"Debriefing"

DEBRIEFING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Nobody died," I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"And that's your criterion, is it?" the examiner barked from the other side of the desk. "You destroyed an entire city block and blew the cover of everyone in your support team, but hey, there were no actual fatalities, so let's chalk that one up in the 'win' column?"

I shifted in my amazingly uncomfortable wooden chair. "All I'm saying is, it was just a training simulation. A computer-generated exercise. What's the big fuss?"

"What's the—!" The examiner's face cycled through three distinct shades of red before he shook his head. "These simulations are how we evaluate your potential to be a field agent."

"Yeah, but I knew it was a simulation, didn't I? I mean, to be really effective, shouldn't you put me in a dangerous situation which I believe is real, to see how I would actually behave?"

The examiner frowned at me. "You're suggesting that we deceive our people in order to evaluate them?"

I shrugged. "I'm just saying, knowing that it's a simulation, knowing that the stakes aren't real, diminishes my motivation."

"Oh, I see," the examiner said. "So we should use a different standard to evaluate your performance. You're just that special, is that what you're saying?"

"Well, I am—"

The examiner's fist smashed against the desktop. "I'm only going to say this once. Nobody is so extraordinary that the enemy will not kill him. Nobody is so singular that he can survive a bullet fired into his skull at point blank range.

"Our ranks and titles only matter within these walls. Out there in the field, it doesn't matter who you are. It only matters what you can do. And before we send you off, we need to know what you're capable of and what your limits are. Is that clear?"

I nodded.

"Nobody gets special treatment," he said. "If you can't summon the wherewithal to do your best in training, I have no confidence that you'll perform any better in an actual life-or-death situation where you need to make split-second decisions."

"So you're not going to let me try again?"

For a moment, I thought the examiner's eyes might pop out of his head. "You are dismissed. I'll send a full evaluation report to your supervisor by the end of the day."

"Right." I stood up, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the jump drive I'd pocketed during the sim.

It hadn't been easy, finding the correct computer-controlled holo-character and then lifting the tiny prize off him, but demolishing the building had provoked an appropriate flight response in all the chars except my target. I would never have done it in the real world, but I knew how to beat a computer game.

"Will you be wanting this back, then?" I asked.

I could almost see smoke escaping from the examiner's ears, and only months of training kept me from smirking as he snatched the drive from between my fingers.



Image: Apple store covent garden by Andy Lederer, August, 2010

"Now and Later"

The following story is fictional. No actual person or event is depicted.

NOW AND LATER
By Curtis C. Chen

Now, Christian Francis Reed plays with a toy rifle, expelling the cork projectile over and over, pretending he can strike targets across the room. Pop. Targets like the tinseled tree, or the sleeping dog, or his sister. He wonders when his father will get him a real gun. He imagines shooting BBs, hitting things before they can get close enough to hit him. He aims the air rifle and imagines the face of the largest boy in class, the one who punches and kicks harder than anyone else. Pop.

Later, Christian Francis Reed walks through the shopping mall, covered in ceramic body armor, an automatic weapon in each hand. He likes the way the guns bounce as he fires them, rat-a-tat-tat, scattering bullets left and right. He doesn't care if he hits anyone; he's just shooting to clear his path. He imagines the noises not as gunshots, but as drumbeats. That's what they sound like, through the helmet: rump-a-pum-pum.

Now, Christian Francis Reed admires himself in the mirror, holding the first firearm he's purchased with his own money, a revolver which he selected after days of research. The six-shooter reminds him of Westerns, but there are also practical reasons to prefer "wheel guns" over "bottom feeders"—the latter can jam, and that's no good. Christian likes to know that he will be able to shoot his gun whenever he wants.

Later, Christian Francis Reed sees the police sniper on the upper level of the mall, and Christian drops the sniper with half a clip. The sniper falls and lands in front of Christian. She's a woman. He hesitates, confused—shouldn't she be at home with her baby?—until she draws her sidearm, and then he shoots her in the neck. But she manages to put a bullet in his leg first, and he has to hobble forward. He's annoyed that she slowed him down. Christian doesn't like it when people stop him from getting what he wants.

