"Rhymes with Pork"

RHYMES WITH PORK
By Curtis C. Chen

You are in a small windowless room. To the north is a blank door. An orange cat sits in the middle of the floor.

The cat rubs up against you.
> open door

You can't reach the door. The cat is weaving between your legs, impeding your forward motion.

The cat meows at you.
> push door

You can't reach the door.

The cat is yelling at you now and scratching your leg.
> kick cat

The cat skillfully dodges your foot. Also, you're a dick.

The cat continues yelling at you.
> pet cat

The cat nuzzles your hand and continues yelling.
> feed cat

You don't have any cat food.

The cat won't stop yelling at you.
> inventory

You are carrying:
1 half-eaten sandwich
1 back issue of Wired magazine
2 large tomatoes
1 keycard
> look keycard

DRUNK HULK NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN
> examine keycard

The keycard is a flat plastic badge of the type issued by many tech companies. The employee photo looks like one of the dudes from Flight of the Conchords. There's no company name.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> use keycard

Use it on what?
> use keycard on cat

The cat licks the keycard, then continues yelling.
> give sandwich to cat

The cat sniffs the sandwich, makes a face, and backs away, yelling.
> give tomato to cat

Why would a cat want a tomato? Get real.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> read Wired

You flip through the magazine. It's the one where they talk about Google.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> look sandwich

DRUNK HULK THINK YOU FAIL KINDERGARTEN
> examine sandwich

For some reason, you have a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich sealed in a zip-top bag. It's hard to tell how old the thing is, but that fuzzy white stuff all over the bread can't be a good sign.

The cat bites your ankle.
> grab cat

The cat deftly avoids your clumsy grasp.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> tear magazine

You rip several pages out of the back issue of Wired.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> crumple pages

You crumple the torn magazine pages into paper balls.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> throw balls

You toss the paper balls across the room, one by one. The cat stops yelling and watches with great interest, leaping into the air to intercept each projectile, then batting it around the floor.
> open door

The door doesn't have a handle or knob. You can't open it.
> push door

The door won't budge.
> pull door

The door doesn't have anything for you to grab onto.
> use keycard on door

You swipe the keycard across the blank surface of the door. After a moment, you hear a beep, then a click. The door pops outward slightly.
> push door

The door swings open to reveal a second windowless room. There is a gray cat sitting in the middle of the floor.

The gray cat starts yelling at you.



Photo: Amber and Bayla, May, 2002

"Nothing Up His Sleeve"

NOTHING UP HIS SLEEVE
By Curtis C. Chen

Maurice saw Beatrice waving the no-rabbit signal behind her back. That was bad. No rabbit meant no real magic, and mere tricks and illusions weren't going to impress the potential investors in the audience.

Maurice stepped up and put his palm on Beatrice's upper arm, giving the cue for their first trick. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. He nodded. She inhaled through clenched teeth, then curtsied to the audience and exited stage left.

Maurice started slow, doing more talking than conjuring; he pulled handkerchiefs from a hidden pocket, lit a flash-paper button off his jacket with a concealed striker, compressed soft foam balls between deft fingers. The audience oohed and aahed, as expected, but these sleights of hand were not Maurice's true talent. They were merely a reliable warm-up, a way to stall for time while Beatrice prepared the apparatus and he prayed for his power to manifest.

All too soon, Beatrice wheeled a small platform to center stage. On the platform was a glass terrarium, and inside the terrarium was a single Venus Flytrap. The plant took up most of the rectangular space, half a dozen thick stalks topped by pairs of oval flaps, spiked at the edges and joined by a red membrane. Two of the traps were closed.

The audience murmured as Maurice explained the peculiar nature of the carnivorous Dionaea muscipula, how it trapped and digested its insect prey. He indicated the two closed traps and described how the plant had been fed shortly before the show—he did not specify how shortly, for Beatrice had done it only after his on-stage signal—and how he had to act quickly to perform his rescue.

Maurice gestured to Beatrice, and they each took one end of the terrarium, lifting it to show there was nothing underneath, no hidden compartment in the platform, no devices buried in the dirt. Then they put the glass case back down, and Beatrice stepped aside while Maurice waved his hands over the plant, loudly reciting gibberish.

