"Oliver Comes Home"

OLIVER COMES HOME
By Curtis C. Chen

The apartment was cold and dark. Oliver almost called out when he closed the door, and had to remind himself that there was nobody waiting for him at home anymore. He wondered how long it would be before the habit faded.

"Welcome home, Doctor Graves," said a gravelly voice with a British accent.

Oliver yanked open the drawer of the table by the door and reached inside. The pistol was missing. He grabbed the letter opener instead and slapped at the light switch on the wall.

The living room lights came on, revealing a dark-haired man, graying at the temples, wearing a tweed three-piece suit. He sat in Oliver's armchair. His hands were raised next to his shoulders. One hand held Oliver's pistol, slide locked back to show it was not loaded. The other hand held the empty magazine.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Oliver said. He couldn't decide whether he should advance toward the stranger, or duck into the kitchen and look for a better weapon, or reach for his phone to make an emergency call.

"Just a fellow handgun enthusiast," the stranger said, nodding at the pistol in his right hand. Oliver couldn't quite place the accent—Oxford, maybe. "Tell me, why is a man with an advanced physics degree so interested in keeping and modifying his own small arms?"

"I like working with my hands," Oliver said.

"You could build ships in bottles."

"I also enjoy loud noises."

"You used to go hunting with your family. Isn't that right?"

Oliver gripped the letter opener. "I want to know who you are and what you're doing in my flat."

"I work for the United States government." The stranger slowly lowered his arms and put the empty pistol and magazine on the coffee table.

"You don't sound American," Oliver said.

"Well, that makes two of us," said the stranger. "As I was saying, I work for a federal agency, and I'm in need of some technical expertise." He sat down in the armchair.

"You're a spy," Oliver said.

The stranger's mouth twitched. "Not exactly."

"And I'm not exactly looking for a job."

"You resigned from Berkshire Macro-Composites this morning," the stranger said. "I understand the circumstances were rather unfavorable. You won't receive any severance pay, and more importantly, if you spend too much time alone in this apartment, you will go mad with grief."

Oliver felt the emptiness in the pit of his stomach yawning open. The wall behind the stranger displayed the default screensaver, a vacant beach at sunset overlaid with a clock and calendar. Had it really been only two months since Robbie's death? It felt so much longer. Oliver couldn't summon a memory of the last day he'd felt in the least bit happy.

The stranger was right. An arrogant, presumptuous scofflaw, maybe, but still right.

"What do I call you?" Oliver asked.

"I'm Paul Tarkington," the stranger said. "I work for the State Department."

"And what are you offering?"

Paul smiled.



Photo: Welcome to the Sanitarium by Chris Roberge, March, 2007

"Stronger"

STRONGER
By Curtis C. Chen

"He needs a new skeleton," Gottlieb said.

Schumann glared for a moment, then turned his broad shoulders and sat down behind his office desk.

"In private," Schumann said.

Gottlieb closed the door and dropped the file on the General's desk. "I'll need your authorization for the procedure—"

"I'm not going to authorize the procedure," Schumann said.

Gottlieb blinked. "This is a medical emergency."

Schumann shook his head. "You need to remember who's in charge here, Doctor. I know the guy's your friend, you have history together, but this program is not your own private research lab. If I can't make a case for the operational benefit of a procedure, I can't authorize the funds for it. That's the bottom line."

It took Gottlieb a moment to unclench his jaw. "The operational benefit is that Paul Wilson doesn't die. Or is the United States government no longer in the business of keeping its citizens alive?"

"There's no need for insults, Doctor," Schumann said. He pushed away the file on his desk. "I've seen the updates. Wilson's condition isn't life-threatening. He'll be on his back for a few days until you figure out how to turn down the implants, and then you'll fix him."

"This isn't—" Gottlieb heard himself getting louder, and stopped before he started yelling at a three-star general. "Paul Wilson's enhancile is not purely technological. He has received gene therapy which alters the fundamental biochemical makeup of his muscles. We had to do that in order to keep the myasthenia gravis from destroying his soft tissue."

"I'm not an idiot, Doctor." Schumann stared right through Gottlieb. "Wilson's muscle growth is regulated by the implants. You can tune those to keep him from hulking out."

"We've been trying," Gottlieb said. "It's not working."

"Make it work."

"You tell me how to create some new amino acids and I'll get right on it."

Schumann sighed, opened the file, and scanned through it. "You've done this type of skeletal enhancement before?"

"Dogs and ponies. Literally," Gottlieb said. "But the principle is the same. It will work. I just need a signature."