Now, Christian Francis Reed wrestles with the girl in the backseat, pinning her down. He's not sure if the noises she's making are even words. He releases her wrist to reach under the seat, and she slaps his face before he can grab the pistol. Christian slams the butt of the weapon into the girl's skull, and then she is silent and still, and he gets what he wants.

Later, Christian Francis Reed lies on his back in the center of the mall, wheezing as broken ribs scrape against his lungs. The police made him drop the detonator, and though he has to respect their marksmanship with the new non-lethal shock darts, he is very unhappy that he won't get what he wants. His fingers twitch toward the detonator, just inches away, but a boot kicks it out of reach. The owner of the boot kneels above Christian, and he sees that it's another woman.

"You're under arrest," she says, cuffing his wrists. "Don't die before we put you on trial, asshole."



Image: Science Museum of Minnesota bans guns, July, 2008

"Not As We Know It"

NOT AS WE KNOW IT
By Curtis C. Chen

"Here we go." Renfti pushed the button. "End of the world."

Sarlmon watched the flashing red color spread across the map on the wall display for a second, then sat down at the control station next to his student. "You seem confident of the outcome."

Renfti folded her hands and smiled. "I've studied this species for a long time. They're quite gregarious—almost pathologically so. Cut off their social contact, and they start losing their minds."

Sarlmon nodded. "An interesting hypothesis."

"I've tested it with several small groups," Renfti said. "Same results every time. The key is to isolate them, remove all objective evidence from external sources, then initiate a dominance struggle. It never ends well."

"But to reproduce that on a large scale?" Sarlmon asked. "Surely you can't expect these beings to self-isolate everywhere. Cultural and geographical differences will provoke different responses across the planet."

"Some things are hard-wired into the brain." An alert popped up on Renfti's console, and she tapped at her controls. "Survival instincts remain, because the genes are selfish. Civilization alters the dynamics and causes instinctual responses to have undesirable results..." She frowned. "That's unusual."

"Let me guess," Sarlmon said, "something unexpected in one of the large population centers, probably a coastal city."

Renfti gaped at him. "How did you know?"

"My dear, you are not the first candidate who's ever tried to defend this thesis." Sarlmon waved at the wall display. "Show me the data, please."

The map zoomed in, and one shaded area resolved into clusters of pulsing red dots. As Sarlmon and Renfti watched, one particular cluster moved upward, accreting other red dots.

"This doesn't make sense," Renfti said, poking at her controls. "An anomaly. One bad datum. It won't affect the outcome."

"How many individuals in that cluster?" Sarlmon asked.

"The computer estimate is..." Renfti shook her head. "That can't be right."

"How many?"

"Nearly a thousand!" Renfti hammered at her controls. "There must be some mistake. They couldn't have self-organized that quickly; the communication issues alone would be insurmountable—"

"They're moving." Sarlmon pointed at the screen. "Where are they going? Can you overlay the radar scan?"

"Yes, Professor. There." The display flickered, and the translucent blue ghosts of buildings and structures appeared, cobalt-tinged jars around the teeming crimson fireflies. "Oh no. No, no, no..."

"Let me guess," Sarlmon said. "A launch facility."

A large red sphere blossomed in the base of one of the blue structures, and alarms began sounding all around the two scholars. Renfti screeched. Sarlmon slapped his override and began programming a transfer orbit.

"I don't understand!" Renfti wailed. "It should have worked! All the simulations were positive!"

"Nuclear-capable societies are always complicated," Sarlmon said as he piloted the ship out of weapons range. "I'm afraid your experiment is over, my dear. They've seen us. It's the military's problem now.

"Oh, stop blubbering. Your next course will be Earth history. Learning how we survived our nuclear age should help you understand how to make things go wrong on these undesirable alien worlds."



Image: wifi stations in berlin by Michael Kreil, April, 2011

"Barely Legal"

BARELY LEGAL
By Curtis C. Chen

"So," the human asked, using the translator in his computer tablet, "what's a nice pupa like you doing in a place like this?"