After a moment, the Venus Flytrap quivered inside the terrarium, and one of the closed traps twitched open. Inside, a single fly righted itself, unstuck its wings, and rose into the air.

The audience applauded, and Maurice smiled at Beatrice with relief. His happiness was short-lived, as he saw her eyes grow wide.

Maurice looked down and saw more insects emerging from every open trap on the plant—flies, beetles, wasps, even spiders. They crawled over the green stalks, buzzed around the enclosure, collided against the glass walls and mesh ceiling.

The audience cheered. Maurice beamed at them and presented the spectacle with a flourish of his hands, as if it was all part of the show. He blinked away the sweat which had trickled from his forehead down to his eyes. The moisture and the stage lights blurred his vision into a multicolored haze.

"The rabbit!" he hissed at Beatrice. "Bring it out! Now!"



Photo: wizard at House on the Rock, Wisconsin, July, 2008

"I Disagree"

I DISAGREE
By Curtis C. Chen

"What do you mean, you disagree?" Bridget asked. "It's a fact. You can't disagree with facts."

"I take exception to your presentation," said the woman on the other end of the satellite feed. Her dark eyes looked like ink blots in the wavering image filling half of Bridget's display. Next to her in the split screen, the host of the interview show stared off into space.

Bridget fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Oookaaay. Would you like me to draw you a bar graph, Senator? A pie chart, maybe? The numbers don't change."

"You've failed to provide any context for those numbers." The older woman narrowed her eyes, crinkling the crow's-feet next to her long eyelashes. "If I told you that four people died in a plane crash, what does that mean?"

"Don't change the subject," Bridget said.

"Was it a jetliner? A small private aircraft? Did it go down in an accident? Bad weather? Or was it a hijacking? Did someone shoot it out of the sky with a rocket launcher? Who was flying the plane?"

A male voice interjected. "Okay, Senator, I think you've made your point. Perhaps we can move on to—"

"May I finish?" the senator snapped.

The host looked like an eight-year-old who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Thirty seconds, ma'am, then we have to move on," he said, almost apologetically.

"Thank you." The senator straightened her jacket, and the American flag pin on her lapel glinted, reflecting an overhead light. Bridget was sure she'd done that on purpose. "As I was saying, numbers by themselves are meaningless. We need context to interpret them as information.

"Only four people dead in an Airbus crash is a miracle. But if four people die when their Cessna is hit by a laser pulse over Los Angeles, that's a mystery. Do you see the difference?"

Bridget could feel her ears warming with a rush of blood. It reminded her of being dressed down as a teenager, and she hated that. "Let me see if I understand you, Senator. You're arguing that four thousand dead is an acceptable loss if that's only a small percentage of our total troop deployment?"

"That is not what I'm saying, young lady!"

It's working. Bridget bit her tongue before continuing. "Senator, one of your own daughters served in the military—"

"Don't you dare," the senator said, raising a finger. "Do not say her name."

This is almost too easy. "Sergeant Abigail McCandless Lau," Bridget said. "Killed in action, April 16th, 2032—"

The senator ripped off the microphone clipped to her jacket and stormed off screen without a word. The host gaped, moving his mouth silently.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my mother," Bridget said.

"Well, thank you, Representative McCandless, and thank you, Senator McCandless... wherever you are," the host stammered. "We'll be back after this short break."

The red light on top of Bridget's screen went dark. She exhaled and let herself relax a little. Only a little. She didn't start crying until she got back to her hotel room.



Photo: Capitol building, Washington, DC, July, 2008

"There Will Be Banter"

THERE WILL BE BANTER
By Curtis C. Chen

"What kind of a name is 'Migdan?'"

Jake snatched the evidence bag away from his partner and sealed it. "What are you, a genealogist now?"

Andy shrugged. "Could be a clue. Some of the big fake paper operations use software to generate random strings that look like names. Lets 'em churn out more IDs in a shorter amount of time."

"And just think," Jake said, kneeling next to the body, "I'm the one who had to go to cultural sensitivity training. That's what you call irony."

"I'm just trying to help." Andy crouched down on the other side of the corpse, then looked around the alley. "Hey, Cee, can we flip him yet?"

The dark-haired, brown-skinned woman wearing nitrile gloves and holding a clipboard scowled at the detective. "Yes, and when the hell are you going to learn to pronounce my name, Dix?"

