"Working Graves: Habeas Corpus"

WORKING GRAVES: HABEAS CORPUS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Are you a vampire?"

Conrad studied the man asking the question. Tall, slightly overweight, standing with that posture particular to law enforcement. It was almost as good as being able to read his aura, which was nearly impossible amid the flashing lights of the nightclub.

"I don't believe we've met," Conrad said.

The man held up a metal star imprinted with a number and the words SAN FRANCISCO POLICE. "I'm Puff, the magic dragon."

The badge holder wasn't worn enough for it to be something the man carried around every day. So he couldn't be an actual plainclothes detective. But the badge was real. A uniformed patrolman, trying to bluff his way through an unofficial investigation? Why?

"I'd like to ask you some questions, Mr. Vansek," the man said.

Normally, Conrad would have signaled his bodyguards to remove an unwelcome guest from the club. But Conrad was curious about this little man doing his best to seem big.

"My answers may not satisfy you, officer," Conrad said with a smile, "but please, ask away."

"We should talk in private."

"I trust these men with my life. They can keep secrets."

"You sure?" the man asked. "Because I'd like to talk about Mira Sorkowitz."

Conrad's smile evaporated, and he rose from his seat. "My office is upstairs."

One guard led the way, followed by Conrad, the policeman, and the other guard. They halted in the brightly lit corridor just outside Conrad's office, and the trailing guard tapped the policeman on the shoulder.

"Lift your arms," the guard said.

The policeman rolled his eyes. "You think I'd bring a gun here?"

"Ain't looking for guns."

Conrad moved around to face the policeman. "I'll answer your first question, officer. Yes, I am a vampire."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," said the policeman. "Your aura's lit up like a fucking Christmas tree back here."

Conrad was startled. "You have the sight?"

"With a capital S," the policeman said. "I can see spirits."

"Remarkable!" Conrad said. "And how did you meet the white witch?"

"I worked with her daughter."

"I didn't know she had a daughter."

"Two." The policeman looked away. "They're both dead now. Long story. Anyway, Mira told me if I ever needed help, I should come find you."

Conrad grumbled. "I owe her a favor. But what can I help you with that she could not?"

"Mira's missing."

"Missing?"

"Taken from her house last night. No physical evidence, but she left a message for me. Written in her own breath."

Conrad shuddered. A conjurer's breath was more precious than her blood, and the white witch would not use it for simple messaging except as a last resort. Which meant that whoever had taken her was even more dangerous than she had been.

A powerful new player like that would make a great ally.

"Leave us," Conrad said, waving off the guards and unlocking the door to his office. "Let's talk inside, officer...?"

"Jay," the policeman said. "Griffin Jay."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Officer Jay."

Griffin chuckled. "You don't know me yet."



Photo: Badge and Bar by Sara Bassett, March, 2008

"Tiny Leverage"

TINY LEVERAGE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Am I inside the cerebellum yet?"

"You'll know when you are."

"Yeah, and HOW will I know that, exactly?"

"Trust me, you'll know."

"See, there's that word again. TRUST. Something that's in pretty short supply right now, on this side of the event horizon, anyway."

"I can't work very efficiently if I have to keep explaining everything to you."

"How about explaining ANYTHING? How about that? I don't even know which way is up!"

"Irrelevant. At your current size, gravity doesn't affect you as much as other forces."

"These instrument readings don't make any sense at all."

"You're still passing through the electrical interface. The sensor pods won't open up until the hull polarity stabilizes."

"Okay, I see that—no, wait, this is wrong. The primary sensor array is showing 'no data.' That's not a valid status, is it? What does 'no data' mean?"

"Keep your pants on. I'll run a diagnostic."

"And that's another thing. Why are you always the one running diagnostics? Why can't I do that from right here in the vehicle?"

"Can you interpret raw log file data? The vehicle isn't set up to process that kind of volume. Your instruments are all real-time displays. There's not enough memory to run the calculations we need."

"I'm flying a liquid-nitrogen-cooled supercomputer designed by a coalition of scientists from twelve different planets. You couldn't figure out how to plug in a couple of flash drives?"

"It's not that simple. Modern storage devices depend on microscopic effects which get distorted by the miniaturization process. All your components are oversized; that's why you need the liquid nitrogen cooling. They're generating ridiculous amounts of waste heat, but it's the only way they'll work at this scale."

