"Stranger in a Strange Land"

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND
By Curtis C. Chen

Dyla rolled down the car window, held out the plastic bottle, and said, "God bless you."

The old beggar woman lowered her cardboard sign, shuffled over to the car, and reached out a hand. "Thank you," she said, and took the bottle. Then her face soured. "What the hell is this?"

"It is a plastic bottle."

"It's empty!"

"Yes!" Dyla smiled. "Fill it with any electrolyte solution you prefer. I have sterilized the container, and the material does not contain bisphenol—"

"Is this some kind of joke?" The old woman tossed the bottle aside, startling Dyla. "You got any spare change? Dollar or two?"

It took Dyla a moment to comprehend the vocabulary. "You want—currency?"

The old woman glared. "Yeah! I want money! It's not enough I gotta stand out here, you gonna humiliate me, too?"

"I do not understand," Dyla said. "You would need to travel to a retail location to exchange currency for usable supplies. Is this not more convenient? Do you not fear dehydration and exposure?"

"Okay, you had your laugh," the old woman said, walking away.

"Wait!"

The old woman ignored Dyla and went back to the corner. The traffic light turned green, and Dyla drove her car forward through the intersection. She pressed the attention button on the dashboard.

"This better be important," said the computer. Its synthesized voice always sounded grumpy to Dyla. "I'm doing analysis here."

"I do not understand this planet," Dyla said, and summarized her encounter with the old woman. "What does your research say about beggary?"

"I'll flag it for collection," the computer said. "But as you've seen, their electromagnetic broadcasts are not reliable information sources."

A red indicator light flashed, accompanied by a dinging noise.

"Low on fuel again?" Dyla said. "This vehicle is horribly inefficient."

She pulled the car into the nearest filling station and powered down the engine. As she stepped out of the vehicle, a uniformed attendant nearly ran into her.

"Sorry! Uh, good afternoon, ma'am!" the attendant said. He appeared to be a juvenile, and he kept glancing down at Dyla's chest. "Fill her up for you?"

"No, thank you," Dyla said. "I will refuel the vehicle myself."

She took a step toward the pump, but the attendant held up his hands and stood in her way. "Whoa! You can't do that!"

Dyla frowned. "Why not?"

"You must be new in town. It's state law. Just tell me which gas you want, and I'll pump it for you."

Dyla shook her head. "I am responsible for the maintenance of my vehicle."

"I told you, it's against the law. You'll get slapped with a fine—"

"A monetary payment?"

"Right."

"Is this the only punishment imposed for such an infraction?"

"Yeah, but it's like five hundred bucks."

"That is acceptable." Dyla stepped past the attendant and picked up the pump nozzle. "Please prepare the documentation. I will pay in cash."

The attendant shook his head and walked away.

"This is a very strange place," Dyla said to the computer.

"Welcome to Oregon," the computer said.



Photo: "In the Tree Tops" sculpture by Margarita Leon, Lloyd district, Portland, Oregon, March, 2010

"Who's Your Daddy?"

WHO'S YOUR DADDY?
By Curtis C. Chen

"Detective Jacob Lanosky?" asked a female voice.

Jake looked up from the desk he shared with Andy. As the young woman standing next to them lowered her arms, Jake got a glimpse of the card she was holding: a photograph of a man, maybe twenty years younger than Jake, smiling, wearing a blue police uniform.

He looked back up at the woman, studying her face but not recognizing it. Why does this girl have a copy of my academy graduation photo? "That's me."

"I need your help," she said.

Jake stood up. "This is homicide, miss. We don't handle general complaints—"

"Please, Detective," the woman said, "I'm your daughter."

Jake felt a defensive smile creeping onto his face. "You must be mistaken, miss."

The woman opened her purse and pulled out a piece of paper printed with gibberish. "My mother went to a fertility clinic. Artificial insemination. That's the donor profile. I matched this to the municipal genome database."

Jake sighed and turned to Andy. "Do you know what the hell she's talking about?"

Andy bounced up and out of his seat. "We're city employees, Jake. Remember those drug tests? Blood and tissue samples? All that's public information. The department's required by law to make it available."

"That's great," Jake said. "Just one problem. I've never been a sperm donor."

"But your genetic profile is an exact match," the woman said.

"Computer error, then," Jake said. "Look, I'll put you in touch with the records division—"

The woman shook her head. "No! It's you. It has to be you!"