"As soon as you get a divorce, sweetheart." He blew her a kiss. She shook her head and turned away.

Jake put his own gloved hands on the dead man's hips. "You done chatting, loverboy?"

Andy nodded and grabbed the victim's shoulder. "On three."

They counted down together, then rolled the body onto its back. The man's hazel eyes were open and glassy, and a stripe of dried blood ran from the left side of his mouth down to his chin.

"Another dumper?" Andy asked.

"I'm guessing that's the good news," Jake said. "Miss Chattopadhyay? May I borrow your penlight?"

The medical examiner tucked her clipboard under one arm, fished a penlight out of her jacket pocket, and handed it to Jake. "My pleasure, detective. And may I say it's nice to see that chivalry is not dead."

"He's playing to your rank, Cee," Andy said, "not your gender."

"Do you hear something, Detective Lanosky?" Chattopadhyay said to Jake. "Kind of an annoying buzzing sound?"

"Can't get rid of it," Jake said, smiling.

"Hilarious," Andy said. "You two ought to take that show on the road."

Jake clicked on the penlight and shone the beam into the corpse's open eyes. The borders of the irises reflected the light, making two golden circles.

"Shit," Jake said.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Andy said.

Chattopadhyay knelt down and pulled a portable tracer off her belt. She calibrated the controls, then pressed the scanning pad against the victim's left thumb. After a few seconds, the tracer pinged, and its screen lit up.

"AB negative," she read. "I won't know for sure until we do the autopsy, but—"

"He's a goddamn blood bank," Andy said. "Great! Now we're going to have feds crawling all over us."

Chattopadhyay stood up. "Sorry, Jake, I have to call this in."

"Yeah." Jake handed back the penlight. "Thanks."

He and Andy stayed there after Chattopadhyay left, staring at the dead man.

"What's your type?" Andy finally asked.

Jake said, "Leggy blond with loose morals."

"Serious here, Jake."

"B positive," Jake said. "Third most common. You?"

"O neg. Universal donor. Hospitals love me."

Jake nodded. It started raining.



Photo: unused concept poster from Homicide: Life on the Farm (The Game, 2001)

"Wrong Number"

WRONG NUMBER
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm not going to sleep with you tonight," he said.

She frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He blinked, tapped the side of his head with two fingers, and said, "Abigail?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. Dammit, I hate when this happens. Two-three-four-seven-five-five?"

He shook his head. "Two-three-seven-four-five-five."

"Well, this is awkward."

She picked up her glass, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of chardonnay. Not because she could taste it well—the remote link wouldn't transmit any intoxicating sensations, to comply with federal regulations—but so she would have a few seconds to think about what to say to this total stranger. She'd paid for the full twelve hours, and she guessed he had, too. The hosting company's built-in security and privacy measures meant they couldn't disconnect for any reason until time was up.

"So who's Abigail?" she asked, poking at her salad.

"It's a long story."

"Let me guess," she said. "You're feeling guilty about the affair—mostly because of the kids, one of whom just had a birthday or bar mitzvah or some other momentous life event—so you decided to end it. You also feel guilty about dumping the girl, so you sprang for the fancy dinner.

"But you don't usually do this for the other woman, so you're worried that she's just as suspicious as your wife was when you called to tell her you're working late. Again." She shoved a mass of arugula into the left side of her mouth. "Am I close?"

He didn't look up from his plate. "We don't have any kids," he said. "And my wife knows about the affair. I told her this afternoon. She wants a divorce."

She swallowed her half-chewed salad. "I'm confused. You're splitting up with the ball and chain, but you don't want to hop into bed to celebrate with dear Abby? What's wrong with you?"

"Like you said." He put down his fork. "Guilt."

"Oh, please. You'll get over it. And seriously, have you looked at this body?" She sat up straight and gestured at her breasts, which were barely covered by a slinky black dress.

"But—we don't even know each other," he stammered.

She smiled. "And that's a bad thing?"

He laughed nervously. "Sorry, I just didn't expect a woman to be so—liberated."

"Did you look at yourself in the mirror after dialing in?" She pursed her lips in approval. "Besides, I figure you gotta be pretty good in the sack, otherwise you wouldn't be here hooking up with a young honey like this."

"Maybe she's only after my money."

