"This is Not a Clue"

THIS IS NOT A CLUE
By Curtis C. Chen

Are you ready to save the world, hackers?

It's been decades since the computers took over. It all started with one rogue A.I., an artificial intelligence system that was supposed to help the military coordinate worldwide responses to "fourth-generation warfare" situations—terrorism, insurgencies, and other types of decentralized attack strategies. How do you fight back when the enemy isn't in uniform, and maybe isn't even organized in a traditional military hierarchy? Where do you strike, and how?

The computers solved that problem. They solved it a little too well. That first A.I. didn't know any better; it was just following its orders: to come up with a planned response for war operations, to be a master control for battlefield intelligence, globally. But the programs that came after—those were truly malicious. The new programs continued adapting as the nature of the conflict changed, and once it became clear that the basic struggle was humans versus machines, our fate was sealed.

But humanity's pretty resilient. And we're very creative. The computers may work faster, but we work smarter. We can figure out new things that were never programmed into us; we can imagine and design things that don't yet exist. We find solutions that can't be derived by using brute force algorithms, and obscure patterns which take a messy, random-access human mind to recognize.

That's where you come in. The resistance has plenty of fighters—there's never been any shortage of angry young men (and women) who want to take up arms against the never-ending sea of attack drones. But what we really need is hackers like you. We need people who can think around the problem instead of just running into it head-on. True, we'll always need the shooters to defend ourselves, but this isn't just about winning battles—we want to win the war. And the only way to do that is to get inside the belly of the beast.

It won't be easy: you'll have to traverse miles of ravaged wasteland, making friends along the way to assemble a team while also avoiding potential enemies. Some humans have given up any hope of taking back our planet, but you have to fight for them, too, even if they can't appreciate it yet.

Did I mention that you won't have any weapons? It's too risky. The machine sentries have scanners that detect firearms, projectiles, even sharp sticks; your only chance to get close enough to reprogram them is to sneak up without appearing to be a threat. And it's only going to get worse as you approach their nerve center: the WarTron complex.

This may be the last mission we ever send out there, but if you succeed, you'll have saved all of us—and you'll have done it with your wits, your human intelligence, the one thing the computers haven't been able to surpass. If you win, it'll be because you were clever enough to know when to play—and when the winning move was not to play.

So. Are you ready to start the game?



Image: WarTron fake teaser, May, 2012

"Under the Sea"

UNDER THE SEA
By Curtis C. Chen

Nearly a dozen wary eyes turned to Lieutenant Markey as she entered the submarine's control room. Most of them turned away almost immediately.

"Two knots, Captain," the helmsman reported.

"Very well," the captain said. He turned to Markey. "What are those torpedoes going to do to these kraken?"

"We're not shooting torpedoes at those things," Markey said. "We need to get the hell out of here, right now."

"Oh, we're moving," the captain said. "But we did not sneak ourselves into the goddamn lion's den just to have a look around. We're here, we're going to do some fucking damage before we leave."

"Aft tubes loaded, Captain!" the weapons officer shouted from behind me.

"Stop!" Markey said. "Our intel was bad. Those are not kraken out there. They're Elder Things. Two of them."

"I don't care what kind of fucking sea monsters they are," the captain said. "I just want to know what's going to happen when we wake them up."

Markey stepped closer to the captain, glaring at him. "I don't know what will happen, Captain. But it's going to be at least a thousand times worse than what happened to Roseler."

"I don't care," the captain said, "as long as it happens to the fucking Japs and not us. Now how far away do we need to be when we shoot off those fish?"

"These Things are not just monsters!" Markey said. "They are the worst monsters ever. They are beyond imagination. Do you understand? Cults have worshipped them as deities. Old Gods. If they wake up, it could be the end of the world!"

The XO grunted. "You just said you didn't know what would happen. Now you're saying it's the end of the world. Which is it, Lieutenant?"

Markey replied without breaking off her staring contest with the captain. "The specifics are classified and somewhat technical. We don't know exactly how bad it would get. But I'm not authorized to take that chance. And neither are you, Captain Channing, sir."

"Then you get authorization," the captain said. "Use a comm spell to contact your superiors."

"I can't," Markey said. "We're too deep. Too much water, too much iron." She tapped a pipe above her head for emphasis.

"Goddammit, teleport back and ask in person!"

