Syndication!

This is my one hundredth piece of weekly flash fiction, and I'll hit the two-year mark on this project in about a month. Right after my birthday, in fact, at which time I'll be 37 years old. (ObClerks: Thirty-seven?!)

Anyway, it's time for my second annual bout of soul-searching, to decide whether I want to continue doing 512s for another year. On one hand, it does keep me writing, and creating new, workable story ideas each week; on the other hand, though it may be good practice, it's not directly helping me produce anything salable.

On the gripping hand, even Robert Heinlein didn't make it big until he was 41 years old. And this 512 project is an easy way to track the progress of my self-funded writing sabbatical, which I consider to have started with my trip to Viable Paradise in 2008. I took the oath, and I've been trying to live up to it since then--though I could (and should) be trying a little harder.*

I am a professional writer. I have not yet sold a substantial work of fiction, but that is one of my ultimate goals. (The other is to never actually need to interview for a full-time job again, but that's a different post.) I'm not ready to give up on that yet, and I feel like ending the 512s would take a lot of the wind out of my sails, so to speak.

I guess that's it, then. Get ready for another year of weekly flash fiction, right here at 512 Words or Fewer! Subscribe by RSS or e-mail! Tell your friends! And stay tuned for another survey in the coming weeks...



* I know, I know. "That's what SHE said."

"Tunnellers"

TUNNELLERS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Tell me again how we're not going to get shot, killed, and/or court-martialed?" Rhee said.

"You worry too much," Murtry said.

"Tell that to Harmsa."

"Harmsa had a big mouth." Murtry glanced around the corner of the building. "Okay, it's time." Murtry pulled out a metallic starfish. "Grab one of these arms."

Rhee frowned. "Is this another teleporter?"

"Just touch it!"

Rhee put his hand on the device, and Murtry pressed down on its center. Everything around them rippled.

"Let's go," Murtry said, moving into the light.

"Guard!"

"Chill." Murtry pointed at the other end of the building. The guard there was frozen, the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the air like a translucent gray ribbon.

"So the starfish stops time?" Rhee asked, following Murtry to the door.

"Basically." Murtry pulled out his lockpicks. "Watch the smoke, warn me when it starts moving again."

He got the door open in less than a minute. They went through and closed it behind them.

The inside of the warehouse was empty except for a large, glowing oval of light floating a foot off the ground. It showed unfamiliar barracks behind a barbed-wire fence. They watched an old man walk into view.

"You think he can see us?" Murtry said.

The man turned to look at them. He threw himself against the fence, shouting.

"Yes," Rhee said. "Also, your starfish time-stopper has worn off."

"What language is that?" Murtry asked.

Rhee looked at the yellow, six-pointed star on the man's shirt. "Polish."

"Excellent observation, Airman Rhee," came a booming voice behind them.

Murtry and Rhee whirled and stood at attention. Colonel Cranston, the base commander, walked up to them, followed by two MPs wielding pistols.

"Airman Murtry," Cranston said, holding out his hand, "I believe you're holding some inventory from Hangar 18."

Murtry sheepishly handed over the metal starfish.

"You didn't think we'd have detectors for these things?" Cranston shook his head. "Now that your pal Harmsa's talking, we have enough to lock up all three of you troublemakers. But it would be a shame if the Air Force didn't get some use out of you first." He nodded at the oval. "What do you think that is?"

Rhee said, "Time machine."

"Close," Cranston said. "We've been calling it a 'side-portal.' It's an opening to a different time, and a different reality."

"Like a parallel universe?" Murtry asked.

"Exactly," Cranston said. "We should be able to bury something in the past and dig it up in the present, but we can't. The theory is that the portal branches to a completely separate future."

"I have a question, Colonel," Rhee said.

"Go ahead, Airman."

"What's the point of time travel if you can't change the future?"

"Research," Cranston said. "What if the South had won the Civil War? Or the Germans had assassinated Hitler in 1944?" He smiled. "We've got all kinds of thought experiments to try out. And who better to send back in time to tinker with history than two of our best liars?"



Photo: cobwebs on barbed-wire fence at Cape Lookout State Beach, Oregon, August, 2010

"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