"Anchors Aweigh"

ANCHORS AWEIGH
By Curtis C. Chen

The first thing Markey thought upon seeing COMSUBPAC was: He looks like my grandfather.

Of course, her grandfather was dead, buried in a mass grave outside Mauthausen-Gusen, and he had never worn any kind of uniform. That hadn't stopped the Nazis. Sometimes Markey wondered if anything could stop them.

Well, that was why she'd fought so hard to get here—pulled every string she could in Hollywood, burned every favor to get her US citizenship and her military rank. Not honorary. Not clerical. She wanted to be in a position to make a difference.

And now what?

The man behind the desk stood and smiled at her, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling behind round eyeglasses. He also very quickly flipped shut the file he'd been studying.

"Lieutenant Hedy Markey, reporting as ordered, Rear Admiral," Markey said.

Rear Admiral Withers—Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet—stepped around his desk and hesitated. "They told me I shouldn't touch you."

Markey resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I hope that's because I just got over a bad cold, Rear Admiral. Anything else is an old wives' tale."

"Well, I didn't hear it from any old wives, I can tell you that." Withers continued smiling at Markey. She did her best to smile back, but she'd already seen his eyes. She didn't need to touch him to know he didn't have good news for her.

Withers turned to the officer who'd brought Markey in. "Captain, I'd like to speak to the Lieutenant in private."

"Aye, sir." The Captain left the room and closed the door.

Withers walked over to the sideboard and poured a drink. "Scotch, Lieutenant?"

Markey shook her head. "They told me I shouldn't drink while on duty."

Withers chuckled, took his glass back to his desk, and sat down. He dug through a pile of folders and slid one across the desk. "You may change your tune, after you see what's in there. Have a seat."

Markey sat and opened the folder. She concealed her surprise at what she felt when she touched the paper. Someone with the talent had prepared this file.

But then, as she read the contents of the file, she understood why.

Withers' glass was empty when Markey looked up. Was I reading for that long?

"This is incredible, sir," she said. "If it's true."

"Well, that's what you're going to find out," Withers said. His smile was gone, and Markey finally recognized the look in his eyes: resolve, mingled with sadness.

"I'm not a zoologist," Markey said.

"No, but you can sense the—what is it? The life aura of different creatures, from a distance."

"That only helps me locate animals," Markey said. "I've never tried it underwater, and I wouldn't know how to study anything as... exotic as this."

"We're at war, Lieutenant," Withers said. "I'm not sending you to study these damned things. I want you to find them, provoke them, and turn them loose on the fucking Japs."

Markey nodded. "I think I will have that drink after all, Rear Admiral."



Image: SS-287 by Vards Uzvards, April, 2007

"Price for Flight"

PRICE FOR FLIGHT
By Curtis C. Chen

The police were the first to get the hovercars.

That surprised a lot of people—most expected the military would seize the technology as soon as Professor Whitlock kicked the bucket. The Pentagon did try to pull some "eminent domain" bullshit, but Whitlock's dual citizenship made things complicated, legally speaking, and in the end it turned out that the United Nations was actually good for something.

The International Court of Justice ruled in favor of Whitlock's will as written, and Vancouver's finest were the first to ride the Lightnings. But they also needed a mechanic.

I was only too happy to relocate to cloudy, rainy British Columbia after several years wandering the Thar Desert in and out of the Professor's employ. Things had gotten a little better after I'd resigned for good, and no longer had to shuttle between India and Pakistan depending on which regime was feeling friendlier toward Westerners and/or women that week. But without Whitlock's funding, I couldn't afford to leave, either. I guess the old bastard did me one last favor when he died.

The cops had already flown the prototype by the time I arrived in Vancouver. The first pilot, a kid named Phillips who looked barely old enough to drink, talked my ear off the afternoon I got there.

"I'm used to helicopters, you know?" he said over a stale sandwich and a cup of weak coffee. "But this thing almost flies itself. I mean, with that helmet and the armbands, I barely even have to move—"

"What kind of armbands?" I asked.

"Oh, they go around the biceps, got some kind of sensors in there and a transdermal-delivery thing—"

"Which pharma? What's the dosage?"

Phillips frowned. "I thought you knew all about this stuff. Didn't you work with the Professor?"

"I quit. A while ago."

"Why?"

I glared at him. "Personal reasons."

Phillips scoffed. "What, did the geezer make a pass at you or something?"

"Does the word 'personal' mean something different in Canadian-ese?"

