What does anthro have to do with scheduling?"

"Don't you read the bulletins? She was elected Leader last month."

"Huh." Fred stood and stretched. "If only I cared about expedition politics."

"You should," John said. "The council just voted to—where are you going?"

"Got a date," Fred said, pulling pants on over his undershorts.

"Really. Who's the lucky girl?"

"Amanda Landry."

John blinked. "The expedition leader's daughter."

"Yeah, you know, it wasn't weird before you told me Landry had been elected Leader," Fred said. "It was also more fun when I thought her last name was Landy, because then she'd be Mandy Landy."

"How old is she?"

"Nineteen."

John frowned. "How old are you?"

Fred shrugged. "Does that really matter? And this coming from the guy who's shtupping an alien?"

"It wasn't sex!" John said. "We don't even have the right parts!"

"Whatever you call it."

"It was a misunderstanding, and it was just that once!"

Fred put up his hands. "Look, man, all I'm saying is, glass houses. No judgments. We cool?"

John nodded. "I just want you to know, I'm doing this for your own good."

"What?"

John punched Fred in the crotch. Fred doubled over and whimpered.

"I know it hurts now," John said, "but you'll thank me later."

"I'm going to kill you later," Fred grumbled.

"Amanda Landry is a slut," John said. "You'd know that if you paid attention to camp gossip. And anyone dumb enough to sleep with her gets shafted by her mother afterward. Equipment, comms, rations—any supplies you want or need, she can withhold. Trust me, two minutes in heaven are not worth six months of grief."

Fred hobbled to the cabin door. "I'm going to go have a nice dinner now. Then I'm going to find a large blunt object and wait until you're asleep."

"You know, Mary's got a sister," John said. "You want me to introduce you?"

The door slammed shut.



Photo: Ayla's Rake by Don LaVange (via GIMP's "Predator" filter), October, 2009

"Kibitz"

KIBITZ
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why does religion scare you so much?" Edith asked.

"Why doesn't it scare you?" Bernice replied.

A clattering noise came from the other room. Edith bent back over her chair and called, "Play nicely, boys!"

The two children on the floor separated and muttered something affirmative. Edith turned back to Bernice and shrugged.

"It's not like he's asking me to pledge an oath or anything," Edith said. "Honestly, it's mostly about community. Clarence needs other children to play with. This is an easy, well-established venue for socialization."

"But it's all about superstition," Bernice said, making a face. "I mean, have you read some of the mythology? It's all magical transformations, talking foliage, and predestination."

"They're just stories," Edith said. "Don't we have the same thing in our past? People telling tales to explain the world?"

"Yes, but that's actual history," Bernice said. "Not ludicrous fantasies about omnipotent entities controlling people's lives."

"So they're fictional." Edith shrugged again. "It doesn't make them any less significant or instructive."

"Except these religious people actually believe they're true!" Bernice said. "Turning water into wine? And what about this transubstantiation business?"

"You're talking about Catholicism," Edith said. "Clifford's Jewish."

"Now you're just splitting hairs," Bernice said. "They all believe in an intelligent creator-entity that exists outside of time and space. That's crazy."

"So is quantum theory," Edith said. "That doesn't stop—BOYS! What did I say about playing nicely?"

The crashing noises from the other room ceased, and then two juvenile shapes chased through the hallway, shouting something indistinct about going outside to play.

"Put on your jackets!" Bernice called. "It's freezing out there!"

More affirmative noises, clothing shuffled into place, and then the front door opened and slammed shut.

"Hubert seems to be adjusting well," Edith said.

Bernice made a snorting noise. "Lower gravity. All the blood's rushing to his head."

"Now who's being superstitious?"

"Don't change the subject." Bernice sipped at her tea. "Have you thought about how this religious identification is going to affect Clarence's development?"

"Given that he's going to be living among humans, I think whether or not we practice a few harmless rituals is going to be the least of our worries," Edith said. "Besides, it'll give him something in common with them."