"Calm down, miss," Andy said, raising his arms and holding his palms out. The gesture appeared friendly but actually helped corral suspects.

The woman dropped her paper, turned, and yanked Andy's revolver out of his shoulder holster. She raised the gun to Jake's chest.

"Gun!" Andy shouted. "GUN!"

All around Jake, police officers ducked behind furniture and drew their weapons. Jake and Andy both stayed perfectly still. The woman's hands shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

"You're a policeman, right?" she said. "I must be breaking, like, five different laws right now. You have to arrest me. You have to talk to me."

"I swear," Jake said quietly, "on the grave of my mother and my honor as an officer of the law, I will hear you out."

She stared into his eyes for a moment, then nodded and lowered the revolver. She seemed to feel its full weight for the first time, and she fell to her knees. The barrel of the gun thunked against the tile floor. Then she burst into tears.

Andy swooped in to retrieve his weapon. Jake waved off the other detectives, who had risen from their cover and were advancing on the woman.

"She's down!" Jake called out. "All clear! We got this!" He looked down at Andy. "Cuff her, Dix."

Andy looked up, surprised. "But you said—"

"I said I'd talk to her," Jake snapped, "not serve her tea and cookies. Get her into an interview room. I'm going to find a goddamn lawyer."



Photo: warthogs at Zoo Atlanta, May, 2008

"Out of the Frying Pan"

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
By Curtis C. Chen


OUR STORY SO FAR:

In the year 2345, the captain, first officer, and chief engineer of the United Earth troop transport WUKONG attempted to scuttle their ship after it was crippled during a battle in an alien star system. But an ancient artifact hidden in a nearby asteroid interfered with their self-destruct mechanism, and instead hurled the WUKONG four million years into the past.

Stranded without a functioning stardrive, the crew of the WUKONG made a desperate decision: they recalibrated their star-charts and plotted a course back to Earth at sub-light speed. Then, using the last of their power reserves, the crew put the entire ship into suspended animation, hoping to reach Earth in their own time period and to be rescued by their contemporaries.

Now, four million years later, the stasis bubble around the WUKONG has begun to decay...


Commander Emily Gunderson blinked. Did it work? She turned to look back at the captain and Lieutenant Firmin, WUKONG's chief engineer. They both appeared to be just as confused, bobbing in front of the helm and damage control stations, respectively. Still in zero-gee. At least that means we haven't crashed into anything yet...

The navigation console in front of her made a noise. She and Firmin had reconfigured this station to automatically triangulate WUKONG's current position using known reference stars, and to calculate the current date based on stellar drift. Emily smiled as she recognized the location coordinates. Her smile faded as she deciphered the date reading.

"Captain," she said.

"Commander?" Captain Loa pulled himself over the top of the helm console and glided down to the navigator's station. "Report."

"Well, there's good news and bad news," Emily said.

Loa nodded. He turned back to the damage control station, on the opposite side of the bridge. "Lieutenant?"

"Just a second," Firmin said, her fingers flying over the control panel on the back wall. "I think we're about to lose—"

The entire bridge went dark, leaving the three officers in complete darkness except for the phosphorescent red lines around the edges of their jumpsuits.

"—power," Firmin finished. "Dammit!"

"Well, the good news is, we made it back home," Emily said. "We're inside Neptune's orbit, headed for the inner planets."

"And the bad news?" Loa asked.

"We got here too early. The computer figured the date to be somewhere around 1863."

After a pause, Firmin said, "What?"

"1863," Emily repeated. "Middle of the nineteenth century. Pre-spaceflight. Lack of radio traffic confirms it."

"Goddammit," Firmin said. "What the hell are we supposed to do now? Even if we can find the power to rig another stasis field, what the hell do we do? Hide out on the Moon? Wait for Buzz Armstrong to dig us up?"

"We have a more immediate problem," said Loa, "don't we, Commander?"

"Yes, sir," Emily said. "We're still moving at nearly a quarter of lightspeed. Even if we can get power back, we don't have any fuel left. We can't generate enough thrust to stop WUKONG from falling into the Sun."


TO BE CONTINUED!




Photo: the Fremont Rocket in Seattle, Washington, September, 2008

"Guys and Dolls"

GUYS AND DOLLS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Come on, Mike, it's easy money." Tracy waggled an unlit cigarette between two fingers. "I'll deal with the client. You never even have to meet him. Totally clean."

Mike closed the file folder and slid it back across the table. "Look, you got the wrong idea. I don't know who told you what, but I can't help you."

