"Division of Labour"

DIVISION OF LABOUR
By Curtis C. Chen

Blake held the airtight bag over the gerbil's head until it stopped struggling and the life monitor above the cage squealed a tuneless dirge. He removed the bag and pressed the holding pin deep into the animal's spine, verifying the contacts on the control module readout, then stepped back.

"Is that all?" asked the Minister of War.

"The holding pin only prevents necrosis," Blake said. "It stimulates the nervous system to keep brain cells from deteriorating, for up to twenty-four hours."

He moved over to the second gerbil, which had two wires protruding from the back of its skull. He held the antennaed rodent down with one hand and connected two wires from the control module, then pressed the activation button.

The second gerbil collapsed, the monitor display spiked, and the first gerbil twitched back to life. A moment later, the second gerbil leapt up, shaking its head.

"So the dead rat is now imprinted with the live rat's memories?" the Minister asked.

Blake resisted the urge to point out that the animals were gerbils, not rats. "No, Minister. There is no transfer of consciousness. It's only energy. Think of it like donating blood."

The Minister nodded. "Very good, Professor. You may be the first scientist who hasn't tried to sell me immortality. But why come here at all? Why not Ministry of Health?"

"They'd never allow me to experiment on humans."

The Minister raised an eyebrow. "You have my full attention."

"I've done all I can with animals," Blake said. "It's impossible to know how a more complex brain structure will respond without using actual humans."

"And where do you propose to find these volunteers?"

"Prisoners of war," Blake said. "Detainees. Anyone who needs to disappear from a re-education center." Like my sister. "You're going to kill some of them during interrogation anyway; why not do something useful with their bodies?"

The Minister smiled. "I like the way you think, Professor." He snapped his fingers, and his aide produced a square of stiff paper. "You'll begin as soon as you can relocate your laboratory to Crag Island. And congratulations, you're now a Captain in the Burgish Army."

"Wh-what?" Blake suddenly felt light-headed.

"It's purely ceremonial," the Minister said, signing the paper, "but you do get a nice uniform."

"But—"

"I expect results, Professor."

The doors swung open, and one adjutant rolled away the experiment table while another hustled Blake out of the audience chamber. Before he knew what had happened, he was alone in the hallway with his brother, clutching the signed order from the Minister.

"Well?" Adam asked.

"He said yes." Blake stared at the paper.

"That's great!"

"And I'm in the Army now."

"Oh." Adam frowned. "What are you going to tell Mother?"

Blake shook his head. "I'm not. You are."

"What? Oh no. No no no. She'll kill me! Then herself!"

"Remember why we're doing this!" Blake hissed, lowering his voice. "I'm going into that hellhole to find Callie. You get to stay home with Mother. You have the easy part."

Adam grumbled. "That's debatable."



Photo: Lab Rat Taxidermy, Berkeley, California, September, 2009.

"Irremediable"

IRREMEDIABLE
By Curtis C. Chen

"So what's your superpower?"

Nathan turned to the man standing behind him in line. The stranger was wearing a green jumpsuit with yellow trim, and a green balaclava that covered his entire head except for his eyes. It must have been hot as hell under there.

"I don't have any powers," Nathan said.

"Well, aren't you kind of in the wrong line, then?" The green man chuckled as he spoke, as if he were telling a joke and expected Nathan to also find it humorous.

"The receptionist downstairs told me to come up to 4-B."

"Let me see your paperwork," the green man said, holding out one hand.

Nathan didn't feel like arguing, and he didn't want to find out what might happen if he refused. Most costumed avengers weren't the most psychologically stable people in the world. He handed over his forms and watched as the green man squinted at them.

The clerk called for the next in line, and they all edged closer to the window.

"Wow. Sorry, man. I didn't know." The green man handed the forms back to Nathan.

"It's okay." Nathan folded up the paper and stuck it inside his jacket. "At least I survived."

The green man inched closer. "I hope I'm not prying, but—if you don't mind talking about it—what did it feel like? To lose your powers, I mean?"

"I was unconscious," Nathan lied. "I just woke up, and they were gone."

The green man nodded as if he understood, even though he couldn't possibly understand what Nathan was going through. "Harsh, man."

The clerk called out, and the man in front of Nathan walked up to the window, a shiny blue cape fluttering behind him.

"So listen," the green man said, "I'm kind of in a situation myself, here. I used to be part of this organization, but lately we've been having, you know, creative differences. You know how it goes."

Nathan nodded and avoided eye contact.

"Anyway," the green man continued, "I've been thinking about hanging out my own shingle for a while. But—" he lowered his voice, as if divulging a secret— "I can't fly, so I can't really go solo."

"Why are you telling me this?" Nathan said.

"Have you ever considered being a sidekick?"

The clerk called for the next in line. "I can't fly, either," Nathan said. "As you know."

"Well, not right now, obviously, but the gem's effects aren't permanent." The green man leaned close to Nathan and whispered, "If it makes a difference, I do swing both ways."

He winked, and Nathan controlled his urge to punch someone in the nose. "I gotta go."

"Think about it!"

The clerk at the processing window was a surprisingly attractive young woman. Nathan wondered, as he handed over his paperwork, if this was really the best job she could get.

"Thank you," she said, filling in her part of the form with a red pen. "So, what's your superpower?"