She shook her head. "Puh-leeze. If you were rich, we'd actually be in Paris instead of a one-star French restaurant by the freeway."

"Let's see how dinner goes," he said slowly. "Then we can talk about dessert."

"Sure," she said, twirling her long, dark hair. "But I'm pretty hungry."

He smiled, and this time there was desire behind his teeth. "So what's your name?"

She grinned. "Just call me Abby."



Photo: Robot at Tommy Bartlett Exploratory, Wisconsin Dells, July, 2008

"Wait For It"

WAIT FOR IT
By Curtis C. Chen

"That sounds like a pessimistic technology," Jake said. He folded his arms, ignoring his partner's sideways glance. Andy smiled politely at the crime scene investigator standing in front of them.

The dark-skinned CSI shook his head. "You detectives always have the wrong attitude about these things. It's not about what we can't retrieve. It's about getting as much as we can from the environment."

"Okay, but footprints?" Andy said. "Come on. Anybody could be wearing those shoes."

"It's not just the imprint," said the CSI. "We also measure stride length, indentation depth, particulate residue, energy signatures—thirty-two different data points in all."

"We're so happy for you," Jake said. "But without physical evidence for comparison, you can't actually match anything. We still gotta nab the guy."

Andy nodded. "Speaking of which, do we still like the son for this? Melvin Kaminsky, Junior?"

"Patricide for profit? Hell yes."

The CSI cleared his throat. "If you're looking for Junior, we can give you a preliminary match. But there's something odd about this impression."

"Could you be more specific?"

The CSI motioned them toward the open doorway and knelt down by a numbered plastic sign. Next to the sign was a single, glowing, green shoeprint. "Our instruments are detecting traces of radiation—"

"Please don't tell me that's why it's glowing," Jake said, taking a step back.

"No, of course not," the CSI said. "This isn't a cartoon. We sprayed this area with fluorescein to make any blood residue easier to see."

"So there's blood on his shoe?" Andy asked.

"Not exactly." The CSI held a translator frame over the shoeprint and adjusted the controls. The image in the display pane changed from a visible-light image to a shimmering network of multicolored curves against a black background. "This is a view of the local EM field. See how these lines of force all bend away from the shoeprint?"

"I'll take your word for it," Jake said.

"So Junior stepped in some kind of industrial waste?" Andy asked.

The CSI stood up. "We don't know what it is. But I'm guessing he stole it from the warehouse, and this company secret is why Mel Kaminsky Senior was killed."

"So we'll ask Junior when we get him in the box," Jake said.

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," the CSI said. "According to the laws of physics, this effect is impossible. You can't bend radio waves like that without some kind of power source."

"Junior's not going to talk," Andy said.

Jake grumbled. "If it's that big, his business partners will kill him first."

Andy turned to the CSI. "But I'm guessing you have an idea?"

"Yes. The effect decays at a non-linear rate." The CSI pulled a small digital camera out of his pocket. "If you can get a reading within one hour after Junior's been there—less time would be better—we'll have more data to work with. Maybe even identify the material, or at least its chemical components."

"Got it," Jake said, taking the camera. "We're looking for the fresh prints of Mel's heir."



Photo: Famous shoe outlines engraved in marble at Martin Luther King, Jr., National Historic Site, Atlanta, Georgia, May, 2008

"You Have One New Message"

YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE
By Curtis C. Chen

Beep

Hi, Paul. It's Jenny, from the bar last night. I was there with my girlfriends. You bought us a round of Maker's before I left?

Anyway. The reason I'm calling is because I swiped your wallet. Sorry about that. I figured you'd get your credit card back from the bartender when you settled your tab, and you'd still be able to pay for a cab.

Okay, you know what? Hell with it. I know you got home okay because I saw you. I tailed you from the bar. So I know you went home with Amber, and I know she didn't leave this morning, and you did.

I'm not sure what's going on, but I'm giving you a chance to explain. Call back and leave a message.

Beeeep

Amber. Jen. Where the hell are you? Call me.

Beep

Hello, Paul, it's Jenny again. Don't threaten me. You do not want to fuck with me. Lifting wallets and finding unlisted phone numbers are the least of what I can do.

And don't lie to me. I know there's no back door to your place. I know Amber hasn't come home or gone to work since the night she met you.

