"Players"

PLAYERS
By Curtis C. Chen

Amanda disliked the boy as soon as he asked, "Is that your robot?"

Next to her, Irwin remained motionless. The hotel lobby was mostly empty; all the other performers and parents were either packed into the auditorium or corralled backstage. Amanda had refused to wait in either darkened space, and nobody was about to say no to a minister's daughter and her bodyguard.

She sniffed and said, "He's not a robot."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Fine. Is that your Hayden Technologies Q-704 synthetic attendant?"

Amanda blinked. "How do you know so much about androids?"

"My family runs a rival robotics company." The boy squinted at Amanda's recital name tag. "Your last name isn't Hayden, is it?"

"No," Amanda huffed. "I am Amanda Cringely."

The boy's eyes widened. "Oh. Sorry. It's just—one of the Hayden girls is about your age, and my mom wouldn't be happy if she found me talking to the enemy." He extended a hand. "I'm Bobby Altschul."

Amanda shook his hand; it would have been rude to refuse. Muffled sounds of applause drifted through the closed auditorium doors. Amanda turned to Irwin and asked, "Who's next?"

"Hilary Kirtman," Irwin replied in his soft, even voice. "You have fifteen minutes before you need to be backstage, miss."

Amanda nodded and turned back to Bobby. "Do the Altschuls and Haydens really hate each other that much?"

"It's not personal," Bobby said. "But consumer robotics is big business. There's a lot of money in exclusive contracts with leading families."

"You sound like a brochure."

"Hey, at least my mom's not here. She'd be doing a hard sell. Altschul means quality, blah blah blah." Bobby shrugged. "Let's talk about something else. What piece are you performing?"

Amanda allowed herself a prideful smile. "Rosen's Twelfth."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "All three movements?"

"Of course."

"Guess I'll have time to grab a sandwich, then." Bobby plopped down into an armchair. "I thought Mr. Webb hated Rosen."

Amanda gathered her skirt and sat on a small couch. Irwin followed and stood behind her. "I wanted a challenge. And Mr. Webb didn't want to lose me as a student. What are you playing?"

"Mozart's Piano Sonata Number Eleven."

"The Turkish March?" Amanda wrinkled her nose. "That's not very interesting."

Bobby raised his hands, palms up. "It's something I could memorize. I'm only here because my parents think I need a well-rounded education."

"You don't like music?"

"I love music. I don't love making it," Bobby said.

Amanda felt Irwin's hand on her shoulder. It couldn't have been fifteen minutes already. She turned to reprimand him.

Irwin's glassy eyes had irised all the way open. His other hand closed around Amanda's neck. She couldn't breathe. Her fists smacked helplessly against Irwin's inhuman forearms.

It's not fair, Amanda thought. I would have killed the Rosen.

Irwin's head jerked back, and his hands opened. Amanda fell to the carpet, hurting her knees, and coughed.

Bobby jumped out from behind Irwin, clutching a piece of plastic. He grabbed Amanda's arm, yanked her up, and said, "Run!"



Image: Playing the piano by Nikos Koutoulas, August, 2009

"Drive On"

DRIVE ON
By Curtis C. Chen

Debra didn't want to run over the kid, but he wasn't leaving her much choice. Blocking a military convoy wasn't directly threatening, but it was suspicious. It also kept them from moving, and that was dangerous.

She tapped the horn. The boy's mouth flapped, but his words were lost in the noise of the crowd.

"Move!" Debra waved and pointed. The boy pumped his fist in the air. Sometimes Debra thought she'd get more respect if she drove a cart and mule instead of a Humvee.

Base Command had anticipated a protest when the VIP convoy left the airport, but not a mob. The street was clogged with locals chanting, waving signs, and throwing whatever debris they could find at the Americans.

Debra ignored the projectiles. Glass bottles would shatter against the Humvee's energized defense field, and metal objects like tin cans would get deflected. Organic matter sometimes made it through, depending on its composition and velocity, but D-fields had greatly reduced casualties and vehicle damage in the field.

"Attention," said the dash computer. "Vehicle has been stopped for more than sixty seconds. Please check surroundings for possible threats."

"Thanksalot," Debra muttered. Was this just another random crowd, or had someone staged an ambush? She waved at the boy again. He raised his middle finger at her.