"Even if it's all a big fat lie."

Edith sighed. "Why do we still honor the lunar observances, Bernice?"

"I don't know. Tradition, I suppose."

"Exactly. And that's all this is. It's their culture, and if we're going to be accepted by Clifford's people, Clarence and I need to understand their ways."

"I agree with that," Bernice said, "but this kind of immersion... Aren't you afraid that Clarence will grow up actually believing these myths?"

"Children believe all kinds of silly things," Edith said. "He'll grow out of it. But the important thing is, he'll have that connection to their culture."

"You must really love this human," Bernice said.

"Well," Edith said, waving an eyestalk, "I had his baby, didn't I?"

Bernice mimed regurgitation with her upper stomach. "Don't remind me."



Photo: Grand lustre de la synagogue de la rue Dohany (Budapest) by Jean-Pierre Dalbéra, August, 2007

"Everything but the Laugh"

EVERYTHING BUT THE LAUGH
By Curtis C. Chen

"I don't think I heard you right," Maddy said, grabbing one of Josa's tentacles. "He's going to what?"

The sinuous alien blinked his left eyes in a slow ripple. "Please, miss. I heard not clear. Sound like soo-iss-aye."

"Are you sure that's what he said?"

Josa wriggled out of her grip. "Please, miss. Much work to do. Big show tonight."

The alien slithered away down the hall. Maddy turned, went to Conrad's dressing room, and opened the door without knocking, interrupting his juggling.

"Fuck a duck!" he shouted.

Maddy couldn't resist saying, "I thought those were geese."

"Didn't your mother teach you to knock?" Conrad picked up the goslings and ushered them back into their cage. "What if I had been, I don't know, naked in here or something?"

"First of all, eww," Maddy said. "Second, Josa says you're going to commit suicide?"

Conrad shook his head and sat down. "Goddamn blabbermouth."

Maddy closed the door. "Please tell me this is one of your stupid pranks."

He looked up at her, and the dull, defeated look in his eyes told her it wasn't a prank.

"You can't do that," Maddy said. "I'll notify my mother. She'll inform the diplomatic corps, and they'll suspend your travel privileges."

"That'll take weeks. And a reprimand from the DC carries much less weight when you're dead." Conrad frowned. "Isn't that odd? The word 'mother' starts with M, but 'female' starts with F. And 'father' starts with F, but 'male' starts with M. Doesn't that seem backwards to you?"

"Don't change the subject," Maddy said. "I'll stop you. I'll watch you like a hawk."

"Will you, now? You gonna follow me into the bathroom, sit by my bed while I sleep?"

"You're going to kill yourself on stage," Maddy said. "You're going to do it to get a laugh. That's the only reason you do anything. The Barish think death is hilarious—"

"Did you ever wonder," Conrad said, "how your mother persuaded me to bring you along on this tour?"

"She's a politician. She has leverage."

"I'm your father."

Maddy sighed. "Really? You're trying this? Really?"

Conrad chuckled. "Yeah, I figured that one would bomb."

"This is what I'm talking about!" Maddy said. "You're a scientist. Experimentation, trial and error, observation. You've interacted with more sentient species than any human alive, been allowed into places that are forbidden to outsiders. If you die before I finish documenting all your knowledge—"

"I don't have any knowledge," Conrad said. "Don't you get it? I'm the court jester. They let me in because I have no power. I'm nothing."

Maddy knelt down and took his hand in both of hers. "If you kill yourself, I will tell everyone that you are my father, that you knew it and didn't tell me, and that you've been fucking me for the last six months. Your legacy will not be the greatest entertainer in the galaxy, but a disgusting, incestuous pedophile."

Conrad smiled. "You're a quick study."

"Please don't kill yourself. Let me do it after the tour's done."

"That's funny."



Photo: Dutch comedian Mike Boddé, October, 2009

"Royal Pains"

ROYAL PAINS
By Curtis C. Chen

On Tuesday morning, King Roland woke up with a problem.