Anafful suspected this was an attempt at what humans called "humor," and what her mother called "useless vocalization," especially if it came from one of Anafful's friends.

It was lunchtime, and the friends in question had all abandoned Anafful to gawk at the aliens milling about the cafeteria downstairs. She had seen this human walking around the wards previously, talking to various people until he was shooed away by the nurses.

Anafful suspected he was a galactic census adjunct or some such boring thing. She had watched as he approached, mystified as to why all her friends found these endoskeletal beings so fascinating. To Anafful, the human looked pink and squishy, like an oversized and undercooked land grub.

His appearance made her a bit nauseous, to be honest, but she did her best to be polite. After all, he was a guest in her star system.

"I will soon enter the chrysalid phase of my adolescence," Anafful said, speaking slowly so the translator program could follow along. "My ancestors are among the custodians of this institution, and thus my family enjoys the benefit of its medical care."

"Got it. Trust fund baby," the human said, operating the tablet with his soft, fleshy fingers. They made a disturbing, wet, thwack sound with every impact against the touch-screen.

"I do not know what that phrase means," Anafful said.

"Don't worry about it. So, your friends who were in here earlier, are they classmates then?" the human asked.

"Some of them, yes. My school is—"

"And at least one of them was male, is that correct?"

Anafful suppressed any display of annoyance at his interruption. "Two were males. Gaddlim wore the bright red cap, and Driicha has the emblem of ascension etched into his left wing carapace. They—"

"Have you engaged in sexual relations with either of them?"

Anafful could not help fluttering her mandibles at that. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Or are your eggs not accessible until later in the metamorphic cycle?"

"Who are you?"

"What about with the other females?" the human asked, apparently oblivious to Anafful's objections. "Have you ever performed mutual—"

Just then, a nurse passing by the open door of Anafful's room burst in, seizing the human by his lumpy shoulders and spinning him around.

"Hey!" he yelped.

"You again!" the nurse said, and shoved him out the doorway. "Out! Right now, or I call security!"

"I'm allowed to be here!" the human protested from the corridor.

"You're not allowed to harass children!" The nurse slammed the door shut, then turned to Anafful. "Are you well, miss?"

"Yes," Anafful said, clutching her bedcovers close to her shell. "But confused. He was asking me all sorts of... strange questions. Who is he?"

"Just one of those soft-brained human scholars." The nurse shook her head. "I swear, it seems like all they ever want to talk about is sex."



Image: I'm looking through you by Gabriela F. Ruellan, February, 2007

"Introducing Kangaroo"

INTRODUCING KANGAROO
By Curtis C. Chen

"Come on, DAD would be a great code name for you."

He gave me the look that said he wasn't in the mood for jokes. Actually, he was almost never in the mood for jokes—unless he was making them—but this was the look that really meant business. This was the look that threatened physical harm if I continued down this path.

So, of course, I kept pushing.

"You know," I said, "because you're such a father figure to me. Right? Except nobody else would know that. So it's super easy for us to remember, but completely opaque to anybody else."

He stared at me for another long moment, then said, "Are you planning to be this idiotic during the meeting?"

"That is my plan, yes."

"You do understand what's at stake here."

I could hear his voice switching into lecture mode. "Yeah, I do, but why don't you remind me again, in excruciating detail."

He touched the controls on the back of the driver's seat, and the clear partition between us and the vehicle's front compartment darkened. At the same time, the outside road noise became muffled as the active suppression systems engaged. Even in a secure agency vehicle, one could never be too careful about eavesdroppers.

"This meeting is going to decide the disposition of your entire future," he said. "After today, you're either going to be a lab rat or a field agent. And only one of those occupations offers a halfway normal life."

"I have no chance at a normal life," I said. "I have a superpower, remember?"

"I said halfway normal," he said. "Science Division will not blink at locking you away for weeks of testing at a time. They won't even think of you as a human being. All they want is to figure out how to replicate your ability, either technologically or biologically. And if they have to trade your life for that knowledge, they will feel absolutely no remorse about it."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," I said. "But how does doing field missions at your beck and call improve my life expectancy?"