Then she saw what he was holding in his other hand.

No. No no no—

Debra switched the horn to ultrasonic and blasted it, forcing everyone outside to move farther away—except the boy. He stared defiantly through the windshield.

His left hand twitched against the trigger plate taped to his palm.

"Sergeant!" came the voice from the backseat. "Is there a problem?"

Debra didn't answer. She was busy with the dash computer, inputting her security override so she could manually redistribute the D-field. The screen flashed yellow, and she stepped on the accelerator.

The Humvee roared forward. The boy threw up his hands and yelped as the front bumper knocked him down. Debra stomped the brakes a split second after the boy's head disappeared from view, then smacked a button to deploy the Humvee's armor skirt.

"Debra!" The voice from the backseat was louder now. "What's going on?"

Debra opened her mouth. A small stone cracked the windshield.

Several pounds of high explosives detonated underneath the vehicle. The force field which Debra had redistributed to the undercarriage shaped the blast downward. The Humvee bounced up, then fell and landed inside the crater with a jolt.

Debra silenced the motion alarms and reset the D-field coverage. A Coke bottle sailed down and broke apart above the hood, glittering green fragments hovering for a moment before sliding away. She felt numb.

You just saved lives, Debra told herself. One dead instead of hundreds. Besides, if they court-martial you... at least you'll get to go home.

A hand touched her shoulder. She turned and stared into the scowling face of Congressman Wright.

"What the hell just happened?" he demanded.

Debra smiled weakly. "Sorry, Dad. Looks like you'll have to do another press conference tonight."



Image: U.S. Army photo by Staff Sgt. Tyffani L. Davis, April, 2008

"Everybody Loves Lawyers"

EVERYBODY LOVES LAWYERS
By Curtis C. Chen

Jake disliked the man standing in the lobby immediately. It wasn't the slicked-back hair, the iridescent three-piece suit, or the trendy stubble covering the bottom half of a face too young and round for that look. It was the smell. Jake didn't trust men who wore cologne.

Libby took a single step forward when the elevator doors opened, then froze. Jake nearly ran into her and had to yank his arm back to avoid inappropriate touching. Andy exhaled sharply as his stomach met Jake's elbow.

"Libby?" said the man in the lobby. "Liberty Wasserman?"

Libby recovered from her momentary surprise and walked out of the elevator. Jake and Andy followed and stopped on either side of her, facing the man in the sharkskin suit.

"Roland," Libby said. "I didn't know you were with Levine and Associates."

"You know this guy?" Jake asked Libby.

"You work for Karl Levine?" Andy asked the lawyer. Levine and Associates was the finest criminal defense outfit in the city—more dedicated, more ruthless, and more expensive than any other law firm for a hundred miles.

"Roland Stern," the man said, holding out a business card. Andy took it and held it up to the light. The holographic printing made the text appear to hover above the paper. "I'm doing a pro bono rotation. And yes, I went to law school with Miss Wasserman—it is still 'Miss,' isn't it?"

"It's District Attorney Wasserman," Libby said, with an edge on her voice. She nodded at the folded paper in Stern's left hand. "You've read the people's brief?"

Stern nodded. "Yes, and may I say, it's very generous of you to authorize ROR, considering the unfortunate lapse in judgment my client displayed this morning."

"Save it," Libby said. "We know she's ill, and she's been cooperating. Are you ready to take custody?"

Stern actually winked at Libby. "Are you trying to get rid of me already, counselor?"

Jake saw the muscles in Libby's jaw clenching for a moment before she replied. "Detective Dixon will help you with the paperwork."

Andy looked up from his examination of Stern's business card. "I will?"

"Detective Lanosky and I have an appointment elsewhere," Libby said. "If you'll excuse us."

She pinched Jake in the side and hustled him out the front door of the police station before he could object.



Photo: Los Angeles Personal Injury Lawyers 2 by The Reeves Law Group, June, 2011

Clarion UCSD Write-a-Thon 2011

It's that time of year again: when I exhibit absolutely no bitterness about being rejected by Clarion yet again, and help them raise money for future workshops. (Actually, this year I didn't apply to the workshop because I had other things going on in Q1. So I don't even have reason to be bitter. Which I'm not. As I said.)*

http://www.theclarionfoundation.org/writeathon/wrtn-writerpage.php?writerID=6880

Why you should donate: In addition to feeling good about supporting the arts, if I meet both my wordcount goal (likely) and donation target (uncertain), I will send each of my donors a unique, personalized digital artifact. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is; if you want to find out, donate!