Markey laughed. "Captain, I have nowhere near enough power to initiate a teleport, even if we were surfaced. I don't go home unless we make our rendezvous in two days."

"Eighty-five hundred yards, captain," the helmsman said.

"Eighty-five hundred, aye," the captain repeated. "Weapons, flood aft torpedo tubes."

"Aye, sir, flooding aft tubes!" the weapons officer called.

"Captain!" Markey said.

"COB, get those orders from OP-20-G and bring them in here," the captain said.

"Aye, sir." The Chief turned and maneuvered his way forward.

"Markey, in seven minutes we're out of range and we don't get another chance at this." The captain spoke softly but firmly. "So we're both going to take another look at those orders and see precisely what the fuck we're authorized to do."



Image: monster sea battle by Johnson Cameraface, December, 2011

"Temporal Mechanics"

TEMPORAL MECHANICS
By Curtis C. Chen

The briefing was going about as well as Roger had expected, which was not well.

"I got it," Nick said. "Nine days forward, I stay for one day, and then I return with the information."

"I need you to fully understand what happens when you travel forward," Roger said. "Do you get why Doc flips that coin every time?"

Nick shrugged. "Yeah. It's like his good luck charm or something."

"No. It's not—we don't believe in luck around here." Roger leaned forward and spread his palms, hoping the motion might focus Nick's attention. The kid looked barely old enough to drink. "It's probability. Random chance. We, the observers, will end up in one of two timelines. We can't predict which one. We can't control it."

"But it doesn't affect my mission," Nick said.

Roger frowned. "What?"

"That's not my concern," Nick said. "I mean, all due respect, sir, I'm not here to study the science. I'm just here to do a job."

"I'm not asking you to understand the science," Roger said. "Hell, we don't understand how the damn thing works. But you need to understand, every time you travel, you create an alternate reality in which you are dead. Do you understand that? When you travel forward, you reappear for one day, and then you disappear forever."

"Right," Nick said. "Because I come back here."

"You come back to a different timeline," Roger said, doing his best to emphasize the words. "One in which you didn't travel forward nine days. You disappear, then you reappear just a few seconds later."

"I get it, sir," Nick said.

"Stop calling me 'sir,'" Roger said. "This isn't the military."

"My understanding was that I was selected because I don't have any close family," Nick said. "So it won't matter if I am, as you say, dead in that other timeline."

"You will no longer exist in that timeline," Roger said.

"But I'll be back in this one," Nick said. "Why does it matter?"

Roger noticed his hands had curled into fists. He hated resorting to this, but he took a deep breath and asked, "Have you seen Back to the Future, Part 2?"

Nick blinked. "Was that the one in the Old West?"

"No, that was the third one." Roger opened a cabinet behind him, took out a DVD, and passed it across the table to Nick. "That's your homework. There's a scene in which Doc Brown draws a diagram on a blackboard—" Roger shook his head. "Just go home and watch that tonight. Be back here at nine o'clock sharp. You'll get the rest of your briefing then."

Nick took the DVD and left the conference room. Roger rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.

A minute later, Project Director Alex Yarrow walked by, holding a coffee mug.

"Where's the new guy?" Alex asked.

"I sent him home with the damn movie," Roger said. "Tell me again why we're using jarheads as travelers?"

Alex grumbled. "Because my brother's a genius with technology and an idiot when it comes to politics."



Image: Back to the Future 25th Anniversary by Graham Coreil-Allen, October, 2010

"Scrying is Believing"

SCRYING IS BELIEVING
By Curtis C. Chen

"We're in hostile waters, less than a hundred miles from shore," I heard the Captain saying as I climbed up the ladder into the conning tower. "Anything goes wrong here and we're fucked."

He was talking to Lieutenant Markey. Roseler was already here, crowded into the tight space around the periscope. I wedged myself into a corner next to the Captain and COB.

"This will be a one-way scry," Markey said. She might actually have looked better in trousers than a skirt.

"And why does Rosebud have to do the spell?" COB asked.

"Seaman Roseler is doing the easy part," Markey said. "Because he doesn't have a focus object, I'll need to anchor the far end of the scrying tunnel."

COB did a double-take. "You're going to be his crystal ball?"

Markey sighed. "Captain? We can discuss the finer points of remote viewing instruments, or we can get this done."