"I'm not saying you'll live any longer. It's quite possible you'll make a rookie mistake your first time out and get killed within minutes of infiltration."

I studied his face to see if he was attempting to make a joke. He wasn't.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said.

"Even the best agents can be brought down by stupid mistakes or plain old bad luck. It's nothing personal, KANGAROO," he said.

"And another thing," I said. "Can we talk about changing my stupid code name?"

"What's wrong with KANGAROO?"

I squinted at him. "You do realize that only female kangaroos have pouches, right?"

He stared back at me. "What's your point?"

I was certain he was joking now, but his face betrayed nothing.



Image: Rude kangaroo! by Tambako The Jaguar, July, 2010

"The Old Switcheroo"

THE OLD SWITCHEROO
By Curtis C. Chen

On the fourth day of my captivity aboard U-216, it finally occurred to me to ask Sato something that I should have thought of much earlier.

"What do the Americans think happened to their teleport?"

He paused his work and wiped his hands with a rag. "They believe you are dead."

Maybe he expected me to be satisfied with that, but I needed to know exactly how they were working this con. "Why would they think that, if they received nothing on their end of the teleport?"

Sato shook his head. "They did not receive nothing. They received ashes."

I wasn't sure I had heard him right. "Did you say 'ashes'?"

He reached underneath his work bench and pulled out a small locker. When I saw what was inside it, I felt sick.

Sato opened the locker and took out a bundle wrapped in what looked like cheesecloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a glass container filled with a thick gray powder, speckled with shards of white.

"Ashes," Sato said quietly. "Human remains."

I sat very still, determined not to vomit. I didn't need to ask Sato where the Nazis were getting human remains; I knew about their concentration camps, and I knew most of their prisoners didn't make it out alive.

I had heard stories about teleports going wrong. It was supposed to be exceedingly rare; usually, a teleport was an all-or-nothing proposition—either it worked or it didn't. But every once in a blue moon, a teleport damaged or killed the person being transported.

It didn't make any sense, given what we knew of teleportation, but then again, we didn't actually know how teleportation worked in the first place. We just knew that these symbols and these incantations combined would cause this effect. Sato's work was the first methodical experimentation I'd seen in this area of sorcery.

It did seem a bit appalling that people had been using this magic for centuries without understanding how it actually worked, but then again, we'd been setting things on fire since prehistoric times without knowing how combustion worked. Sometimes it didn't matter, as long as you got the result you wanted.

So it would have been shocking, but perhaps not too surprising, for my compatriots back at OSS to have received a pile of ashes instead of my living self. We had known that there were Nazi sorcerers in Rome. There would be nothing conclusive, of course, so my death wouldn't dissuade OSS from continuing to teleport when they needed to. Losing one person once in a very great while was nothing compared to the convenience and security of being able to place a spy anywhere you wanted in the blink of an eye.

"So they believe I am dead," I said. "They will not try to find me."

"Yes," Sato said, putting away the jar. "This means you are safe. You are free."

No, I thought, this means nobody's coming to rescue me. I'm on my own.

I was going to escape. The only questions were how, and when.



Image: To Ashes by Julian Kliner, April, 2012

"Food for Thought"

FOOD FOR THOUGHT
By Curtis C. Chen

I have never actually liked Japanese cuisine that much. I've never even been to Japan. I was born and raised a Hawaiian girl, so my favorite dishes involve pineapple and pork and sweet bread.

I hoped my straight face held as I watched Sato fill a bowl with steamed rice, dark green seaweed, and yellow chunks of—carrot? I hoped I would be able to choke it all down.

Sato presented the food to me with a slight bow, as if it were some kind of great gift. I bowed back at him, took the bowl, and started eating. Thank God my parents had forced me to learn how to use chopsticks.

"Will you not eat as well, Sato-san?" I asked. Honestly, it's kind of creepy for you to just sit there staring at me.

"I have already eaten," Sato said. "I apologize for the lack of privacy, but the captain does not want you to accidentally wander into a dangerous area of the vessel."

I nodded while chewing the hell out of a piece of cold, rubbery seaweed. "Sato-san, may I ask what you are doing here? I understand if you cannot answer, for reasons of military secrecy."