"I'm going to be honest with you. I stopped listening after 'microscopic.' How's that diagnostic coming? Which button do I push to fix the damn sensors?"

"You're a real joy to work with, you know that?"

"Hey, I'm staying on mission. You can lecture me about tech at the debriefing. Right now, I need to stay alive long enough to find an excitatory axon. And I can't fly without sensors."

"Okay, I've got the readout. Looks like the auxiliary bus clock got out of sync with the primary data bus—"

"That's fascinating. WHICH BUTTON DO I PUSH?"

"You'll have to do a manual reset and re-sync both buses to the system clock. It's procedure 910A in the green manual."

"Green book, nine-one-zero-alfa. Got it. Is this reset going to affect any other systems?"

"The radio will lose power momentarily, but it should come right back."

" 'Should?' "

"Trust me."

"Not like I have a choice."

"You always have a choice, Gabriel. You could choose to crash the vehicle instead of going back to prison after this mission. You could choose to cripple the Prime Minister instead of saving his life."

"No. I couldn't."

"You'll be out of the corona in less than a minute. Better do that reset now."

"Yeah, yeah. Here goes nothing."



Photo: cell model at Science Museum of Minnesota, July, 2008

"Guardians"

GUARDIANS
By Curtis C. Chen

Thirteen brave soldiers storm’d into Mount Mars.
Thirteen brave soldiers cannot see the stars.
Thirteen brave soldiers are buried in dust.
Thirteen brave soldiers will do what they must.
— colonial nursery rhyme, c. 2130

Jennifer knew what to expect when she entered the cavern. She’d been fully briefed by the Security Council, but she still wasn’t prepared for the tangible quality of the light that filled the space when the soldiers appeared. The translucent figures seemed to melt out of the rocks all around Jennifer, and each one shimmered like nothing else she had ever seen or imagined.

“Hello,” Jennifer said. “I’m Envoy Wakefield—”

A ribbon of light shot up from the ground, enveloped Jennifer like a cocoon, and knocked her off her feet. The light wasn’t quite solid—it didn’t grip her body so much as it interfered with it, making her skin crawl where it touched and partially phased through her—but it was strong enough to lift her a few centimeters into the air.

One ghostly face, a woman, rose to Jennifer’s eye level. She looked familiar—angular features and straight, shoulder-length hair—but Jennifer couldn’t recall a name from the personnel files. A lot of records had gone missing during the war.

“What year is it?” the woman asked, in a voice that sounded like running water.

Jennifer struggled to breathe. “Who are you?”

“Answer my question,” the woman said.

“I was told not to.”

The ribbon of light disappeared, and Jennifer dropped to the dirt. She yelped as she landed and fell forward onto her knees. The ghosts started merging back into the rocks.

“Wait!” Jennifer said. She scrambled to her feet and reached for the woman who had spoken. Jennifer’s fingers sank into the woman’s shoulder, and she tried to remember her briefing on the hard-light projector. How long could she be in contact with a ghost before her cells started imploding? Was it three minutes? She’d have to risk it.

The woman struggled against Jennifer’s grip, but she couldn’t exert enough force on her own, and the other twelve soldiers had disappeared already.

“I’m here to give you an update on our research,” Jennifer said.

“Save your breath,” the woman said. “You envoys have been lying to us for years. Maybe even centuries. We know the war’s over. We know Mars was bombed into a radioactive wasteland. We know the only reason you people even visit is so you can change the batteries on the alien hardware, to keep us trapped here, to keep the wormhole open.”

“We’re very close to being able to free you,” Jennifer said.

“It’s been almost a minute,” the woman said. “Are you sure you don’t need that hand?”

Jennifer released the woman’s shoulder and yanked back her hand. The woman flew up toward the ceiling of the cavern.

“I’m telling you the truth!” Jennifer said.

But the woman was already gone.

Thirteen brave soldiers stand watch under Mars.
Thirteen brave soldiers protect ev’ry star.
Thank you, brave soldiers—what secrets you keep!
But one day, we promise, you will go to sleep.



Photo: ancient Egyptian statues at the British Museum, June, 2009

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