"Look, we're going to be working together pretty closely," Phillips said. "I'm the senior instructor for all our pilots—"

"Senior?" I hoped my jaw wasn't hanging open too wide. "How old are you?"

He gave me half a smile. "That's a bit of a personal question, isn't it?"

I restrained my urges to both smack him across the face and crush my coffee cup into a gravitational singularity. "I'm just concerned about the vertigo. We had a lot of problems with biofeedback during the experimental phase."

"Old man must have worked out the bugs," Phillips said. "I haven't had any problems with that. Matter of fact, I feel even better after a flight than before I strap in. Refreshed, you know?"

"No," I said. "I don't."

That should have been my first warning. Maybe it was, and I just didn't pay attention. But I should have known all along that it was too good to be true. I should have known that the old fool would start taking shortcuts.

I should have been there to stop him.



Image: A Helicopter Pilot Onboard HMS Westminster by UK Ministry of Defence, March, 2011

"A Shower Scene"

A SHOWER SCENE
By Curtis C. Chen

No matter how much things may change, this fact remains the same: United States Federal Agents are still mostly straight white males, and if there's one thing straight white men do not want to see, it's two dudes macking on each other.

My contact at the shady motel off Route 53 wasn't exactly my type, so I appreciated the fact that he'd attempted to freshen up his breath with something synthetically minty. And that he didn't use any tongue when we kissed, an act for the benefit of the hidden cameras which the FBI or DIA or some other three-letter acronym had scattered around the room.

I had been surprised when my jailbroken smartphone detected scrambled law enforcement frequencies popping out of nearly every metal surface in the room, but sometimes it pays to be paranoid. The microlens-and-radio-transmitter bugs were invisible to the naked eye, but they lit up my phone's ultra-sensitive antenna like a Christmas tree.

Fortunately, even though I wasn't expecting any smokies to have pre-tagged this rustic roadside retreat, I'm always prepared for the worst. I texted my contact a code word indicating a change of plan and hoped his boss—my current client—had passed along the memo with our standard playbook. Good news: he had. Bad news: he was one hairy motherfucker.

After the mercifully brief lip-action, I told my contact to warm up the shower, smacking his ass for effect. While he turned on the water, I made a show of dancing around the room and disrobing, hoping my feigned enthusiasm would be enough to discourage whoever was watching. Then I joined my contact in the shower.

Here's the thing about masking noise: it doesn't work. Whether it's road traffic, or music, or a loud newscast, it's always somewhat predictable, and any law enforcement outfit with two CPUs to rub together will be able to filter out the background and get the gist of what you're saying. I don't like showering with strange men any more than the next guy, but in my line of work, it's one of the few ways to ensure a private conversation.

My contact gave me a disapproving glare when I joined him in the shower, naked. He had opted to keep his boxer shorts on. I shrugged.

He raised his hands, gesturing in the pidgin sign language my client had pre-arranged for audio-compromised situations like this.

DON'T TOUCH ME AGAIN, he signed.

I nodded. NO SPANKING. ACK. IS JOB STILL GO?

COMPLICATION. TWO TARGETS.

I shook my head. NOT WHAT WE AGREED.

BOSS WILL PAY TRIPLE.

I hesitated. A big pay hike like that was almost always bad news, but I needed the money. Besides, the original target was some milk-toast accountant; how bad could this add-on be?

WHO IS SECOND TARGET? I asked.

YOU GET DETAILS LATER, my contact replied. AGREE FIRST.

I frowned. I DON'T ENJOY DOING BUSINESS LIKE THIS.

He scowled back at me, water dripping off his mustache. THAT MAKES TWO OF US, ASSHOLE.



Image: Showertime by EJP Photo, September, 2011

"Fallen Angel"

FALLEN ANGEL
By Curtis C. Chen

"Come on," Linda said in her best come-hither voice. "This ship was meant to fly. She wants to fly."

Joel lowered his scanner and gave her a dubious look. "Look, I appreciate the husky voice and all, but making me sexually aroused is not going to get the engine fixed any faster."

Linda stopped sticking out her chest and slumped sideways against the monitoring console. "I'm just trying to motivate you."

"Yeah, thanks, but the idea of not dying is already pretty compelling." Joel tapped at the scanner, then pried open another access panel. "Maybe you could, I don't know, make yourself useful?"

