"Coffee is for Closers"

COFFEE IS FOR CLOSERS
By Curtis C. Chen

Every morning in the MAGIC division offered a renewed opportunity for novel and ever more unpleasant surprises sprung on us by our fearless leader, Lieutenant Sheryl Markey. Today was no exception.

We had all gathered in the main bullpen, a large, open area populated by a grid-like arrangement of desks and ringed by filing cabinets, teletype machines, and scrying planes. Daisy, Markey's personal secretary, had set up a slide projector and screen. Someone flipped the light switch at the back of the room, and a grainy black-and-white image of several long pieces of wood and a tarnished blade appeared beside Markey.

"Who can tell me what this is?" she asked.

Beside me, Cook raised his hand before I could tell him not to.

"Mister Cook," Markey said, pointing at the overeager young soldier. I had to imagine he was even younger than I was. And I wasn't actually old enough to drink in some states.

"That's the Spear of Destiny," Cook said, his voice high-pitched from excitement. "Also known as the Holy Lance. It's the weapon used by the Roman Centurion Longinus to pierce Jesus' side as he hung on the cross during his Crucifixion. It's said to possess mystical powers, and the Nazis are fixated on finding it because they think it'll help them take over the world."

Markey nodded, pointed at the screen, and said, "This is complete bullshit."

Cook's face contorted, and I swear he shrank by a good two inches in height.

"The Nazis would like us to believe that they're obsessed with the occult," Markey continued, her voice bellowing across the room. "They want us to think they're chasing wild geese, so we'll spend our own resources trying to beat them to find some mythical artifact that supposedly has the power to destroy and/or conquer the world. But I say again, this is bullshit."

She flicked a finger against the screen, making the projected image ripple like a wavering scry. "The so-called 'Spear of Destiny' is a piece of wood that was stuck to a piece of metal, and it's probably rotting in pieces underground somewhere in the Middle East," Markey said. "It has no magical powers. It is not a powerful artifact. Who can tell me how we know this?"

I wanted to raise my hand, I really did. I had heard Markey do some version of this speech several times since my transfer to OSS/MAGIC, and I knew what was coming next. But I had no illusions about the purpose of this little oratory.

This was not about Markey having some kind of Socratic dialogue with her team; this was about her establishing her absolute authority and unquestionable expertise. This was about her making it clear to everyone in the room that she had not been made head of this division because of her looks, but because she was a damn fine leader. And also to demonstrate that she had forgotten more about sorcery than most of us would ever know.



Image: Roman Soldier by Andrew Becraft, June, 2008

"Five for Fighting"

FIVE FOR FIGHTING
By Curtis C. Chen

Gottlieb checked his watch again. "Can't you work any faster?"

"I thought faster was his job." Caitlin nodded at Herman while continuing to pelt the computer keyboard with her fingertips.

"You'll tell me if there's a problem, right?"

"Sure."

Herman paced on the other side of the console, a man-shaped blur streaking back and forth across the room. In the far corner, underneath a metal stump, Paul cradled the remains of a security camera.

"You okay, Paul?"

Paul didn't look up. "I couldn't feel it. No pain. Nothing. It didn't even break the skin."

"The presentation is unusual," Gottlieb said. "But interactions between your gene therapy and these implant drugs are poorly documented—"

Paul flattened the camera between both palms, then let the metal pancake fall to the ground with a clatter.

"I was supposed to be strong. Not indestructible." He looked at Gottlieb. "They're never going to let me go, are they?"

"Paul—"

Gottlieb's earpiece chirped. "Escape route looks clear, Doc," Alex said.

"Okay, get back here." Gottlieb had failed to discourage Alex from running off by herself, and failed to convince Herman to follow her into the ventilation ducts.

"In a minute. Something else I want to check out," Alex said.

"We're on a schedule here, Alex," Gottlieb said. "And we have very specific mission parameters."

"Listen to you. 'Mission parameters?' I'm becoming aroused."

Caitlin snickered. Gottlieb ignored her. "Alex, I don't feel you're taking this seriously."

"It's a simulation," Alex said. "And we're doing great. Nothing here we can't handle."

"They're not just evaluating your physical skills," Gottlieb said. "They want to know if we can function as a team. And so far, we're failing spectacularly."

"What are you talking about?" Alex said. "We're like clockwork. Took out all the cameras in less than three seconds—"

"Paul went on a rampage," Gottlieb said. "And now he's freaking out because he's stronger than we expected. You rushed off before we cleared the room, Herman refused to go with you because he's claustrophobic, and I have no idea what Caitlin is doing."

The teenager smiled up at him. "I'm in your computer, hackin' your datas."

Gottlieb shook his head. "General Schumann doesn't think I can lead the four of you in the field."

"You've got other talents, Doc," Alex said.