Schumann closed the folder. "I'll sign on one condition. You need to put Wilson into the field."

Gottlieb shook his head. "He's not ready. We need to—"

"Don't bullshit me, Doctor," Schumann said. "You've released enhanced soldiers onto the battlefield two weeks after surgery. Wilson's been here for years."

"He's not a soldier. He doesn't—"

"I'm not asking him to be a soldier. I'm asking him to serve his country using his unique talents." Schumann opened a drawer and pulled out a reader tablet. "And he won't be alone."

Gottlieb frowned. "What are you proposing?"

"This isn't a proposal, Doctor. This is an order." Schumann pushed the tablet to the edge of his desk. "I'm putting together a task force. FBI's bringing in the candidates now, and they're shipping out as soon as you examine them and certify them fit for duty.

"This department's been making superheroes for three years. It's about time we started using them for something."



Photo: Strength by R.O Mania, June, 2008

"Higher"

HIGHER
By Curtis C. Chen

The girl didn't look happy. Her eyes were red, like she'd been crying. Her forearms were bandaged, and her wrists and ankles were secured to the bed rails with heavy straps.

She was also floating about an inch above the mattress.

"You have noticed that she's levitating, right?" Gottlieb said.

Humphrey rolled his eyes. "Of course we noticed. That's why we called you for a consult."

"Because you've been dealing with a lot of strange cases lately," Iskra said, handing Gottlieb a patient file. "And we're honestly not sure what's going on here."

Gottlieb looked through the observation window at the girl for a few more seconds, wanting to form an opinion before any of her records could bias him toward a particular diagnosis. Then he flipped through the file.

"Where are her parents?" he asked.

"Her mother's with the police," Humphrey said. "The officers found some controlled substances in the apartment when they responded to the 911 call."

"No father on record," Iskra added. "The mother's a sex worker. Got herself fixed after the first unwanted pregnancy."

"But she didn't have an abortion," Gottlieb said.

"Not for lack of trying," Humphrey said.

Gottlieb looked up. "You pulled the mother's file?"

"Yeah. Cops wanted to know if she was clean."

"And why don't I have it here?"

Humphrey frowned. "It's not medically relevant."

"I'll decide that for myself," Gottlieb said. "You want me to consult, you get me all the facts. What kind of sterilization procedure did the mother undergo? Was it surgical?"

"Artificial menopause," Iskra said.

Gottlieb blinked. "What?"

"Endocrine regulation, using a combination of—"

"I know what it is," Gottlieb snapped. He looked at Humphrey. "A teenage girl starts floating in midair, and you don't think it could be hormone-related?"

"That was the mother, not the daughter," Humphrey said. "Implants aren't hereditary. And she didn't even have the procedure until after her daughter was born."

"How soon after the birth? Did she breast-feed her daughter?" Gottlieb asked. "What kind of endocrine implant did she have? Was it HPG axis-limited? Was there a nanotech component to the treatment? I need to see that file."

Humphrey scowled, said, "Doctor Iskra can get it for you," and walked out of the room.

"Nice to see you haven't lost your touch," Iskra said, shaking his head. "I'll get you the mother's medical records. Any ideas in the meantime?"

"Has the girl—what's her name?"

"Caitlin. Caitlin Kearny."

"Has Caitlin complained of nausea, dizziness, or vertigo?"

Iskra nodded. "All three. Do you know what's causing it?"

I hope not, Gottlieb thought. "Is it persistent, or does it come and go?"

"She says it happens whenever she gets intoxicated—usually just alcohol, though she's admitted to marijuana use, too. The discomfort also seems to coincide with her, um, levitation episodes."

Shit. "I'm going to need blood and tissue samples."

Iskra frowned. "What are you testing for?"

I can't tell you that. "I don't know," Gottlieb said.



Photo: High Diver by Evan Leeson, June, 2009

"Faster"

FASTER
By Curtis C. Chen

Gottlieb didn't even see his office door open and close. He blinked, and then there was a man standing next to the bookshelf.

"Can I help you?" Gottlieb asked. It was his standard greeting when he had no idea what was going on. Which seemed to be happening more and more these days.

The man's face seemed familiar. Gottlieb squinted. The man appeared blurry, almost as if he were... vibrating?

"I want my money back," the man said. His voice quavered, like an audio sample being alternately sped up and slowed down.

"I'm sorry," Gottlieb said. "Are you a patient here?"

The man disappeared, then reappeared on Gottlieb's side of the desk. He grabbed Gottlieb's coat and lifted him out of his chair.