Listen... I'm sure this is all just some crazy mix-up, right? Let's meet back at the bar, have a drink, and you can explain everything and we can all have a good laugh about it. You've got my number. Call me.

Beeeep

Amber, this is not what I meant when I said you had more leash. You're off the reservation. Report in before I have to notify the station chief.

Beep

Paul! Jenny. I underestimated you. That won't happen again.

Lucky for both of you, the officer who walked into your booby trap is still alive. So the only thing we're warranted for is assault.

I'm only going to say this once. We are more concerned with Amber's safety than we are with nailing you. Just tell us where she is, and you can skip town—hell, leave the country. Let Amber go, and we can look the other way on this. Just don't do anything stupid.

Beep-beep

Agent Jennifer Carlyle. Field report. Case number five-eight-one-alpha.

Suspect Paul Nevins was apprehended with minimal injury and limited property damage at sixteen-oh-six today. Firearms discharged. No civilian casualties.

We found partially burned human remains in the trunk of Nevins' vehicle. I made a preliminary ID from Agent Brandt's necklace and earrings. City coroner is matching dental records.

The good news is, Nevins had no idea who Amber was. Repeat, no breach. It was pure dumb luck that she picked a psychopath to go home with that night. Our cover is still intact.

And, for the record—I want this on the record—Amber put up a fight before she died. Nevins already had a broken jaw and a fractured wrist before we cuffed him. Her training didn't fail her. We did. I did.

I'm taking some time off, Gordon. I think I've earned it. Maybe a week, maybe longer.

Don't call me.

Click



Photo: telephone at Pittock Mansion, December, 2009

"State Secrets"

STATE SECRETS
By Curtis C. Chen

I hadn't even finished my morning coffee when Jake ran into my office with a crazy smile.

"I found the Holy Grail!" he said. "It's in Africa. Democratic Republic of Congo."

"First of all," I said, "I've seen this movie. Bruce Campbell dies, and it just goes downhill from there. Second, how do you know it's the grail?"

Jake hopped forward and pointed at my computer. "I sent you aerial photos. Look at the infrared, and the deep-radar tomography—"

"Okay, okay." I logged into my e-mail. Jake's message was easy to find: OMG I FOUND TEH HOLY GRAIL.

The images were not conclusive. I could tell he had washed them through several enhancement algorithms. The radar view clearly showed an underground catacomb, but the heat-map could have been any large group of mammals. I told him as much.

"That's why we have to go investigate! Right?" He sat down but continued bouncing. "I already requested travel authorization—"

"What?" My right hand curled into a fist. "Dammit, Jake, you can't do that!"

He slumped down in the chair, avoiding my gaze. "I thought you'd be excited."

I bit my tongue. "Look, Jake, this is good work. Really great. Thank you. But I need to pass this up the bureaucracy. I'll let you know when we can move forward, okay?"

Jake nodded, stood, and shuffled out of my office. I got up, closed and locked the door, and picked up the phone.

First I called off Jake's travel request, which would have been denied anyway. Then I dialed the Oval Office hotline. Samantha answered.

"Veep veep," she said. Sam has an odd sense of humor.

"It's Rachel," I said. "Does he have five minutes today?"

"Probably not. What do you need?"

"Jake thinks he's found the grail. In Africa."

"Seriously?"

"Well, he's found something." I explained what I'd seen in the radar scans. "It may not be Biblical, but it's definitely worth checking out."

"What's the timeline on this?"

"Intel's about a week old," I said. "Jake did the analysis last night, brought it to me this morning."

Sam coughed. She knew that wasn't nearly enough time for me to have shopped it around my own chain of command before calling her. "Rachel, you can't keep doing this."

"I'm dying here, Sam," I said. "Get me back into the field where I can do some good."

I stared down into my coffee and waited for her.

"I'll put the file on his desk," she said finally. "I can't promise anything."

"Spray it with some perfume. That'll get his attention."

"You're adorable," Sam said. "Anything else?"

"Thanks, Sam."

She hung up without saying good-bye. My sister's never been known for being patient.

I sat back down and started assembling a dossier to send to the White House. The one good thing about growing up in a family of politicians is that I'd learned to bullshit with the best of them. I was pretty sure I could talk my way past the NSA and CIA chiefs. The President was another story.



Photo: Carlsbad Caverns, April, 2008