He smiled. I was speaking the most formal, deferential Japanese I knew, and keeping my body hunched over, a small and submissive female. I promised myself that I would clock this guy before I escaped.

"I will answer," Sato said. "It is good to hear and speak Japanese again.

"I am a sorcerer of sorts," he continued, gesturing to the workspace behind him. "Emperor Hirohito loaned me to the Germans in order to investigate how we might interfere with the Americans' magic. It is the will of the Emperor that we should seek less confrontational means to injure our enemies."

"That seems wise," I said.

"The Emperor is a wise man," Sato said, but his eyes belied the conviction of his words. Interesting. "There has been enough killing. Whatever we can do to end this war quickly, I will do my best to help."

"You appear to have been somewhat successful already," I said. "You rescued me from the Americans. How did you do that?"

He hesitated. I scooped up more rice and puckered my lips around the chopsticks, sucking slowly. Sato was a man, and the way his gaze went to my mouth told me he was a man who was interested in women. Good. I could use that, too, when the time came.

"You have the talent, Hachiya-san," he said, looking back up at my eyes. "Is that correct?"

I inclined my head, as if bashful. "I am not trained in the magical arts, Sato-san, but I was told by my teachers that I have some inborn ability."

"So you know something of sorcery."

"Only what a schoolgirl learns."

"That is enough." Sato picked up a worn leather notebook. "I think it is time for you to learn more. As I have."

And then he told me one hell of a story.



Image: Crab Kimbap Rolls by Emily Barney, April, 2009

"Bottoms Up"

BOTTOMS UP
By Curtis C. Chen

The Lieutenant lifted a still-burning cigarette out of her ashtray and touched it to the corner of my letter, setting it on fire.

I jumped out of my chair. "What the hell! Ma'am," I added quickly.

Markey crumpled up the paper and dropped it and the cigarette back into her ashtray, out of my reach, letting my words of protest burn away. "Did you really think, for one second, that I was going to let anybody else see that fucking letter?"

"They're not ready for this," I said. My legs felt weak, and the urge to throw up was quickly returning. "I'm not ready for this."

Markey stared at me for a second, then turned around, unlocked one of her file cabinets, and knelt to pull open the bottom drawer. I heard glass clinking, and then she stood up holding two lowball glasses and an unlabeled bottle of dark red liquid. She thumped the glasses down on top of her desk, pulled the stopper out of the bottle, and poured.

"Please tell me that's not blood," I said.

She filled both glasses about half full, then pushed one across the desk toward me. "Drink."

I picked up the glass. The liquid was a dark ruby color, too translucent and not quite thick enough to be actual blood. But I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that it had been thinned by something even more disturbing.

There was magic, and there was superstition, and then there was tradition. Lots of people held on to completely nonsensical traditions for no good reason, and I didn't put it beyond Markey to be beholden to some weird cultural heritage that might have included light vampirism.

"Please tell me this isn't human blood," I said.

"When Hades abducted Persephone to the Underworld," Markey said, "she was forbidden, by the rules of the Fates, to eat or drink anything while she was there." She held her glass up next to her desk lamp, swirling the liquid around. Crimson light played across her face. "If anyone still living consumed food or drink while visiting Hades, that person would have to remain, trapped by her own indiscretion."

"Please tell me this isn't your blood."

"Persephone's mother, Demeter, discovered that Hades had abducted her daughter, and forced Zeus to demand Persephone's return," Markey said. "It's interesting to note here that Zeus was the one who had originally goaded Hades into abducting Persephone to be his bride in the Underworld."

"I don't suppose I could get a mixer for this?" I said.

"Zeus didn't want any more trouble that day," Markey said. "So he ordered Hades to return Persephone, and you don't fuck with Zeus. But, as you no doubt are aware, Greek gods are all about following the letter of the law. Before he released Persephone, Hades tricked her into eating four seeds from a pomegranate."

Relief swept over me. I held my glass up to my nose and inhaled a sweet, fruity scent that was not at all like blood.



Image: POM by Howard Walfish, May, 2009