"Little Drummer Girl"

LITTLE DRUMMER GIRL
By Curtis C. Chen

Harvey didn't like the probe. Every time it slid into the back of his head, it made a grinding noise that rumbled through his skull and made him feel like his head was being scraped out. Today was worse, because he didn't have his normal technician, and this new fellow was not gentle at all.

Frank had met Harvey at the airport and presented proper credentials from the talent agency, but Harvey didn't like him. Frank spoke in a loud voice and with a mouth full of chewing gum that he kept snapping. Now he was breathing artificial berry flavor everywhere as he set up the link interface.

"So you been to St. Louis before?" Frank asked, pronouncing it "LOO-ee."

"A few times," Harvey said. "It should all be in my profile."

Frank waved a hand in the air. "No worries, Mr. Feldon, I'll take real good care of you. They hired me special for this gig when your regular tech got sick."

"How is Barry, by the way?" Harvey asked.

Frank shrugged. "Never met the guy. I'm an independent contractor, see, paid by the hour? Be honest with you, I don't know much about literature, but if the agency can afford my rates, you must be a real crowd-pleaser."

Harvey wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I guess narrative fiction isn't quite dead just yet."

Frank laughed from behind his laptop computer, which was connected to Harvey's head by a glowing blue cable. "Okay, we got green lights across the board. You want to give me a level here?"

"We can't start yet," Harvey said. "My drummer's not here."

"Your what?" Frank actually stopped chewing his gum for a moment. "You got a drummer? Seriously?"

"It's in my profile," Harvey said.

"No shit," Frank muttered, tapping at his computer. "Haven't seen a drummer in—okay, here we go, Chris Tuttle, latest firmware..." He smacked his gum while reading. "Wow. It's been a while." He looked into his equipment case. "You ever considered upgrading, professor? I could set you up a firewall in, like, two minutes."

"I'm an old dog," Harvey said.

Someone knocked on the dressing room door, and Frank went to open it.

Christine Tuttle stood in the hallway, wearing an asymmetrical green evening gown that left no doubt as to her gender, checking her beatific face and wavy brown hair in a tiny mirror. She closed the compact and nodded at Frank.

"Thanks," she said, and walked over to Harvey. She leaned down and straightened his necktie. "Sorry I'm late, sugar."

"You're worth waiting for."

Christine smiled. She pulled up a chair and sat, crossing her long legs. "What are we, ten minutes out?"

"Fifteen," Frank said, still standing by the door.

"Well, you going to plug me in, ace, or is this a do-it-yourself gig?"

"No. Yes. Okay." Frank shut the door and scrambled back to his station.

Harvey coughed into his hand, hiding a smile. It was nice to know that all men responded to Christine the same way.



Photo from Science Museum of Minnesota, July, 2008

"The Gift of the Maggie"

THE GIFT OF THE MAGGIE
By Curtis C. Chen

She had been feeling tired all week, and now she knew why: the talisman wasn't in the hall closet with her other artifacts. Maggie calmed herself and went into the living room.

"Jonah, have you seen my bugle?" she called.

"Snacks are in the pantry," said the man sitting in the armchair. "We got some Funyuns, too."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "I'm talking about the brass musical instrument. Looks like a trumpet, but without any valves?"

"You haven't touched that in years," Jonah said, and drained his beer bottle.

"Not since high school," Maggie agreed. "But I need it now. It's important. Have you seen it anywhere?"

She walked around the armchair and stood between Jonah and the television. He muted the sound and looked up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Maggie got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "What did you do?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Jonah said.

"What did you do?" Maggie repeated, her voice rising in pitch.

Jonah stood, holding his hands up, palms out—not surrender, more like pushing. "Stay here. I'll show you."

He walked past her and into the garage. Maggie folded her arms and tapped her foot on the carpet. The flashing images on the TV drew her eye, and she grabbed the remote and turned it off. Thumping noises came from the open garage door.

Jonah returned, holding a large, oddly shaped mass of wrapping paper.