"You're missing the point. If I can't convince Schumann that I can supervise this team, he's going to find someone else. Is that what you want? Some jarhead barking orders at you?"

Silence. Gottlieb allowed himself a triumphant nod.

"Jarheads are Marines," Alex said.

Gottlieb frowned. "What?"

"Schumann's an Army General," Alex said.

"She's right," Herman said. "My brother's in the Army. He'd be deeply offended if you called him a jarhead."

"I guess 'grunt' would be more appropriate?" Alex said.

"Or just 'soldier,'" Herman said.

"'Doughboy,'" Caitlin offered.

Paul said, "I've also heard 'dogface.'"

Gottlieb threw up his hands. "Really? This is what we need to discuss right now?"

"Hey, you get upset when people call you Mister Gottlieb," Alex said. "Words hurt too, Doc."



Image: broken cameras 2 by punkrockdiva, May, 2009

"I'll Fly Away"

I'LL FLY AWAY
By Curtis C. Chen

Traveling inside the beetle wasn't as bad as Kari had feared it might be. Her helmet's video display and stereophones helped distract her from the fact that she was sealed inside the abdomen of a giant alien insect, and her drysuit insulated her from the bodily fluids circulating around her. After finding some music with a beat that matched the creature's pulse, Kari could almost pretend she was on the sleeper ship again, dozing in a liquid gel and not quite dreaming.

When Kari had asked her mother why the colony wanted to send a seventeen-year-old girl to a mining outpost, Ada had replied, "I can't tell you that."

"Let me guess," Kari had said, "you can't tell me because I'm too young to have proper clearance."

"No," Ada had said. "They won't tell me because I don't have clearance. But this comes directly from the Prime Minister."

So Kari had packed up her laptop and been very proud of herself for not freaking out as the techs put her inside the body of a live animal. None of the colony's available materials could withstand more than a few seconds of exposure to the planet's corrosive atmosphere without disintegrating. For now, the beetles were the only way to move people between habitats.

Her beetle lurched, and Kari paused her music and heard muffled voices. Then there was a long, loud hissing noise—an airlock purge cycle. After that, more voices, some tapping, and finally the abdomen opened and Kari fell onto the floor of a decontamination chamber.

The techs hosed off and removed her travel gear, then one of them led her to the mining operations control room. A stocky bald man greeted Kari and introduced himself as Foreman Welzer.

"They tell you what's going on here?" Welzer asked.

"No," Kari said. "Just that Prime Minister Kalmun wanted me specifically."

"Synthetic diamond," Welzer said. "You wrote up a new manufacturing procedure for your lab. We haven't been able to get it working here. We'd like you to take a look."

Kari frowned. "I documented a mass-production program. How much diamond do you need for hydro-location?"

"Water-finding was last week." Welzer tapped some keys, and a three-dimensional radar image appeared above his console. "Now we're a rescue operation."

Kari didn't understand all the labels, but she recognized one of the shapes. "Is that—" she started to ask. "That's impossible."

"Not impossible," Welzer said. "Just very bad luck."

"That's a jumpship!"

"Yep." Welzer pointed at the back of the spacecraft. "Engine section materialized inside solid rock, two hundred meters below us. We've got intermittent radio contact; eighty-nine crew are still alive, with maybe two days of oxygen left. We're drilling as fast as we can, but our equipment was never designed for this."

Kari's mouth felt dry. "So eighty-nine people are going to die in two days if I can't help you make more drill bits."

Welzer smiled. "Your mom said you were a quick study."

"My mother exaggerates." Kari hefted her backpack. "Where's your printer?"



Image: Beetleface by Rob and Stephanie Levy, December, 2008

"By Any Other Name"

BY ANY OTHER NAME
By Curtis C. Chen

They met, accidentally, in the elevator. It was a three-minute ride down from the board room level to the forty-seventh floor, and Julia and Mary were the only people who entered the car—first Julia, studying her tablet and oblivious to her surroundings, then Mary a few seconds later, doing the same.

Neither one noticed the other until it would have been too awkward for either to leave. The doors timed out and closed, and Julia sighed and touched the panel to start their descent.

They stared at their warped reflections in the closed doors until Mary couldn't stand the silence any more.

"Good board meeting?" she asked.

"Good enough," Julia said. "What were you doing up there?"

"Design group confab. Needed to use the holodeck."

"Could you please not call it that."

Mary turned to look at Julia. "Why don't you like my work?"

Julia frowned and glanced at Mary without moving her head. "I don't have a problem with your work, Mary. But we named it the Holographic Visualization Chamber for good reasons, not the least of which is avoiding a Hollywood lawsuit."

"And everybody calls it 'the holodeck' anyway." Mary edged between Julia and the doors, practically daring the other woman to meet her gaze. "Because that's what it is. And come on, 'HOVIC' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."