Now, knowing something of kings and kingdoms, you might think one of two things: either that kings, being in a position of privilege and waited on hand and foot, should have no problems whatsoever; or that kings, having great power and responsibility, would have all manner of problems to attend to all the time. Neither of these was the case with Roland.

His given name had been Yontif Mantgomery Thwimka Groot, and he had been pressed into service as a royal escort at the tender age of sixteen. Yontif had come from a peasant family, and even after all these years, the opulence of the palace continued to alternately dazzle and disgust him.

Some days, the king would succumb to laughing spells, hiding behind the locked door of his bedroom until the delirium had passed, and other days, he would weep at the thought of the citizens he had left behind in the tiny village of his birth, and at the guilt knotting his belly.

His mood swings, however, were mere annoyances when compared to the problem which presented itself on Tuesday morning.

King Roland awakened to see an unusual brightness illuminating his bedroom. Unusual not because of the nature of the light--it was normal morning sunlight--but because of the large amount of it. The servants always closed his shutters and drew his drapes every night, to keep out the light of the watchtowers surrounding the royal residence. King Roland was a light sleeper, and any amount of noise or light could interrupt his slumber.

He grumbled, rolled out of bed, maneuvered his bare feet into a pair of fur-lined slippers, and padded across the stone floor to the source of the sunlight, in the alcove near the door to his library. I must tell Luisa to speak to that new chambermaid, King Roland thought. She still hasn't learned how to work the window latch properly.

The drapes and shutters were wide open, and there was a man sitting on the windowsill. The man's gaunt face and day-old beard were smudged with grime, and he clutched his belly with both hands.

King Roland froze just a few steps from the stranger. The man lifted his head from its resting place against the stone wall and stretched his mouth in what might have been a smile, but looked more like a grimace to the king.

The shock of someone greeting him so rudely prompted the king to speak. "How did you get in here?" he asked, looking past the man toward the watchtowers outside. "How did you get past my guards?"

"With great difficulty," the man said, and chuckled.

He moved his hands, revealing a large, bloody gash in his stomach. And then he fell forward, smacking his forehead against the stone floor, and died.



Photo: stone king by Serena Epstein, July, 2009

"Worshipful"

WORSHIPFUL
By Curtis C. Chen

Travis stumbled through the alley, tripping over fetid piles of garbage and skittering masses that might have been insects or rodents. He didn't stop. He didn't look back. A light flashed to his left, and he sprang right to avoid it.

He found himself in a wide boulevard, facing speeding cars and pedestrians. The tide of people swept him up and carried him to a street corner, where he clutched at a lamp-post.

And then somebody recognized him.

They shouted his title, not his name—nobody used his name anymore—and eyes widened as they registered his face, the peculiar pattern of white streaks in his beard, the unnatural color and texture of his eyes.

The crowd swarmed around Travis, and he climbed the lamp-post. Hands reached out for him, and the murmur of reverence began building to a demanding cacophony. This was how it always happened.

A squeal of tires against pavement and a wet crunch silenced the crowd. Then their noise resumed, but with a different focus.

The injured man lay in the street, one hand still outstretched toward the lamp-post. Blood ran down his face, and pink foam escaped his mouth with every ragged exhalation.

A woman turned to Travis. "Help him!" she called out. "You can save him!"

And then the entire crowd took up the call, asking Travis to do what he could not.

"No!" he replied. "I can't! You don't know what you're asking!"

The people ignored him. They seized his ankles and pulled him to the ground. They grappled him to the injured man and placed Travis' palms on the man's head and chest.

"Please," Travis said, weeping. "Please don't."

But the crowd was no longer listening to him, if they ever had.

An alien power surged through Travis' arms, and he closed his eyes.

***

"Where is he?" asked Sergeant Roberts, skidding to a halt at the scene of the accident. "Where did he go?"

The crowd glared at the soldiers.

"You'll never catch him," one woman said. "He will save us."