"Don't be like that." Tracy's forehead wrinkled into a frown. "Word on the street is you are the man when it comes to robotics. Come on, help a brother out."

Mike shook his head. "I can't do the job your client wants."

Tracy pointed an accusing finger at Mike. "You made that android to take care of Gramps Hogan when he got sick. Don't even tell me you didn't, 'cause those manipulation subs did not come from the factory."

"I don't do repros," Mike said.

"This is not a repro job!" Tracy opened the folder again. The club's blacklights made the white pages glow. "Look. No identity features. Flat-texture fingertips, bloodless retinas, it's all legal—"

"You've got voiceprint specs in there," Mike said. "Chemical analysis of perspiration and skin oils. Your client wants an android that looks, sounds, and smells exactly like his dead wife."

"So?"

"All my droids are originals," Mike said. "That's the deal. I don't do repros."

"Well, why not?" Tracy slapped the folder shut. "Isn't that what your day job is all about? Using a template, stamping out identical droids on an assembly line?"

"That's different." Mike sighed. "If your client really wants to fuck a corpse, he can pay Genepool to grow a clone in a vat. But it might be cheaper for him to just buy a wig and rent a hooker once a week."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"We're done here."

Mike stood up and turned to walk away. A hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him back around. Tracy jammed the barrel of a black pistol into Mike's stomach.

"Why don't we step outside," Tracy said. He now held the cigarette between his lips on one side of his mouth, making the other side sneer when he spoke. "Have a smoke. Relax and continue this conversation."

Mike glared at his cousin. "It's like that?"

Tracy nodded.

Mike swung his left arm over and closed his fingers around the pistol. He squeezed hard, crushing the chamber and most of the barrel, sending jagged ceramic bits flying everywhere.

Tracy flinched and let go of the pistol. Mike pistoned his right arm back, then forward, slamming his palm into Tracy's shoulder. Tracy spun and flew backwards, knocking over their table and two more before hitting the back wall.

Mike leaped over the debris, knelt down next to Tracy, and yanked the client file out of his jacket pocket. "I'm going to burn this. You're going to forget about being a digital pimp, and you're going to call me on Monday about an internship at the factory."

Mike dropped a business card on the floor next to Tracy's face. "First lesson? It's cybernetics. Not robotics."



Photo: "Programmable Android" exhibit at Tommy Bartlett Exploratory, July, 2008

"Falling"

FALLING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Your language is beautiful," Katrina said, admiring the long vertical lines written in black ink on parchment. Curves, notches, and other embellishments flowered off each elegant word-ligature at irregular intervals.

"That is writing," said Mebrui, the interpreter assigned as her host. "Not language."

Katrina smiled. Mebrui's expression remained impassive. She was a little disappointed—they both wore traditional Gordnija attire, and she thought the sleeveless, low-cut vest and tight-fitting pants showed off her body pretty well. Mebrui's outfit certainly flattered his muscular shape.

"Is that a personal distinction, or a scholarly one?" she asked.

"First there is thought," Mebrui said, "then speech. Last comes writing."

Katrina nodded. "I'd like to talk about how this writing system developed. The original colonists were Arabic and Chinese, correct?"

"Yes," Mebrui said. "Two dozen survived the crash."

"And that was three hundred years ago."

"Yes. Twenty years after their ship was crippled by asteroid impact and marooned in this star system."

Hell of a long time to spend falling out of orbit, Katrina thought, infected by alien parasites and wondering whether brain damage or unshielded re-entry will kill you first...

Aloud, she said, "Traditional Chinese script does descend vertically, but the use of full-word ligatures and the significance of inter-character spacing are unique."

"All things are connected," Mebrui said. "This world saved our ancestors. If they had not fallen to Gordnija and breathed her air, the alien disease would have destroyed more than their memories."

Katrina frowned. "I'm not sure what that has to do with writing."

"It was their destiny to land here." Mebrui traced a finger down one side of the display case. "Inevitable, like gravity. All things fall down."

"Interesting," Katrina said. "We've always known that culture influences language, but I've never seen a philosophy so ingrained—"

A loud rumbling noise descended through the ceiling. Katrina looked up reflexively, even though they were deep in the museum's basement. Short, sharp banging sounds followed. She reached for her comm bracelet, but Mebrui grabbed her hands and held her in place.

Now he wants to touch me, she thought. "What's going on?"

"Do not concern yourself," he said. "We are safe here."