ADDENDUM (7/26): Anyone who donates at least $23 will get the opportunity to name a character in one of my upcoming "512 Words or Fewer" weekly flash fiction stories. Donate $47 or more and I'll write a 512 based on any premise you suggest! (This offer is retroactive; I'll be contacting all donors after August 6th.)

As an additional incentive to any fellow Sea Monkeys reading this, I'll match every dollar you donate to Clarion with a contribution to my own #JCCC2 fund. (If I don't end up going on the 2012 cruise, I'll donate that money to an appropriate charity--most likely Child's Play--or just buy myself a pony. Could go either way on that.)

Last year my very generous donors contributed $419, and this year I'm hoping to collect $512 by the end of the six-week period. If my projections are correct, I'll exceed that target by two whole dollars--but only if you donate!

Feel free to follow my progress on LiveJournal and heckle me when I fall behind on wordcount (goal: 1,024 words/day average, 43,008 words total).


* At one point, I had this idea that I'd alternate between fundraising for Clarion West and Clarion UCSD each year, but last weekend's WHO Game took precedence over the start of CW's Write-a-thon, so I'm back shilling for Clarion UCSD.

"Leap Fear"

LEAP FEAR
By Curtis C. Chen

Arnold didn't recognize the room, which was odd, since he always reappeared in the same place after a jump. He was standing on a concrete platform. He tapped his wristwatch controls, telling it to sync to any GPS satellites it could find, and noticed a man dozing in one corner.

"Hello?" Arnold stepped off the platform. Except for that, a computer workstation next to the sleeping man, and a single door behind him, the room was empty. "Can you understand me?"

The man jerked awake, saw Arnold, and his eyes widened. He slapped at the computer.

"He is here!" the man shouted. "Watchman to Order! He has arrived!"

Arnold frowned. "You were expecting me? No, okay, sure. Diane must have figured it out." He checked his watch, but it hadn't synced yet. "What year is this?"

Before the watchman could answer, the door opened, and a dark-haired woman entered, followed by five other men. Arnold noticed that they all wore the same clothing: white long-sleeved shirts, black trousers, and a round pendant on a metal chain.

The woman had dyed her hair the same black color as Diane's, and cut it to the same shoulder length. She approached Arnold and bowed. The men behind her followed suit.

"Welcome back, Lord Arnold," the woman said.

"Okay, slow down," Arnold said. "Are you in charge here?"

The woman inclined her head. "I am Diane, prophet of the Order, keeper of the temple."

"Great. What year is it? How far ahead did I jump?"

"By your reckoning, Lord, it is the year three thousand and twelve," she said.

Arnold's head swam for a moment. "I need to sit down."

He was barely aware of the watchman bringing his chair forward and sliding it under Arnold before he fell backward. It took him a minute to stop hyperventilating.

"Okay. You knew I would reappear here, but you didn't know when. So—" Arnold looked up. "How was your, um, Order founded?"

"The first prophet, Diane of Lynwood, charged us with preserving the Stone of Eternity—"

"You realize that's just a concrete block, right?" Arnold said.

"It is a holy relic," the woman said, unfazed. "Your reappearance, Lord, has proven our faith justified."

"Stop calling me 'Lord,'" Arnold said, rubbing his temples. "But if you're going to worship me, here's my first commandment: disband this religious cult. I'm not a god."

The woman frowned. "No, Lord. We do not worship you. You are merely the chosen one."

"The chosen what?"

One of the men brought forward a cloth bundle. The woman unwrapped it and lifted a large curved sword.

"You will battle and defeat our enemies," the woman said. "So it is written."

"Whoa!" Arnold waved his hands. "I'm not battling anyone! I'm just a mechanic! I order you to back off!"

"You are the chosen one," the woman said. The men behind her hefted chains and shackles. "This is your destiny. And we are honored to convey you to the arena."

For the umpteenth time, Arnold wished he could control his jumps.