"All right," the Captain said. "Carry on, Lieutenant."

I transcribed our coordinates and helped Roseler incorporate Markey's signature into his spell. A few minutes later, they were facing each other and holding hands, their eyes closed as Roseler incanted his scrying spell.

Next to me, the Captain muttered, "I'll be glad when we're done with all this black magic bullshit."

"Yes, sir," I said.

He glanced at me. "Your family have talent, Seaman?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir." It was a lie.

"Thank fucking God," COB said, on my other side. "Give me science and engineering any day of the week."

"You know Markey wanted to go outside at first?" the Captain said. "Said she could make an air bubble. Wanted to climb out the forward escape trunk and, quote, 'have a look around.' "

"Crazy fucking dame," COB said.

I bit my tongue.

"Told her that was not going to happen," the Captain said. "I mean, something goes wrong, fucking air bubble pops, and my damn boat's flooding. We didn't come all this way to drown in—"

Roseler started screaming. It came suddenly, without even an intake of breath, and the sound was barely human. I dropped my clipboard and covered my ears.

"Get the doctor!" Markey shouted. Roseler was convulsing now. "Gray! Help me hold him down!"

The Captain leaned down the ladder and yelled for the doctor. I jumped across and grabbed Roseler's shoulders. His eyes had rolled back into his head. He was still screaming. His legs kicked around as Markey did her best to restrain them.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" COB asked.

"He made contact!" Markey said. "Dammit, Chief, you didn't tell me he was a reader!"

"A what?"

"A sensitive! Low-grade esper, possible clairvoyant!"

"How the fuck were we supposed to know?" COB said. "This is a Navy submarine, not a damn witches' coven—"

Markey stood up and whirled so fast, even the Chief flinched.

"You use that word again," she said, "and I will have your stripes. Understood, Chief?"

I could see COB barely holding back a sneer. "Understood, Lieutenant."



Image: down periscope by kosheahan, April, 2008

"Making Waves"

MAKING WAVES
By Curtis C. Chen

"You check those corners, sailor?" the Chief of the Boat barked. "Those lines are off by half a degree and our visitor doesn't materialize!"

"Re-measuring now, Chief!" I replied, and placed my protractor on the deck again.

I knew COB was exaggerating, but I'd learned early in my naval career not to argue with anyone who outranked me. If it wasn't likely to kill me, I just did it.

After re-checking all the angles on both pentagrams and making sure they lined up, floor to ceiling, I stepped out of the circle and reported my progress.

"Very well," COB grumbled. "Rosebud!"

The Seaman's real name was Roseler, but after that RKO flick, everyone called him "Rosebud" as a tease. He jumped forward, holding his clipboard. I did my best to get out of the way. COB's quarters weren't exactly spacious.

"You got the incantations there?" COB asked Roseler.

"Aye, sir!" Roseler said, his voice cracking. And people said I sounded like a girl.

"Corrected for position, depth, and speed?"

"Aye, sir! I've got the math right here—"

COB waved the clipboard away. "I can't read your damn chicken scratches! Just make sure you're doing it right!"

Roseler looked like he might cry. "M-maybe you'd like to do it yourself, Chief?"

"Do I look like a motherfucking magician?" COB roared into Roseler's face. Their noses couldn't have been more than half an inch apart. "Now incant that fucking spell so we can receive our goddamn visitor!"

"Aye, sir!" Roseler buried his face in the clipboard. I had one hand on my belt, ready to deliver a kidney-punch as soon as I heard a mispronunciation. I didn't want to be on this boat if anything went wrong with a teleport.

"Sometime this year, sailor!" COB shouted.

"Aye, sir!" Roseler stood up straight. "Hagitaa! Moro-ven-schaa! Inlumtaa..."

Both pentagrams pulsed blue and white. Roseler finished the incantation, only going a little flat on the last syllable, and a pillar of light flashed into being between the two circles. A moment later, the light faded, and I saw an officer standing in the pentagram, wearing... a skirt?

"Permission to come aboard, Chief?" the woman said.

She looked about my mother's age, and she wore lieutenant's bars and the most perfect makeup I'd ever seen. But the expression on her face, and the fact that she'd just teleported onto a submerged attack boat in the South Pacific, told me she wasn't here to entertain anyone.

"Permission granted, ma'am!" COB said. "Sorry the Captain couldn't be here to greet you. We're playing hide and seek with some Japs."