"What the hell is happening?" she shouted.

"We fulfill our destiny," Mebrui said. "It is inevitable that we will conquer your race. Our leaders saw no reason to delay—"

"Enough!" Katrina made a fist with her right hand. The flight ring around her middle finger sensed the tension in her muscles, and the filament running up an artery into her premotor cortex read her mind.

Her body shot two meters upward and hovered in the air, facing down. She would have been standing upright, but Mebrui's added weight was unbalancing her.

"Please let go of me," Katrina said.

"You cannot stop this," he said.

"You're wrong."

Katrina bent her legs, tucking them up to her chest, then straightened them quickly, pushing her boot heels hard into Mebrui's chest. He fell and hit the ground with a wet thud. Katrina flew away before she could see any blood.



Photo: American Falls at Niagara Falls, July, 2008

"I Can Buy Pickles"

I CAN BUY PICKLES
By Curtis C. Chen

"You know it's just for show," Paul said. "To demonstrate that we respect their culture."

Sophie made a face. "You keep saying that, but I'm the one elbow-deep in fermented intestines."

"We've been through this. The Varna'ut are deeply patriarchal—"

"I know, I know," Sophie groaned. "The wife has to smell of housework if it's a proper family, and that includes their putrid food."

"Especially food." Paul sighed. "Besides, I'm the one who actually has to eat that stuff. And then regurgitate it later."

"I'm sure that second part's not too difficult." Sophie lifted a bone shard out of the rubbery yellow mass and dropped it in the garbage. "And I know all about your pre-function drinking binges at the embassy." She watched Paul for a reaction.

Paul shrugged, completely unashamed. "A spoonful of moonshine helps anything go down."

Sophie felt her anger building again. It was bad enough her husband had dragged her to the other side of the galaxy on a diplomatic mission, but being a female, she was rarely invited to mingle with their hosts.

While Paul enjoyed guided tours of thousand-year-old cities and massive starship factories, Sophie was stuck with the female Varna'ut, whose interests were limited to cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing. She didn't even have anything interesting to write home about. Exciting day: market had great sale on alien offal, perfect for pickling in hydrochloric acid!

The only good thing was being able to use her training as a chemist. She turned her head and hid a smile.

"I'm going to be late," Paul said, putting on his jacket.

"I would give you a hug, but..." Sophie held up her slime-covered hands.

Paul gave her a peck on the cheek and headed for the door. "Love you. See you tonight."

"Oh, come on." Sophie pouted. "Give me a proper kiss."

She leaned back and craned her neck toward him. Paul smiled, walked back, and touched his lips to hers. Sophie pushed her head forward, making full contact with his skin.

After a moment, Paul pulled back. "Are you wearing lipstick?"

"Three," Sophie said, smiling.

"What?"

"Two."

Paul's eyes widened, and his hands clutched at his throat. A variety of gagging and choking noises emerged from his open mouth.

"One," Sophie said, and watched her husband collapse to the floor. His legs kicked, and she stepped out of the way. His eyes flicked back and forth wildly, then quivered and stopped.

Sophie dug her hands into the sink, lifted a huge pile of pickled viscera, and dumped them onto her dead husband. She repeated this until the sink was empty, and Paul was barely visible underneath the gooey yellow mess.

The chemical bath she'd prepared in the bathroom would scrub the smell of food from her skin. Most Varna'ut were notoriously bad at distinguishing human genders, and even worse at telling individuals apart. Sophie would have to cut her hair, but she'd be halfway to the next star system before any human authorities caught up to her. Plenty of time to do some proper sightseeing.



Photo: preserved foods at Fort Vancouver, December, 2008

"Transport"

TRANSPORT
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm going to let him out of the bag for a minute."

"Do not let him out of the bag."

"Just for a minute."

"Do not open that bag!"

The armored truck's front left tire hit a pothole, and Derek cursed as he bounced in the driver's seat. The heavy vehicle, swathed in steel and doused with drag-inducing kinetic wards, handled like a drunk beaver on stilts.

Jay, the younger man in the passenger seat, craned his neck to look at the man-sized lump wrapped in sackcloth and chained to the floor of the rear compartment.

"Are you sure he can breathe in there?" Jay asked.

"You do remember what his power is, don't you?" Derek replied. "He's a persuader. He influences people, gets them to do what he wants."

"Well, that's why we're wearing these, right?" Jay lifted the diamond-shaped pendant around his neck. "Besides, if he were controlling me, I'd probably just pull my gun on you."