Roberts knelt beside the injured man. "Like he saved this one? Medic!"

Airman Collier ran forward and waved a scanner over the man. "Just like the others," she said. "Superficial wounds have been healed, but he's still bleeding internally. We need to get him into surgery."

"Infidels!" the woman cried. "You will not desecrate him! He has been touched by God!"

The crowd closed in, threatening the soldiers. Roberts raised his weapon.

"Sarge!" Collier said, standing up. "Let me handle this?"

Roberts hesitated, then nodded. Collier raised her arms above her head.

"It is a miracle!" she shouted. "We carry this man to temple! Praise God! Let Him lead the way!"

The crowd echoed her proclamations, waved their arms, and began shuffling down the street. Collier stepped back and leaned in close to Roberts.

"We make a show of putting this guy on the stretcher," she whispered. "Then, when the mob's thinned out, we pick him up and run the other way."

Roberts lowered his weapon. "You're a regular miracle worker yourself, Collier."



Photo: Rats & Jesus by andrewneher, February, 2008

"In the Navy"

IN THE NAVY
By Curtis C. Chen

Petty Officer Second Class Sandra Choe, Sandy to her friends, was bored.

The clock on the wall read 11:32. She had the whole day off, but she'd already read every book in the base library, and the next planetside shuttle didn't make another run for six hours.

"I'm bored," Sandy said.

Her bunkmate, Charlene, grumbled in the bed above Sandy. "Why don't you go get some lunch? I hear it's cake day."

Sandy contained her excitement long enough to ask, "Will you be okay here by yourself?"

Charlene waved a hand over the edge of her bunk. "I'll be fine. It's just a rhinovirus. Go."

Sandy went to the cafeteria, where there was indeed cake. She selected the two largest, most frosting-laden pieces and sat down to enjoy them. Halfway through her second piece, two Master Chief Petty Officers came into the cafeteria and sat down within earshot of Sandy.

"Still can't fucking believe it," said the first Master Chief.

"Total fucking clusterfuck," said the second Master Chief.

"How the fuck do you misplace half a million dollars' worth of fucking armor?"

"And you fucking know that's coming out of our fucking budget."

"Fucking fucks."

The only unusual thing about this conversation was the discussion of missing equipment. Sandy, being a sensor tech, had never worked directly on armor, but she had calibrated plenty of sensor arrays to detect enemy armor.

After finishing her cake, Sandy found her commanding officer, explained about the conversation she'd overheard, and asked for permission to search the base's cargo holds.

"Do you know how many fucking holds this base has?" her CO asked. "Waste of fucking time. But hey, if that's how you want to spend your fucking day off, go to town."

Sandy borrowed a portable sensor deck from her shop and began searching. The Gamma Accra orbital platform had grown "organically," as the PR flacks liked to say, and was in many places a maze of twisty passages. The cargo holds had been designed for access from space, not from inside the base.

It took her nearly an hour to locate and access the first hold. Sandy found nothing interesting in that one, or the second one. The third hold had several containers with more radiation shielding than necessary, but Sandy ignored them.

She found the missing equipment in the fourth cargo hold. It had been mislabeled—somebody had typed "5" instead of "4" on the manifest—but it was all there, a platoon's worth of armor pegging the needle on Sandy's sensor deck.

Her CO actually smiled when she reported her success.

"Well done, Choe!" he said, shaking her hand. "You'll get a commendation for this. Fuck, I'm putting you in for a fucking medal! Good work. Dismissed!"

Sandy went back to her quarters, where Charlene was snoring loudly. The clock on the wall read 16:04. The next shuttle didn't leave for two more hours, and there wouldn't be any new books in the base library until the next USO ship docked.

"I'm bored," Sandy said.



Photo: Air Traffic Controller Airman Chelsea Pitchford aboard USS Essex, September, 2010

I'm on a Boat!

The Eurodam, to be exact (which some of us have christened the "You're a Damn Nerd"). So this week's story may be delayed by a day or two. Please stand by.