Maggie's foot froze in mid-tap. "What the hell is that?"

"Merry Christmas!" Jonah said. "You might as well open it now—"

The package jerked out of Jonah's fist and sailed across the room. Maggie caught it with her left hand.

"Whoa!" Jonah gaped. "What—how did you do that?"

"Long story," Maggie muttered. She ripped open the wrapping paper and grimaced at the object inside. "You got me... an electric guitar?"

"And lessons," Jonah said quickly. "You know how we're always talking about doing more stuff together? And we both love music, right?"

Maggie glared at him. "How did you afford this?"

"Don't be mad," Jonah said. "I traded in your trumpet-thing."

"You WHAT!"

"Okay, you're mad. That's fair."

Maggie dropped the guitar, walked up to Jonah, and grabbed the collar of his t-shirt. "Where is it? Where?"

"Inside voices," Jonah said.

"Tell me where it is!"

"Okay, okay! I took it to that music store on Sixteenth Avenue! The one with the funny name, and that old dude with the glass eye."

"Pokorny's?" Maggie asked, horrified.

"That's the one," Jonah said. "You know he runs an antique shop, too? He told me—"

Maggie placed one palm flat against the side of Jonah's head. His face went slack, and he said, "Yes, dear."

He sat down in the armchair and stared at the blank TV screen.

Maggie stalked into the kitchen, yanked the telephone handset off the wall, and dialed an international number. It took forever for the woman on the other end to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Grandmother," Maggie said, "we have a problem."



Photo: marching-band automatons at the House on the Rock, July, 2008

3,900 Other Words

"The Tongue of Bees," by my Viable Paradise XII classmate Claire Humphrey, was published yesterday at Fantasy Magazine. It's a damn good piece of fiction, and one of the legendary "Evil Overlord" stories from the workshop.

The first two lines:

The children roll in clover on the other side of the hill. On this side, Raymond Holt is eating belladonna.

If you tell me you don't want more, I'll know you're lying. What are you still doing here? Go. NOW.

Read "The Tongue of Bees" by Claire Humphrey

"Guards"

GUARDS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Asshole," Ivan muttered as the door closed.

"Geez, say it a little louder, why don't you?" Conrad said. "Those doors are bullet-proof, not sound-proof."

The small, circular room was empty except for the display pedestal, two consoles with chairs, and a trash bin between them. Ivan and Conrad were seated facing a holographic map of the base.

Ivan swiveled his chair around, lifted his forearm onto his console, and flipped up his middle finger.

"That's good. Real mature," Conrad said.

Ivan brought his other arm up and deployed his other middle finger as well.

"I'm going back to work now," Conrad said, ignoring the dance that Ivan's middle fingers were doing.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?" Ivan asked, withdrawing his hands. "Following orders all the time? I sure do."

"Probably shouldn't have joined the Army then."

"Didn't have much of a choice." Ivan slumped in his chair.

"Is this where you tell me a sob story and I pretend to care?" Conrad said.

Ivan slapped his console. A red light started blinking, and a shrill alarm bell sounded. "How about that? You care about that?"

Conrad worked his own controls and silenced the alarm. "What is wrong with you? Now we have to write up an incident report. After the duty officer chews us out for another false alarm. Are you trying to get thrown into stockade?"

Ivan pulled a candy bar out of his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it and had the bar halfway to his mouth when Conrad leaned over and snatched it away.

"Hey!" Ivan said.

"No food or drink," Conrad said, throwing the candy bar into the trash. "Regulations."

"That was the last nutty bar at the exchange," Ivan said. "You owe me."

Conrad grabbed his crotch. "I got your nutty bar right here."

Ivan leapt out of his chair and tackled Conrad. They fell to the ground in a tangle of fists and shouts.

The door slid open. The duty officer entered and shouted, "Attention!"

Conrad and Ivan separated, stood, and lined up against the wall.

"What is going on here?" the duty officer asked.

"He started it," Ivan said, pointing at Conrad.