"I've already cleaned and rebuilt every power relay between the core and all the lifter assemblies. Twice," Linda said. "Unless you've got something for me to shoot, blow up, or otherwise kill, I've kind of exhausted my skill set."

"Just my luck to get marooned with a jarhead," Joel muttered.

"Hey, you're not exactly my idea of a good time, either, Hodge," Linda said. "And don't forget, it's your fault we're stranded here."

"Okay, this again?" Joel dropped his tools and turned to scowl at her. "You really want to waste oxygen arguing about this?"

"I'm not arguing," Linda said. "I'm telling you."

"Hey, you were the one who navigated us into—"

"Shut up and listen," Linda snapped. "I have seniority, so HR's more likely to trust my post-mortem assessment anyway. But more to the point, I'm older than you are, and this is my only career path."

Joel's scowl softened to confusion. "I don't follow."

"You're what, twenty-six years old?"

"Twenty-three."

Linda shook her head. "Jesus, you're a baby. Anyway. The point is, even if you get reprimanded for this, you're going to bounce back. You can still go into any of a dozen different R&D divisions, or tech-dev, or manufacturing."

"Let me get this straight." Joel folded his arms. "You want me to lie for you? In an official company document?"

Linda chose her words carefully. "No, of course not. But you and I will be the only reporters. If we can't agree on the facts of the incident, HR's going to have to convene an inquiry board and run an official investigation, and who knows how long that's going to take."

Joel's mouth twitched, and Linda knew she was on the right track. Anything that distracted him from doing his job was bad.

"So," she continued, "all I'm saying is that if the only downside is you get a slap on the wrist, then making our trip reports match up is a win-win for both of us."

"I don't know," Joel said.

Linda leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. "I'd do my best to make it worth your while."

She slid her hand up his thigh. He made a face like he was sucking on a lemon.

"You know, you're really damaging my self-esteem here," she said.

"Sorry," Joel said. "You're just not my type."

Linda nodded and sat back. "Story of my fucking life."



Image: Untitled by Lóránt Dankaházi, January, 2008

"Thrilling Heroics"

THRILLING HEROICS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Sign here. And initial here. And here..."

Pamela watched as the other lawyer, McBride, flipped pages and pointed over his client's shoulder. The plaintiff, Charles Lucas, made a show of using both bandaged hands to hold the pen as he scrawled on the document.

Another flashbulb went off behind Pamela, and she heard a grumbling noise from the fourth person at the table: her client, Dyna-Gent. She leaned over to him.

"Just keep it together a little longer," she whispered.

"You didn't tell me there would be so many reporters," Dyna-Gent muttered, his eyes narrowed behind his mask.

"You should be happy. You're big news."

"I'm being sued."

"Hey, no such thing as bad publicity, remember?"

Dyna-Gent grimaced and folded his arms. Across the table, Lucas finished signing, and McBride slid the settlement papers across the table.

"All yours, Miss Kirk," he said with a smile that was clearly for the cameras.

"Thank you," Pamela said. "But before my client signs, he has a brief statement."

"An apology, I hope," McBride said.

The grumbling grew louder. Pamela grabbed the glass of water to her left, the one she'd poured earlier, and held it in front of Dyna-Gent's face. "Take a drink and count to ten," she said under her breath.

Dyna-Gent glared across the table as he took the water from Pamela. He tipped the glass back, taking a huge swig, then did a magnificent spit take, drenching Charles Lucas—and causing blue electrical arcs to appear all over his body.

"What did I just drink?" Dyna-Gent bellowed at Pamela.

"Salt water!" she said, pointing at Lucas. "Which happens to be an excellent electrical conductor!"

Dyna-Gent looked at Lucas and smiled. "Of course."

"This is outrageous!" McBride said, getting to his feet.

"I'll tell you what's outrageous," Pamela said, standing up. With her heels, she had a good inch and a half over McBride, and that would play on camera. "It's outrageous that your client is pursuing this fraudulent lawsuit against a respected community defender! The fact that Mr. Lucas is himself super-powered invalidates any claim of damages he has against Dyna-Gent."

"Not so," McBride said. "My client is suffering the after-effects of the explosion which triggered the incident in question. He was not super-powered before that unfortunate—"

"Oh, really?" Pamela pulled a file folder out of her briefcase and slapped it down on the table. "Then why did metro police detect a massive electrical surge in Mr. Lucas' basement, when public utilities recorded no matching drain on the city grid? Where did all that electricity come from, Mr. Lucas?"