"I'm one of your patients!" the man shouted. "Don't you recognize the monster you created, Doctor?"

Gottlieb raised both his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry. Your face—it's—"

"Oscillating?" the man said. "Yeah. My whole body, actually. Forty-five hertz, give or take, depending on my mood." This close, Gottlieb noticed an undertone beneath the man's quavering speech—a low buzzing, like an ungrounded electric appliance. "Don't you remember doing this to me? Or am I just another experiment to you?"

The face snapped into focus for a split second, and Gottlieb recognized the man. "Mr. Kendall? Herman Kendall?"

Kendall's grip relaxed. Gottlieb lowered his hands slowly.

"What did you do to me, Doc?" Kendall asked, his voice winding down.

Gottlieb slipped both hands into his coat pockets, finding his panic button in case he needed to summon help. "Please, sit. Tell me what happened. As I recall, you wanted a synaptic enhancile."

Kendall zipped around the desk and sat down. Now that Gottlieb knew what he was looking at, he could almost visually track Kendall's accelerated motion.

"It didn't work," Kendall said. "Or maybe it worked too well. I don't know. At first, it did what you said: helped me think faster, sped up my reflexes. I was unbeatable on the court. But then I started losing control."

"I warned you," Gottlieb said softly. "It was a highly experimental implant."

"I know!" Kendall stood up. "I know you said there would be side effects, and I was ready for that, but this—" He pounded his temples with his fists. "Nobody's going to let me compete now! You gotta take it out, Doc!"

"We discussed this," Gottlieb said. "The enhancile is a permanent change to your physiology. I can try to tune it, but there's no way to remove it without killing you."

Kendall sat down again. "Jesus, you might as well. My life is over anyway."

Gottlieb picked up a reader tablet from his desk and thumbed it to the personal files he'd been looking at earlier.

"Maybe not," Gottlieb said, holding out the tablet. "There are some people I'd like you to meet."

On the tablet screen were photos of a heavily muscled man, a scowling woman in full body armor, and a teenage girl floating several feet above a sidewalk.



Photo: "The fastest animal on earth..." by Keven Law, February, 2008

"Fearless"

FEARLESS
By Curtis C. Chen

"The doctor must have stepped out," the smiling receptionist said as she walked Alex into an empty office. "Would you wait here, please?"

"Do I have a choice?" Alex said.

"Oh, don't be nervous—"

"Do I seem nervous to you?"

The receptionist continued smiling. "Your consultation is entirely confidential. Doctor Gottlieb's very good. I should know; I'm a former patient."

"Let me guess," Alex said. "Agnosia implant?"

The receptionist turned to look down the hallway. "Oh, here he comes now."

Doctor Gottlieb exchanged hellos with the receptionist, then entered the office and closed the door behind him. He pulled a reader tablet out of his white coat and sat down at his desk.

"How can I help you, Miss... Burstyn?"

"It's Officer Burstyn." Alex held up her badge.

Gottlieb put down the tablet. "I'm sorry, Officer. Do you have a warrant?"

"I'm not here on official business," Alex said. "But it's funny that would be the first thing out of your mouth."

Gottlieb folded his arms. "My patients value their privacy. I perform a lot of sensitive procedures, often involving personal issues—"

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm here. I want an MGR-5 enhancile."

The doctor blinked. "Excuse me?"

"MGR-5. Metabotropic glutamate receptor five?"

Gottlieb frowned. "You've done your homework. Most people just call it 'the backbone implant.'"

"That could be any number of treatments," Alex said. "I want the gene therapy."

"You'll still need an implant to regulate stress hormone production—"

"And a wire down my spine, yeah, I know."

Gottlieb leaned forward. "There are side effects. Impaired judgment, for example, which could be an issue in your line of work."

"Which is why you'll prescribe drugs to treat those side effects."

"All this will be very expensive."

"I can pay."

"And if you ever want to have children—"

"I don't."

They stared at each other.

"Anything else you want to say to try and talk me out of it?" Alex asked.

"Just this," Gottlieb said. "Medical science has achieved some miraculous things. But everything we do to the human body is still just a hack. The backbone alters a fundamental biochemical response. We evolved to feel fear for very good reasons. I urge you to think very hard before deciding on this."

"Do you know what happened to me last year?"

Gottlieb shook his head.

"My best friend died," Alex said. "He died five minutes after I asked him to marry me. He died because some mincer wanted his wristwatch, and I was afraid I'd get a hand cut off if we fought.