"What are you, twelve years old?"

"Twelve and a half," Ivan muttered.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" the duty officer screamed into Ivan's face.

"Twelve and a half, SIR!" Ivan replied.

The duty officer turned to Conrad. "And what's YOUR excuse?"

"He had a candy bar, sir!" Conrad said.

"A candy bar," the duty officer repeated.

"A nutty bar," Conrad said. Then, after a moment: "They're the best."

The duty officer shook his head. "Okay. I'm going to write up both you idiots, and your C.O. can decide what to do with you later. Now sit down!"

Conrad and Ivan went back to their consoles. The duty officer walked toward the exit and stopped in the open doorway to give them one final dirty look.

"Kids these days," the duty officer muttered as he left. The door slid shut behind him.

"Asshole," Conrad and Ivan said in unison.



Photo taken at Buckingham Palace, June, 2009.

"The Stories We Tell Ourselves"

THE STORIES WE TELL OURSELVES
By Curtis C. Chen

Gerald stirred his coffee, waiting to change the world.

The front door of the cafe swung open, and the bell jingled. A bald man wearing an overcoat entered and looked around.

Gerald waved. The man walked to the corner table.

"Gerald Mortman?" the man asked.

"That's me."

The man sat down. "Carl Point. Thank you for meeting me."

Gerald held up his hand. "You want some coffee? I ordered you a cup."

He nodded at the table, where a second mug had appeared in front of Carl.

"That wasn't there before!" Carl said.

"Just a small demonstration," Gerald said.

"Incredible." Carl looked around the coffee shop. "What happens if someone's watching when things change?"

"Nothing changes," Gerald said. "This is how it's always been."

"But I remember—"

"You'll forget soon enough," Gerald said. "Everyone does. Everyone except me." He leaned forward. "We don't have much time."

"Okay," Carl said. "It's my daughter, Emily. She passed away recently. Leukemia. She was five years old."

Gerald started pulling back. "I think you've misunderstood—"

"Just say she didn't die, say she's cured." Carl grabbed Gerald's arm. "I'll pay anything."

"I don't want money," Gerald said.

"Four words. 'Your daughter didn't die.' Simple."

"It's never simple, Mr. Point."

Carl reached under his coat and pulled out a revolver. Gerald heard gasps and murmurs all around. People moved away from the table.

"Say my daughter's alive," Carl said. "Say it!"

"Your daughter is alive, Mr. Point," Gerald said. "She's standing right behind you."

Carl stood, keeping the revolver trained on Gerald, and turned to see a teenage girl with curly brown hair. She was shaking.

"Please, Daddy," she said, "put down the gun."

Carl's head whipped back around to Gerald. "What the hell is this? That's not my daughter!"

"This isn't my story," Gerald said. "This is your story."

"Daddy!" the girl sobbed. "It's me! Allie!"

"Allison?" Carl's face went pale. "My God. You're all grown up."

"You have to stop, Daddy," Allie said.

"Look at your hair. Just like your mother's," Carl said. "God, we were both so young. We couldn't afford to raise a child..."

His arm fell just a little, and Gerald spoke.

"I'm glad you didn't bring a gun, Mr. Point. Some people get upset when I can't help them. Thank you for being reasonable."

Allie was gone, and so was the revolver. Carl looked down at Gerald, his face blank, waiting for the rest of the story.

"I'm glad you've finally accepted your daughter's death."

Carl sat down. "It's been very difficult."

"Go home, Mr. Point. Spend some time with your family. If you ever need to talk, you know how to find me."

Gerald extended his hand, and Carl shook it. "Thank you, Mr. Mortman. I think I'm going to be okay."

"I know you will be."

The bell rang as Carl walked back into the cold.

Gerald took out his notebook and started writing. He had lied to Carl. If he didn't write down all the stories, he would forget them, too. And he wanted to remember.



Photo taken at Charlotte Nature Museum, June, 2008.

This story is dedicated to Bayla. May she rest in peace.