As if on cue, the entire boat groaned and rolled to starboard. I was impressed that the lieutenant managed to keep her balance in those heels.

COB shoved Roseler and me back. "If you'll follow me, ma'am?"

The lieutenant looked at the pentagrams. "You're not going to clean this up?"

"These two can handle—"

"You secure those surfaces, Chief," the lieutenant snapped. She looked straight at me. "Seaman Gray can show me to the bridge."



Image: USS Ohio (SSGN 726) in dry dock, January, 2004

"Have Spacesuit, Will Travel"

HAVE SPACESUIT, WILL TRAVEL
By Curtis C. Chen

"Don't tell me how to fly!" Angel said. "I know how to fly."

"You know how to play video games." Carolyn's voice crackled through the helmet radio. "There's a difference."

Angel nudged the throttle with her right index finger. "Just give me a map reading, okay? We don't have a lot of time."

"Almost clear," Carolyn said. "Another fifty meters, then turn forty-five degrees up."

"Pitch," Angel corrected.

"Why do I need to learn made-up words when I can just say 'turn?' " Carolyn asked. "I gotta tell you which way to go anyhow."

"We'll have this argument later," Angel said. "Pitching up, four-five degrees, now."

She pulled back on the vertical stick with her left thumb. Her view changed from the gentle curve of the habitat ring to the angular mess of the cargo docks.

"Okay, I'm lined up." Angel brought up the HUD overlay in her helmet. "Range painting on. Where am I going?"

"Straight ahead of you, two lanes in. Bay ninety-five. The ship is all the way at the end."

Before Angel could ask whether that was the spaceward or homeward end of the lane, an alarm started blaring, and blinking red lights lit up her HUD.

"What's wrong?" Carolyn shouted.

"Wait one," Angel said.

She felt remarkably calm as she worked both joysticks and pressed lightly on the triggers to change her thrust vector. Carolyn was right: it wasn't anything like a video game. Angel felt the backpack rockets pushing against her body as they fired, three different arrows of force joining to shove her out of the way of the approaching freighter.

It wasn't until she was safely out of the lane that Angel felt her hands shaking and her stomach fluttering. All sorts of audio and visual alerts filled her helmet, now that she'd exceeded speed limits in controlled traffic space, but all she heard was the blood rushing past her ears—until her mother's voice pierced the noise.

"Angel Daria Chace!" She did not sound happy. "What in the name of all that's holy are you doing out there?"

"I'm helping Granma," Angel said, braking and re-angling herself toward the target ship.

"Did you steal that spacesuit? And—what?" Her mother paused. "Angel! Did you take your grandmother's ashes?"

"She wanted to be buried in space." Angel slowed her approach, then slapped the magnetic case containing her grandmother's ashes onto the side of a cargo container. "I'm sending her into the Sun."

"Angel, you get back inside right now! And where is your sister?"

The suit radio buzzed, and a new voice filled the helmet. "Unidentified pilot, this is Galen Traffic Control. Please stop maneuvering inside restricted space and meet dock authorities at airlock three-nine. Repeat..."

Angel's face hurt from smiling so much. She'd never been called a pilot before.

"...additional," the controller continued. "Please hold at airlock three-nine for the captain of that freighter who almost pancaked you. He says he 'wants to meet any cowboy who can dance like that in a three-pointed tin can.' "



Image: Soviet spacesuit (with MMU) at Evergreen Aviation Museum, October, 2010

"HauntFAIL"

HAUNTFAIL
By Curtis C. Chen

I sensed the vibration—what would have been sound if I'd still had ears—but couldn't tell what was happening. Ten years since I died, and I still couldn't see through walls. Freaking annoying.

"Frank!" I called down the corridor. "What's happening in there?"

There was no way to tell if he had received my proj. The vibration was gone now; it had been a sudden, short shockwave rippling through the air of the alien ship. I wished I'd studied more about acoustics. Had that been a door? Something falling to the deck?

"Frank!" I called again, more energetically this time. Maybe the alien ship material was dampening our projes?

I considered leaving my post at the opening to the ventilation shaft. Whether or not I was guarding this square hole wasn't going to make or break the operation. We knew the aliens couldn't see us. If they could, they would have landed right next to one of our camps, or done something besides just sit around in their ship for days.