"I would have traded my arm if I knew it would save Ethan's life.

"I didn't want to make a rash, grief-fueled decision, so I waited. Thirteen months. I did the department-mandated therapy, I passed the psych eval. I know what I want. I want to move on, but I don't want to forget.

"I don't ever again want to see somebody die because I was too scared for my own well-being to do something to save them. Now are you going to help me, Doctor?"



Photo: DSC08090 by Phillip LeConte, February, 2011

"Cowboys and Aliens"

COWBOYS AND ALIENS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Thisss isss an exsssellent weap-pon," Halley said.

Eugene had been dealing with Varmits for as long as they'd been in California, and it still gave him pause to hear English words coming out of those tall purple sausages with tentacles. He pushed the Colt revolver back across the wooden counter and hoped his hands weren't shaking too much.

"I'm looking for something more unusual," he said.

"What-t do you mean?"

"Listen, I know you Varmits—"

"Varna'ut," the alien corrected.

"I know you folks make some interesting weapons," Eugene said. "I'm in the market for a repeater. I can pay."

Halley remained still for a few more seconds, then said, "Your name isss Eugene C-Creason."

Eugene blinked. "Yes."

"You p-play with children at-t ssstables."

Eugene felt his palms sweating. "Sometimes. It's just cards. No gambling."

The alien finally moved, twitching its upper tentacles. "My offssspring enjoy p-playing Go Fish." It paused for a second. "P-please wait-t here."

Halley disappeared into the back room of the small store. Eugene glanced out the window. Still no sign of Claud or Samuel. Maybe they'd changed their minds.

No, I wouldn't be that lucky.

Something landed on the counter with a heavy thud. Eugene turned back and saw a hunk of gray metal slightly longer than his forearm. There was a small lever that might be a trigger, and the pipe protruding from one end looked like a gun barrel, but all the other shapes attached to the frame were unfamiliar.

"P-P90," the Varmit said.

Eugene frowned. "Looks like something out of a rail yard."

The Varmit tapped the metal shape. "Barrel here. Sssight here. T-trigger here." It pulled out the long translucent box below the sight. The material looked like resin. "Ammunition here."

"The bullets don't go inside?"

"Met-tal c-coil in magazine ap-plies p-presssure. Ssspiral feed-d ramp-p loads ammunition int-to chamber."

Eugene had never seen alien machinery up close, and for a moment he forgot why he was there. The sound of Claud and Samuel crashing into the store reminded him.

"Down on the ground!" Claud shouted.

"Put your hands up!" Samuel yelled. "Eugene, where's the safe?"

"In the back," Eugene said.

Halley turned splotches that could have been eyes toward Eugene. "Why d-do you d-do thisss?"

"I'm sorry," Eugene said, his voice shaking.

"I found it!" Claud called from the back room. "But I don't see no weapons!"

Samuel waved his revolver. "Get back there."

Eugene followed Halley into the back room. Floating in midair between stacks of wooden crates was a glowing rectangle which framed a vision of another storeroom.

"You see?" Claud gestured at the glowing image. "Just a bunch of boxes."

"Inside the boxes." Eugene pointed. "There. The one marked 'P90.'"

Samuel was mesmerized by the view, swaying back and forth to see different angles on it. "It's like a window to another place."

"Another t-time," Eugene heard Halley say just before it shoved the three humans through the portal.



Photo: Colt Second Model Dragoon Revolver 1848-1860 by Michael Carøe Andersen, June, 2010

"To Serve Man"

TO SERVE MAN
By Curtis C. Chen

Jerry nearly jumped out of his skin when the robot spoke to him.

"Good evening, sir. Do you require assistance?"

Don't panic, Jerry thought. If this was a security model, you'd be on the floor already. So it's a servant, right? Programmed for convenience. Helpful.

He couldn't risk speaking, in case it tried to recognize his voice after failing to match his face. But he had to give some kind of response.

"Mmm-hmm," Jerry said, keeping his lips closed and nodding his head.

The robot was silent for a moment, then said, "We were told to expect you, sir. Please, follow me."

The bot turned and rolled away. Jerry exhaled. Obviously the bot wasn't linked to house security; it assumed Jerry had used a key, instead of bypassing the door circuit. He followed the bot through the kitchen. Sitting on the dining table was a crate filled with bubble-wrapped bronze shapes.

Modern art, he thought. Must be worth a fortune. Why are they all packed up like this?

"Missus and Master Calthorpe forgot this crate was still in the attic. Are these the correct items, sir?"