"On Orbit"

ON ORBIT
By Curtis C. Chen

"Someone," Don said, "put poison in the Coke machine?"

"Well, technically, the poison was attached to the water intake," Thomas said. "It's a good thing Richard could taste the difference. And then complained about it."

"How is he, by the way?"

"Nic says he'll be fine. She doesn't want him going EVA for a few days, so I put David into the rotation. We're checking the rest of our water supply now, but it's going to take a while."

Don shook his head. His white hair pixelated with the motion; the low-bandwidth videophone wasn't designed to support much more than talking heads.

"Right." Don tapped at something off-screen. "We'll send more potable water rations in the next supply run. Anything else go wrong this week? Alien body snatchers? A new strain of drug-resistant bacteria?"

"That was a rhinovirus," Thomas said. "And no. That's all the bad news." He tried and failed to hide his smile.

"Oh, boy," Don said. "You did it, didn't you? You nailed Penny."

"Don! I'm offended." Thomas waggled a finger. "And Penny would be, too. She much prefers the terms 'banged,' 'knocked boots,' or 'played hide-the-sausage.'"

The white-haired man sighed. "Is this a space station or a soap opera?"

Thomas shrugged. "Hey, I just work here."

"Seriously, Thomas," Don said, "I can't have you sleeping with anyone in your chain of command. It's bad for morale, not to mention just plain unprofessional."

It took Thomas a moment to process what he heard. "Wait. What are you talking about? We're not even in the same department. I'm Engineering, Penny's Bioscience—"

"You're being promoted," Don said. "Congratulations, Thomas; we're making it official. You're the new Station Chief."

"No." Thomas' finger came up again, this time threatening. "No. You can't do this to me, Don. You don't want me in charge. Cynthia! Give it to Cynthia. She's better at logistics anyway."

"Station doesn't need a log," Don said. "Station needs a leader. That's you."

"Oh, come on! Just because I happened to remember where the emergency supplies were that one time—"

"You know, most people are happy when they get promoted at work."

Thomas shook his head. "I'm flattered, Don, really I am, but this isn't what I want. Not right now." He couldn't stop thinking about Penny—her smile, her lips, her smooth, pale skin. He didn't want to stop thinking about her.

"Too bad." Don's eyes glittered under a scowl. "What everyone on station needs is more important than what you want. It's out of my hands anyway. The board voted yesterday. I'm just the messenger."

"I never wanted your job, Don," Thomas said softly.

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"'Chain of command,'" Thomas muttered. "What are we, a military shop now? Am I going to be issuing uniforms and sidearms next week?"

"I'm hoping it won't come to that," Don said. "But you've still got a—what's the term?—'locked room mystery' on your hands. We need to deal with that first."

"Yeah," Thomas said. "Let's hope it doesn't turn into a murder mystery."



Photo: mission patch from my trip to SpaceCamp in September, 2003.

"Sidrav Corsol's Backstory"

SIDRAV CORSOL'S BACKSTORY
By Curtis C. Chen

"Where's Feli?" Sidrav asked when he got home from Academy.

"She's not here," his father said. He held a glass of ethanol in his metal hands.

"Where is she?" Sidrav asked. "Dad, it's not my fault. I waited right outside the library for her, and I never saw her. She must have snuck out some other way. Brat."

His father stood up. He walked over to the sideboard and picked up a datapad, and Sidrav's heart jumped when he recognized the device he'd been using to track his sister's monthly cycles and medico charts—without her knowledge. They were forbidden calculations, and Sidrav always kept his curiosity hidden. He realized he had left the datapad in the pocket of his trousers before throwing them in the laundry.

Sidrav's father said, "Did you know about this?"

Fear overruled Sidrav's nobler instincts, and he said: "What is it?"

"It's blasphemy!" his father roared, and threw the datapad. Sidrav flinched at the sound of plastic breaking against the wall. His father sat down and shook his head.

"Dad," Sidrav asked quietly, "what happened to Feli?"