Photo: concrete texture 4 by coun2rparts, April, 2009

"No Longer Buried"

NO LONGER BURIED
By Curtis C. Chen

Light flared in Ralamudi's eyes. He tried to shield his face, but his arms would not move.

The light went away. His throat felt parched. After a few experimental croaks, he was able to ask: "Where am I?"

"You're alive!" said a male voice with an unfamiliar accent. "Thank the gods! Here, drink this."

Ralamudi felt warm liquid splashing into his mouth. Water. It eased the pain in his throat. Feeling tingled back into his arms.

"We need your help," the voice said. "Your family built the kyu-essem engine, yes? You know how to operate it?"

"What's happened?" Ralamudi asked. "How long have I been asleep?"

The blurry shapes around him started to resolve into recognizable objects, including a bearded man standing in front of Ralamudi's stasis chamber.

"There's no time," the man said. "Can you operate the kyu-essem engine? Can you change the para-meters?"

"Slow down," Ralamudi said. The man's accent made it difficult to understand his speech. "You're talking about the QSM engine? The Quantum Substrate Manipulator?"

"Yes! Yes!" The man cackled. "I knew you'd be able to help. Come. Quickly!"

He grasped Ralamudi's forearm and tugged. Ralamudi grabbed the sides of his stasis chamber and held his ground. He wasn't going anywhere until he understood the situation.

"How long has it been?" Ralamudi demanded. "What happened here?"

His eyes had remembered how to focus, and he saw that the lab was in ruins. None of the normal displays were powered; even the overhead lights were out. The space was illuminated by flickering yellow lanterns.

The bearded man said nothing. Ralamudi shoved him aside and tapped at the nearest control panel.

Only three other stasis chambers were still functioning, and their power reserves read less than twenty percent. Ralamudi checked the relays and saw that the solar chargers were offline. But it should have taken decades to drain those batteries—

Ralamudi turned back to the bearded man.

"How. Long?"

Anger flared for a moment on the man's face. "Over four hundred years, we believe."

Ralamudi's legs felt weak. He braced himself against the wall until the nausea had passed. "We sealed ourselves inside this facility. Nobody knew where we were. How did you find it?"

"It wasn't easy," the man said. "But there were stories, legends, clues. We knew the inventors of the kyu-essem engine lived underground, near a—"

"Who's 'we'?"

"I was part of an archaeological expedition."

"Where are the others?"

"Killed in a tunnel collapse."

Ralamudi hadn't taught university for six years without learning how to read his students. "You're lying," he said.

The bearded man's eyes flashed again. He took a step backward, simultaneously reaching into his jacket to draw out a small gray sphere with a circular opening. He aimed the opening at Ralamudi.

"You killed them," Ralamudi said.

"They had served their purpose." The bearded man's accent was gone, replaced with a tone that dripped arrogance and scorn. "Now it's time for you to serve yours, Doctor."

"And what might that be?"

"You're going to help me kill a god."



Photo: main junction v1 by Sean Head, January, 2008

"Oliver Comes Home"

OLIVER COMES HOME
By Curtis C. Chen

The apartment was cold and dark. Oliver almost called out when he closed the door, and had to remind himself that there was nobody waiting for him at home anymore. He wondered how long it would be before the habit faded.

"Welcome home, Doctor Graves," said a gravelly voice with a British accent.

Oliver yanked open the drawer of the table by the door and reached inside. The pistol was missing. He grabbed the letter opener instead and slapped at the light switch on the wall.

The living room lights came on, revealing a dark-haired man, graying at the temples, wearing a tweed three-piece suit. He sat in Oliver's armchair. His hands were raised next to his shoulders. One hand held Oliver's pistol, slide locked back to show it was not loaded. The other hand held the empty magazine.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Oliver said. He couldn't decide whether he should advance toward the stranger, or duck into the kitchen and look for a better weapon, or reach for his phone to make an emergency call.

"Just a fellow handgun enthusiast," the stranger said, nodding at the pistol in his right hand. Oliver couldn't quite place the accent—Oxford, maybe. "Tell me, why is a man with an advanced physics degree so interested in keeping and modifying his own small arms?"

"I like working with my hands," Oliver said.

"You could build ships in bottles."