There were, like, ten different vent shafts that led into the main corridor of the ship. Other ghosts had done the recon and mapped this whole place out already. Even if we got jammed up here, we could fly out one of the other openings. Me waiting around when Frank might need help was stupid.

I nudged myself sideways, drifting over to the intersection so I could see down the adjoining corridor. As soon as I cleared the corner, I saw Frank barreling toward me, his normally soft glow spiked with pinpoints of fear.

"Run!" he shouted at me. "Get out of the—"

Behind him, two aliens charged into the corridor. They didn't look like I expected. I knew from others' descriptions that they were lizard-like humanoids, but their heads looked really bulbous and shiny. Then I realized they were wearing helmets. And body armor.

One of the aliens held up a device, a flat disk with a short handle. The disk was translucent, and it glowed with moving lines and symbols, like a radar lollipop.

He—she?—said something to the other alien, who hefted a long tube with bumps all along the side, buttons on top, two handles on the bottom, and a long flat extension in the back which rested on the alien's shoulder. It couldn't have been anything but a weapon.

The first alien shouted something, and the second alien fired. I saw a small projectile emerge from the front of the rifle, moving much slower than I had expected. Was that a wire trailing behind it?

Then the projectile exploded, creating an energy bloom nearly five feet across and causing a thunderclap like the one I'd heard before. It actually hurt for me to sense it. It radiated all across the EM spectrum, and as I watched, it set the air—the atmosphere itself—on fire and burned through Frank's sphere, tearing his energy apart. He proj'd out something I couldn't understand. Then he was gone.

I ran.



Image: Ghost by Elizabeth Thomsen, October, 2006

"Bridge and Tunnel"

BRIDGE AND TUNNEL
By Curtis C. Chen

They both heard the news at the same time, but they reacted differently.

Jantenava jumped up, grabbed her commlink, and went into the bathroom. Richard stayed in bed—he was light-years away from his own people, and the bridge wouldn't open for another hour—and watched the rest of the report on the hotel room holoscreen.

When the news switched to another story, Richard muted the screen and listened to Jantenava's muffled voice through the bathroom door. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but he could tell she was tense.

The door opened and Jantenava emerged, wearing a robe. She dropped her commlink on the desk, then sat down next to Richard.

"I had to check in with my office," she said. "The news always gets something wrong."

"And?" Richard asked.

"Steiner-Wagner solved the rolling horizon problem." Jantenava stared at the screen, her eyes unfocused. "They just released all their test data, and they're setting up a public demonstration in two days."

"So." Richard watched her finger tap an uneven rhythm on the blanket. "Faster-than-light spacecraft."

"Yeah."

"I guess you're going back to work today."

Jantenava turned off the screen. "We're both going to be pretty busy." She stood up and went to the closet.

"So that's it?" Richard asked.

Jantenava gave him a blank look. "What?"

Richard stood up, wrapping a blanket around his midsection. "You and me. Us. This."

"You'll have to be more specific."

Had her eyes always been so dark? "Do we have a future together, Jan?"

She fidgeted with her clothes. "These energy administration meetings might still continue."

"Nobody will want to use an interplanetary bridge that only opens twice a day when they can hop on an FTL ship at any time."

"They won't be cheap," Jantenava said. "And both our planets will keep using the bridge for cargo transport—"

"It's only a matter of time. Spacecraft are more versatile, and they don't draw power from the planetary grid. The bridge is already obsolete." Richard suddenly felt cold. "So what happens to us?"

"What do you want me to say? I don't have an answer for you, Richard. I didn't want this to end." She gestured around the hotel room. "But maybe this is all we ever had."

"You don't believe that."

"What else can it be?" Jantenava shook her head. "Neither of us is going to quit our jobs. Managing the bridge was a nice excuse for us to get together, but we have other responsibilities. You've got the microwave net coming online next month. I'm overseeing a dozen different solar projects."

"We can figure it out." Richard put a hand on her shoulder. "Just tell me you want to make this work."

Jantenava looked at him with sad eyes. "I don't know." She pulled her clothes out of the closet. "We both need some time to think."

She went back into the bathroom and closed the door. Richard looked around the well-appointed room. He stood there for a moment, cold and alone, then slowly started getting dressed.



Image: Wormhole to Pudong; Shanghai, December, 2011