"She's gone," his father said. "And good riddance to her. I always knew she would be trouble. I blame your mother." He pointed a chrome finger at Sidrav. "She's at temple now, asking forgiveness, and we're joining her right after I finish my drink."

Sidrav wondered how long his father had been home, and how much he'd already drunk. He wondered when Feliax had been taken away. Maybe there was still time. Maybe he could tell the Pealers that it wasn't her datapad—

And then what? Of course Feli would have denied ownership. She knew it wasn't hers. She had to know it was Sidrav's. She could have given him up. Why hadn't she tried to save herself?

Sidrav agonized about it all night, and finally decided that he had to incriminate himself. He woke early the next morning and searched for some other evidence of his wrongdoing, something traceable to him directly but not Feliax.

He found her message under the bathroom sink, where they used to hide their childhood treasures. It was a palm-sized repro disk, the kind girls used to pass notes and boys used to literally hurl insults at each other. The timeprint showed Feli had written the disk yesterday afternoon.

The message read: "Dear Sid, CONTINUE. Love, Feli."

Sidrav sat on the floor and wept.

"Continue" was what Feli and Sid said to each other in rare, tender moments, when they actually sought permission to persist in teasing each other. "Continue" was what Feliax had said to more than one boy who started asking her out, but became intimidated by the big brother standing beside her.

"Continue" was what Sidrav now heard all over Academy, and he wondered if he and Feliax had been leading a trend, or if he was just noticing it more because of his guilt.

CONTINUE was what Sidrav did. But he vowed to never again risk anyone else's life for his beliefs. Especially not his family.



This week's 512 is an excerpt from my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel, which is based on a previous 512 story, "Better."

"Rieta Linbitter's Backstory"

RIETA LINBITTER'S BACKSTORY
By Curtis C. Chen

It still amazed Rieta that her husband could do so many delicate things with his metal appendages. The men in Rieta's family were rarely gentle. Her own father had earned his arms through military service, and he would have stayed in except that the rulers had discharged him. It happened to a few soldiers every year. The rulers never explained why, and nobody dared to complain.

Rieta's mother was happy to have her father home instead of being deployed to faraway lands at some commander's whim, but he had been denied a lifetime of glorious conquest and a warrior's death on the battlefield, and he felt cheated. Rieta's grandfather had been a ground general in the Amphibious War. All the men in Rieta's family had grown up in a martial atmosphere, conditioned to respect strength in others and cultivate it in themselves.

Rieta had learned the same lessons from the receiving end. Men were protectors, or destroyers, and for the longest time she believed that her own happiness and safety depended on choosing the right kind to be her husband. Then her father had been discharged, and she had watched him turn from a good man into something else.

She would always hesitate to say what he became after leaving the army. It wasn't that she couldn't put a name to it; she just feared that saying the word aloud would cement the concept in reality. Rieta knew the power of incantation, and she did not want to curse her father any more than he already had been.

He had only struck her once in her life. Rieta had been nine years old and late getting home for dinner one night. She had walked into the dining room to find the table set with food, and her parents sitting but not eating.

Rieta couldn't remember if she or her father had said anything. She remembered that her mother had stayed silent, with wide eyes and a pale face. She remembered that her father had stood and raised his arm, and she had wondered what he was going to do with it.

She remembered the pain. She winced when she thought of it, and her tongue went involuntarily to the space in her mouth where there used to be a tooth. She remembered blacking out for a moment, and her father being gone when she struggled back to her feet, and her mother still sitting at the table.

He had only struck Rieta once, and never again. The Pealers found him asleep in an alley the next morning and brought him home.

Rieta had not looked at made men and their metal arms the same after that. Where once she saw strength, she also now saw terrible power. She understood that even though those metal arms and legs were bonded to human bodies, they were no more or less tools than the shovels and lasers used by builders. And tools could be used for good or ill.



This week's 512 is an excerpt from my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel, which is based on a previous 512 story, "Better."