"I also enjoy loud noises."

"You used to go hunting with your family. Isn't that right?"

Oliver gripped the letter opener. "I want to know who you are and what you're doing in my flat."

"I work for the United States government." The stranger slowly lowered his arms and put the empty pistol and magazine on the coffee table.

"You don't sound American," Oliver said.

"Well, that makes two of us," said the stranger. "As I was saying, I work for a federal agency, and I'm in need of some technical expertise." He sat down in the armchair.

"You're a spy," Oliver said.

The stranger's mouth twitched. "Not exactly."

"And I'm not exactly looking for a job."

"You resigned from Berkshire Macro-Composites this morning," the stranger said. "I understand the circumstances were rather unfavorable. You won't receive any severance pay, and more importantly, if you spend too much time alone in this apartment, you will go mad with grief."

Oliver felt the emptiness in the pit of his stomach yawning open. The wall behind the stranger displayed the default screensaver, a vacant beach at sunset overlaid with a clock and calendar. Had it really been only two months since Robbie's death? It felt so much longer. Oliver couldn't summon a memory of the last day he'd felt in the least bit happy.

The stranger was right. An arrogant, presumptuous scofflaw, maybe, but still right.

"What do I call you?" Oliver asked.

"I'm Paul Tarkington," the stranger said. "I work for the State Department."

"And what are you offering?"

Paul smiled.



Photo: Welcome to the Sanitarium by Chris Roberge, March, 2007

"Stronger"

STRONGER
By Curtis C. Chen

"He needs a new skeleton," Gottlieb said.

Schumann glared for a moment, then turned his broad shoulders and sat down behind his office desk.

"In private," Schumann said.

Gottlieb closed the door and dropped the file on the General's desk. "I'll need your authorization for the procedure—"

"I'm not going to authorize the procedure," Schumann said.

Gottlieb blinked. "This is a medical emergency."

Schumann shook his head. "You need to remember who's in charge here, Doctor. I know the guy's your friend, you have history together, but this program is not your own private research lab. If I can't make a case for the operational benefit of a procedure, I can't authorize the funds for it. That's the bottom line."

It took Gottlieb a moment to unclench his jaw. "The operational benefit is that Paul Wilson doesn't die. Or is the United States government no longer in the business of keeping its citizens alive?"

"There's no need for insults, Doctor," Schumann said. He pushed away the file on his desk. "I've seen the updates. Wilson's condition isn't life-threatening. He'll be on his back for a few days until you figure out how to turn down the implants, and then you'll fix him."

"This isn't—" Gottlieb heard himself getting louder, and stopped before he started yelling at a three-star general. "Paul Wilson's enhancile is not purely technological. He has received gene therapy which alters the fundamental biochemical makeup of his muscles. We had to do that in order to keep the myasthenia gravis from destroying his soft tissue."

"I'm not an idiot, Doctor." Schumann stared right through Gottlieb. "Wilson's muscle growth is regulated by the implants. You can tune those to keep him from hulking out."

"We've been trying," Gottlieb said. "It's not working."

"Make it work."

"You tell me how to create some new amino acids and I'll get right on it."

Schumann sighed, opened the file, and scanned through it. "You've done this type of skeletal enhancement before?"

"Dogs and ponies. Literally," Gottlieb said. "But the principle is the same. It will work. I just need a signature."

Schumann closed the folder. "I'll sign on one condition. You need to put Wilson into the field."

Gottlieb shook his head. "He's not ready. We need to—"

"Don't bullshit me, Doctor," Schumann said. "You've released enhanced soldiers onto the battlefield two weeks after surgery. Wilson's been here for years."

"He's not a soldier. He doesn't—"

"I'm not asking him to be a soldier. I'm asking him to serve his country using his unique talents." Schumann opened a drawer and pulled out a reader tablet. "And he won't be alone."

Gottlieb frowned. "What are you proposing?"

"This isn't a proposal, Doctor. This is an order." Schumann pushed the tablet to the edge of his desk. "I'm putting together a task force. FBI's bringing in the candidates now, and they're shipping out as soon as you examine them and certify them fit for duty.

"This department's been making superheroes for three years. It's about time we started using them for something."



Photo: Strength by R.O Mania, June, 2008