Nathan gritted his teeth. "I'm a people person."



Photo: Cory Doctorow @ eTech, March, 2007

"The Ties That Bind"

THE TIES THAT BIND
By Curtis C. Chen

The door to Interview Two closed with a soft click behind Jake. He stood there for a moment. The woman had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red, and she clutched a kleenex in one hand. Her bony fingers looked like claws.

She and Andy both shifted in their seats. Jake leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.

"We got a name?" Jake asked Andy.

"Leah Comler," Andy said, holding up his phone. The woman's DMV record glowed on the tiny screen. "ID checks out. No priors."

"Why do you need to find your father, Miss Comler?" Jake asked. "Other than the obvious emotional closure, I mean."

"Jake," Andy said. "She's sick. Hospital sick," he added quickly.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Jake glared at Andy. Andy glared back. Jake walked around the table and sat down next to Andy.

"Sorry," Jake said. "I didn't know."

"No, I should apologize," Leah said. "What I did was wrong. I'm sorry. It's just—" She sniffled. "I've been trying to find my father for months. I was sure you were the one."

Jake nodded at her hands. "What is it?"

"Idiopathic aplastic anemia," Leah recited.

Jake slumped back in his seat. "You're looking for a bone marrow transplant." He didn't say what he was thinking: You're dying.

Leah nodded.

"I'm already in the system," Jake said. "I give blood four times a year. If I was a match, you'd already have found me."

Her lower lip quivered. "I was hoping that my biological father would have had other children. That's my best chance for a donor match."

"I'm not your father," Jake said.

She started crying.

The door to the interview room slammed open, and District Attorney Libby Wasserman stepped inside. "Detectives!" she said. "A word, please? Outside?"

***

"For crying out loud, Jake!" Libby said after she had ushered Jake and Andy into the monitoring lounge. "She's not some wirehead junkie. Could you try to treat her like a human being?"

"Give me a break," Jake said. "A stranger walks into my precinct, points a gun at me, and says she's my kid? How am I supposed to feel?"

Andy stepped forward. "There's an easy way to settle this. Were you listening in earlier?"

"No," Jake and Libby said in unison.

"Well, Leah's mother died in January," Andy said, "And in her will, she left Leah a safe deposit box at Craneson Credit."

That got both Jake's and Libby's attention. Craneson Credit International had a reputation as bankers to the rich and famous, ensuring security and privacy with state-of-the-art technology from strong encryption to biometric sensors. Craneson's customers included CEOs, celebrities, and more than one organized crime family—which the NYPD only knew because of their grudging cooperation with ongoing federal investigations.

"What's in the box?" Libby asked.

"No idea," Andy said. "According to the will, it's coded so that only Leah and her father can open it. Fingerprint and DNA scan required."



Photo: Manhattan Crime Stoppers flyer, photographed by Adam Greenfield, August, 2007

"Death Trap"

DEATH TRAP
By Curtis C. Chen

The food was the same every Sunday. Its appearance changed each time—meatloaf, pot roast, chicken, sausage, casserole—but it always tasted the same to Charles: bland, flavorless, with a texture that turned to mush the moment it touched his tongue.

Today it was green bell peppers stuffed with rice. His simulated daughter-in-law, Maria, brought it to the table, holding the pan with giant oven mitts. The steam rising from the food quivered as she set it down—the programmers had gotten that detail right, anyway—and Charles felt his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling, an imaginary hunger for an illusion of sustenance.

The family sat down around the table, poorly rendered mannequins snapping into their chairs. All the little imperfections jumped out at Charles: the body parts that didn't quite match up at the edges, the pixelation of fabric texture too small for the surfaces they had been mapped onto.

His unreal son, Doug, turned to Charles and asked him to say grace. It was the one time every week when he didn't feel like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings, when he actually had a chance, however slim, to make contact with the real humans outside this virtual prison.

"Get me the hell out of here!" he shouted at the ceiling. "If you're watching now, if you still give a damn about me, stop this and let me die! Just pull the plug! I don't want to be here any more!"

He shouted until his throat felt hoarse, and then he kept shouting, because he knew it wasn't real. None of it was real. He was in limbo, and the worst part was knowing it.

***

"Can't we do anything for him?" Maria asked.

Next to her, Doug remained passive and silent. The technician, a middle-aged woman, peered at the couple from behind large, round eyeglasses.

"We can modify the simulation," the technician said. "But it will take some time to ease his brain into the new environment. A transition that's too abrupt could cause further trauma." She looked at Doug. "And there would, of course, be an additional charge."

Maria nodded. "Could you give us a few minutes alone?"

The technician shrugged and left the monitoring chamber. The door hissed shut behind her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Doug whispered.

"You're right," Maria said, watching one of the many screens surrounding them. Charles was still shouting, but nobody was listening. "He's miserable."

"But he's still a hero," Doug said. "And a son who kills his father doesn't get re-elected."

"We don't have to choose right now," Maria said. "You sign over his caregiver power of attorney, and I'll keep visiting while you campaign. Let me decide how to end it. It'll be a real surprise, and you'll be able to deny everything. Denounce me well enough and it might even give you a bump in the polls."

Doug shook his head. "Sometimes you scare me, honey."

Maria smiled. "As long as you still love me."



Photo: My Brain on MRI by Julie Falk, June, 2005

"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."