"Don't answer that!" McBride snapped. Lucas' mouth hung open, and blue-white sparks jumped between his teeth. "The accident affected my client's genetic structure—"

"Give me a break. DNA doesn't work like that," Pamela said. "We'll see you in court."

She waved at Dyna-Gent, who stood and followed her out of the room.

"My hero," he said, patting her shoulder.

Pamela allowed herself a smile. "Just doing my job, citizen."



Image: Outlet by Adam M, April, 2010

"Back to School"

BACK TO SCHOOL
By Curtis C. Chen

Daniel picked up the shrink-wrapped, flourescent-green cylinder—which looked like it had come out of a set of Lincoln Logs—and said, "What the hell is this?"

"Food stick!" Jos said, sweeping a handful of them off the kitchen counter and into his open backpack. "Compact, shelf-stable, and the nutrients aren't digestible until they combine with the enzymes in the matching drink." He held up a bottle of unnaturally blue liquid. "It's like edible epoxy!"

"Sounds delicious," Daniel said. He turned to Michael, who stood on the other side of the counter, typing into a computer. "Do public high schools not serve hot lunches any more?"

Michael's forty-year-old face looked even older as he frowned at the two teenage boys. "You're in the system, Danny. All the pubschool vendors have thumbscan paypoints. If you want to buy a lunch instead of sharing Josiah's 'science diet' concoction, go ahead—"

"You made this stuff?" Daniel said to Jos.

"Won first place at the science fair." Jos shrugged. "I've been trying to start it up as a side business: Bachelor Chow! Don't know why it hasn't taken off yet."

"I can't imagine."

"As I was saying," Michael said, "you're going to have bigger problems than that today."

"Tell me about it," Daniel muttered.

"Don't worry, Uncle Dan," Jos said. "I'll help you find your way around."

"I think I'll be okay, Jos," Daniel said. "I was attending Weitzel High before you were even born, remember?"

"A lot has changed in the last twenty years," Michael said.

"Thanks for the news flash, Senator." Daniel picked up his backpack, using too much force again—he still expected it to be full of books, instead of just a single slim tablet.

"There'll be reporters outside the school," Michael said. "They can't actually go past the front gate, but they'll get as close as they're legally allowed to. Just be careful what you say to them."

"Yeah, I know. Stick to the prepared statements. 'I'm happy to be here. My brother and I hope all the other recovering stasis virus patients are also getting back to their normal lives.'" Daniel shook his head. "Your speechwriters couldn't come up with anything more creative?"

"Bland is safe," Michael said. "We don't want to give them anything they can make a story out of. Now, what you'll really need to watch out for is the drones."

Daniel blinked. "The what?"

"Unmanned flying camera 'bots," Jos said. "I built one last year for—"

"Shut up," Daniel said. "I'm going to be followed by flying robots?"

"The airspace above the school is technically public property," Michael said. "It is restricted—FAA regs mean the drones can't descend below five hundred feet when school's in session—but the cameras can zoom in, and the microphones are very sensitive, so whenever you're outdoors—"

"You gotta be kidding me!" Daniel said. "Tell me again why I'm not being home-schooled?"

Michael leaned forward across the counter. "Because your little brother is running for re-election, and he needs your help."



Image: Lockers by SickestFame, February, 2012

"The Rule of Three"

THE RULE OF THREE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Reload!" Janelle reached behind her and grasped empty air. "Reload, dammit!"

"No more speedloaders!" Traci shouted. "Use the shotgun!"

Janelle cursed, holstered the revolver, and swung the Remington off her shoulder and forward into both hands. She leveled the barrel at the abomination that was shambling toward them.

Thick, syrupy blood oozed from its neck and face, where four of the revolver rounds had torn through the gray flesh. At least one of those bullets must have gone through the brain—what was left of it, anyway.

So why is it still walking?

"There's only one," Janelle said. "This is a waste of ammo!"

"Seriously?" Traci said.

The zombie raised one skeletal arm toward their barricade. Janelle fired the shotgun, and the skull disintegrated with a sickening noise.

She lowered her weapon. "We need to get out of here."

"Finally, we agree—WHAT THE FUCK!"

Two clawlike hands appeared on top of the barricade and pulled up the rest of the undead body. The neck was a gray-red stump, leaking blood in weak spurts. The zombie drew itself up on top of the barricade.

Janelle fired again, and again, taking off both of the zombie's hands at the wrists. But it had already levered itself over the barricade, and tumbled onto the floor.