Derek grunted. "It's not that simple. He doesn't pull your strings like a puppetmaster. He gets under your skin, into your subconscious. Makes you think you believe things you don't. You don't even realize you're being influenced. Guys like this don't leave fingerprints."

"Guess we're lucky to have caught him at all, then." Jay cocked his head. "Did you hear that?"

Derek kept his eyes on the road. "No."

"Sounded like coughing."

He unbuckled his seat belt and leaned toward the doorway. Derek took one hand off the steering wheel, grabbed the roll bar behind his head, and yanked the wheel over hard. The truck swerved, knocking Jay's head against the passenger side window. The truck flipped onto its left side, scraped down the road, and shuddered to a stop.

Jay's unconscious form had fallen onto Derek and pinned him. Derek flexed his fingers, tracing sigils in the air. A blue cloud appeared and levitated Jay's limp body into the rear compartment. Derek disentangled himself from his seat belt and the airbag which had deployed from the steering column, then climbed through the doorway.

The prisoner stood on the wall which was now down, both arms lifted by the shackle and chain holding him to the vertical floor. His head, still bagged, wiggled from side to side, but stopped when Derek hopped down into the compartment.

"What's going on?" the prisoner called out.

Derek didn't answer. He looked down and moved his fingers again. Jay's right arm stiffened, lifted a key off his belt, and clumsily unlocked the shackle around the prisoner's left wrist.

"You gave him a dead charm," the prisoner said. "You're a controller, too! You breakin' me out, bro?"

Derek drew his sidearm from its holster, cocked it, and aimed at the prisoner's chest. "Killed while trying to escape."

"What?" The prisoner jerked back. "Wait! Let's talk about this!"

"Say hello to my daughter for me," Derek said.

He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and then it was over.



Photo: Blade Runner "spinner" flying car at the Science Fiction Museum, Seattle, September, 2008

"Scene from a Buddy Movie"

SCENE FROM A BUDDY MOVIE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Where is he?" asks the man holding a gun to my head.

Normally, I'd be happy about someone asking me questions. It's my job. I can tell you anything you want to know—for the right price.

And that's the problem here. I get paid for my work, and I'm worth every penny, if I do say so myself. When you demand something for nothing—when you make it personal—that's trouble.

"Put the gun down," I say, "and let's talk."

The barrel digs into my left temple. "You've got ten seconds to tell me where he is, or I blow your brains out."

"I don't work for free," I say. "Now, my usual rate is—"

"Are you stupid?" the man shouts into my ear, and tightens his right arm around my neck. "I'm going to kill you if you don't tell me where he is!"

"No, you're not."

"Five seconds!"

I close my eyes and concentrate for a moment. Judging from the odor and how strongly I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, the man's head is less than six inches away from mine.

I skim the surface of his mind, plucking the strongest emotional crests from an ocean of thoughts. Not enough to give myself a headache, just enough to unsettle him.

Then I start singing.

"Whe-e-e-e-ere is love? Does it fall from skies above...?"

I've never heard the song before, but the melody is loud and clear in the man's head. I continue singing. His left hand starts shaking. His right arm relaxes the tiniest bit, and I make my move.

My left elbow comes up, fast and hard, slamming into his gun hand. At the same time, I reach my right arm backward and grab his jacket collar. I bend my knees and tip forward, yanking hard and flipping him over.

He lands with a thud on the carpet. Meanwhile, I've grabbed his left wrist and held on to it. He yowls in pain as I twist it even more, then pull the weapon out of his loosened grip.

"You should know better," I say.

The man glares at me. "I saw you with him," he says. "I saw him paying you."

"Two weeks ago," I say. "An unrelated matter."

"How can you do business with someone like that?" he barks. "A murderer, a kidnapper—"

"So you've never taken money from a criminal?" I say. "You always turn down a client if you suspect he's mobbed up? You only take payment by certified check?"

"So it's true," he says. "You are a mind-reader."

"Well, yes," I say. "But I didn't get any of that from reading you. I just noticed a car staking out my building, got your license plate number, hacked into DMV records, then asked around about you."

He laughs. "It's more impressive if you say you're a psychic."

"I wouldn't lie to you," I say, extending a hand. "Professional courtesy."

He takes my hand and stands up. "I need your help."

I nod. "Clearly."



Photo: old photograph at McMenamins Kennedy School, June, 2009