"Mmm-hmm." Good old servant bots. Jerry would have to do some legwork to find the right fence, but he was sure these hunks of metal would be worth more than the jewelry and bank notes he'd hoped to find here.

The bot lifted the crate. "Where is your vehicle, sir?"

Damn. "Mmm-mm," Jerry said.

The bot paused for a moment. "Do you have a vehicle here, sir?"

"Mmm-mm." Jerry shook his head vigorously.

"Very well, sir," the bot said. "Master and Missus have authorized their guests to use the Jaguar for any transportation needs."

Jerry clapped a hand over his mouth to contain his excitement.

"This way, sir."

The bot led him to the garage and loaded the crate into a shiny green Jaguar sedan. Jerry sat down in the driver's seat and ran his hands over the steering wheel. He'd never felt real leather before.

"Master and Missus are expecting you back at the charity auction," the bot said before closing the door. "Your destination has already been programmed into the navigation computer."

"Mm-hmm."

The Jag pulled out of the garage, and the door closed on the servant bot. Jerry looked over the dashboard, searching for an access panel to override the auto-nav.

He couldn't find one. He pried off the plastic cover below the steering column. There were no wires; instead, he was faced with a mass of tubes pulsing with yellow liquid.

"What the hell?" he said out loud.

The dashboard beeped. "Command not recognized," said a female voice.

Jerry sat up and looked at the navigation display.

CURRENT DESTINATION: POLICEMAN'S BALL

"No!" He pounded his fists on the dash. "Stop! Pull over! Emergency! STOP!"

"Command not recognized. Voice authorization failed."

The doors wouldn't unlock, and cutting the yellow tubes just spilled sour-smelling liquid all over the floormat. Jerry clawed at the breakproof windows as the car sped down the road.



Photo: Robot After All by Théo La Photo, April, 2008

"Godwin's Backstory"

GODWIN'S BACKSTORY
By Curtis C. Chen

The elevator ride up to the seventh floor seemed to take forever. Michael's hands weren't cuffed, but the three armed guards behind him and Denford made it clear that Michael was not a welcome guest.

Michael said, "Do you remember the first time you learned about 'Godwin's Law?'"

Denford kept staring straight ahead. "I thought you only reported to the old man now."

"I'm not reporting," Michael said. "We're just chatting."

Denford didn't reply.

"I hear it happened on the Russian Far East desk," Michael continued. "A local sport diver sensed Teutonic wards all over a shipwreck near Sakhalin. Nothing of obvious intel value, so nobody was very interested at first—except one World War Two enthusiast, an up-and-coming CIA supervisor named Theodore Godwin.

"It turned out that his division was trying to set up a completely unrelated operation near Vladivostok, and the only reasonable way to get their agents on site was by submarine out of Japan. But it was a high-risk, low-reward situation, and nobody wanted to stick their neck out for it. Godwin really believed, but he didn't have the clout to make it happen.

"Anyway, a few days later, another wire comes across the desk with new information about the Sakhalin shipwreck, and guess what? Somebody who saw the diver's photos is pretty sure that was a Nazi vessel, and there could be military artifacts on board. Maybe even some of Hitler's amulets.

"Well, all of a sudden, everyone and his dog is rushing to greenlight a recovery operation, and Godwin says you know, as long as we're out there near Sapporo with a submarine anyway, why don't we just go ahead and run this op that my division's been trying to clear for the last two months?"

Denford finally turned to look at Michael. "Yeah, I know the story. There's nothing in the shipwreck but some fish skeletons, but the old man lucks out and snags some prize intel on Soviet Fleet deployments. He gets on the fast track to director."

"And nobody could ever prove that Godwin doctored those shipwreck reports, or persuaded someone to do it for him, but that's irrelevant. The real lesson was, if you can draw some kind of line, no matter how thin or how convoluted, that connects your proposal to Hitler, your chances of approval magically and dramatically improve." Michael shrugged. "Godwin's Law."

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Denford and Michael marched forward, followed by the guards.

"Was there a point to all that?" Denford asked. "Or were you just running your mouth?"

"We're never going to catch Hitler," Michael said. "We missed our chance in 1945, and it'll never come again. But he's actually more valuable this way.

"As long as there's still some mystery surrounding him, we'll want to know more. And some people can use that. They can sell the question without ever worrying what the answer is going to be."

The double doors to the director's suite opened.

"Sometimes," Michael said, "we don't really want to know the answers."



Photo: 1938 German Nazi Coin by Kevin Dooley, November, 2009