"It's still moving!" Traci said. "Why the fuck is it still moving?"

The zombie dragged itself to its wrists and knees and began crawling toward them. Janelle backed up, pressing herself against the wall next to Traci. We don't have enough ammo for this.

Something buzzed loudly from the doorway, and all the lights in the building went out. Janelle cursed and aimed the shotgun at where she hoped the zombie was.

But the shuffling had stopped. She heard clicking noises.

"Flashlight's dead," Traci said. Something snapped, and then a yellow light appeared.

She tossed the glowstick onto the floor, where the zombie lay sprawled, motionless.

"The hell?" Traci said, kneeling.

"Don't get too close," Janelle said.

"No worries, it's off now," came a voice from the doorway.

Janelle brought the shotgun up just as a flashlight went on, pointed at the ceiling, revealing a tall woman wearing police body armor. Both her hands were raised above her head.

"We're all friends here, now," the stranger said.

"That buzzing noise," Janelle said. "You did something to the zombie?"

"EMP. And it's not a zombie. That's why it didn't stop after you decapitated it."

"So what the hell is it?"

"It's a robot."

Janelle grimaced. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"No joke," the stranger said. "Nanotechnology gone wrong. Real bad news."

"That seems... implausible," Traci said.

"That ain't even the weird part," the stranger said.

"So what is the weird part?" Janelle asked.

"You know about the aliens, right?"

Janelle gaped. "Aliens."

"Yup," the stranger said. "Honest-to-gosh, invasion-from-outer-space, flying-saucer aliens. Seen 'em with my own eyes."

"I do not believe this," Janelle grumbled.

"Well," Traci said, "they do say that bad news comes in threes."

"Please shut up now."



Image: Zombie by Nathan Rupert, July, 2009

"Waking Up Alone"

WAKING UP ALONE
By Curtis C. Chen

The girl's glow-green eyes glittered as she said, "Baltimore with a shot of espresso to go, right?"

Jake was so surprised, it took him nearly a full second to reply, "You remember that?"

The girl shrugged and smiled. The holographic heart tattooed into her left dimple sparkled. "It's just an odd combination. Most half-caf folks don't add espresso."

"It's for the flavor," Jake said. "Espresso tastes different than drip coffee. To me, anyway."

The girl nodded. "Charge card?"

She indicated the paypoint with one slender finger. The animated flower painted on her fingernail danced from left to right.

Jake swiped his card and pressed his thumb on the reader while racking his brains for small talk. He'd spent hours last night researching cosmetics, finding out what brand of contact lenses she wore and what the diffraction pattern in her cheek tattoo was and the name of every cartoon plant on her fingernails. He had thought he was prepared to make interesting conversation.

Jake didn't know shit about coffee.

He suddenly wished he had an excuse to truncate this awkward silence. Maybe he could pretend his phone was buzzing. That it was something important, police-detective-important, and he had to run.

Then he felt like an idiot. You stare down perps in the box every day, Jake told himself. And you can't manage a simple conversation with this girl? Pull your shit together, Lanosky!

He'd say his name, finally introduce himself, and ask her name. He was dying to know her name, the one on the apron tag that was covered up by her long, brown hair. Simple. Easy. Go.

Jake opened his mouth just as the girl slid his drink across the counter.

"There you go," she said, and started to turn away.

"Wait," Jake said. "Just one more thing."

She turned back, smiling brightly. "Yes, sir?"

And Jake wilted.

"You have a great day," he said.

"Thanks! I'll do my best," the girl said. Her eyes had already moved on to look at something outside the window.

Jake walked out of the cafe. After he turned the corner, he dropped the full coffee cup into a trash bin.

He got into his car, opened the glovebox, and pulled out the hip flask. He tossed back a shot of whiskey. He would have put it in the coffee anyway, he rationalized, and this woke him up just as well.

He wasn't anybody to the girl in the cafe. Just another "sir," another customer she could get a bigger tip from if she flirted a little. He was stupid to think he could have gotten anywhere with her.

And he knew why he'd been so nervous about chatting her up. Because no matter how most-wanted or armed-and-dangerous his suspects were, Jake had nothing personal on the line when dealing with them. He knew exactly what that relationship was: antagonistic. And Jake was good at being the bad cop.

He wasn't so good at being an actual human person.

"Fuck it," he grumbled, and downed another shot. "Time to go catch some bad guys."



Image: Coffee to go by Christian Kitazume, November, 2007