"We need a unique name to copyright," Julia said, still not moving. "A descriptive name that tells people all over the world what it does, and doesn't sound offensive or ridiculous in any known language. Do you have any idea how much research goes into this?"

"Last time I checked, this company was sitting on ten billion dollars in cash," Mary said. "Why don't we just buy the 'holodeck' name from Paramount?"

Julia turned ever so slightly to face Mary. "First of all, they would never sell. It's like a patent. Once you get it, you never let it go; the most you ever do is license it for a short but renewable period.

"And second, if we went to them with that kind of proposal, they would—if you'll pardon my language—bend us over the conference table and screw us like a cheap whore." Julia narrowed her eyes. "Asking for something is a show of weakness. Asking means you want. And want can be used as leverage.

"That's why neither of us walked out of this elevator, even though we didn't want to be trapped in here with each other. Leaving would have told the other person we didn't want to bear the uncomfortable silence. And that knowledge could be used against us later—an annoyance, a threat, even an outright attack. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand," Mary said, stepping back.

"Good." Julia nodded authoritatively. "That's all."

Mary folded her arms. "Geez, Mom, the uncomfortable silence would have been preferable."

The corner of Julia's mouth twitched. "You started it."

Mary smiled in spite of herself. "Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

By the time the doors opened on forty-seven, both women were laughing uproariously.



Image: lock screen by bobbyhywd, April, 2010

If the Zombie Apocalypse Comes, Tweet Me

(With apologies to Joss Whedon.)

Last Friday's flash fiction story, "Welcome to PDX," was part of the Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a weekend-long online fiction event organized by Erin Underwood. You can see other writers' contributions tagged #zombieapoc2012 on Twitter, and linked from the info page at Underwords.



You can read the rest of my story in the form of blog posts from our cats, Tye and Jasper, over at CKL's HotSheet. Here's a handy chronological index (each link should open in a new window):

0. 512 Words or Fewer: "Welcome to PDX"
1. Jasper blog: "There goes the neighborhood!"
2. Tye blog: "why are there so many STRANGERS here today"
3. Jasper blog: "I am very hungry!"
4. Tye blog: "departure means SNACK and that's GOOD"
5. Jasper blog: "Humans are weird!"
6. Tye blog: "so BORED"
7. Jasper blog: "This bathroom is too small for three cats!"
8. Tye blog: "the FOOD is coming"
9. Jasper blog: "Some cats are too excitable!"
10. Tye blog: "some cats are LAME"
11. Jasper blog: "Why are humans so noisy!"
12. Tye blog: "it's NOT NICE to cry wolf"

Finally, don't worry: this was an entirely fictional zombie apocalypse. No humans, cats, or food robots were injured over the weekend, and Jasper and Tye continue to co-exist mostly in peace with Lady Grey (shown below)--who is, by the way, still up for adoption. Contact us if you know someone who'd like to give her a good home!

"Welcome to PDX"

WELCOME TO PDX
By Curtis C. Chen

"Just to be clear on this," Laura said, "I am not shooting a dog."

Maryellen stopped walking into the next darkened corridor and lowered her service weapon. "You do remember what that body looked like back there, right? And you understand we've still got two baggage handlers locked in here with the missing animal?"

"Don't say 'animal,'" Laura said. "That dog is someone's pet. It's not her fault her carrier got banged open by a clumsy airline worker. Poor thing's probably scared out of her mind. All I'm saying is we should go non-lethal."

"That TSA guy was missing half his fucking neck," Maryellen said. "'Contract incurable disease' was not on my list of fun things to do this week."

"We don't know that the dog has rabies."

"You think a normal poodle did that kind of damage to Rocky Balboa back there?"

Laura sighed. "I really don't want to do the paperwork on another police-involved shooting this month."

Maryellen snorted. "Welcome to Portland."

A short, sharp bark sounded ahead of them. Maryellen raised her Glock and clicked her flashlight on, bracing it underneath her weapon.

"At least let me go first," Laura said, hefting her pepper spray canister.

"Fine," Maryellen said. "But Fifi's not taking a bite out of me. You see movement, you spray the bitch."

Laura moved into the corridor. About six feet forward, there was an open door and a dark red smear on the ground.

"Got blood here!" Laura called. She kicked the door open all the way, then jumped back and flattened herself against the far wall of the corridor, shining her flashlight into the space. "Supply closet—shit."

"What?" Maryellen ran to her partner. "Another body?"

"Yeah." Laura crouched in the doorway. "I think we found Fifi."

Maryellen made a face. Something had eaten through the dog's midsection, and the corpse looked like two canine halves joined by a contorted bit of spine.

"Jesus," Maryellen said. "We got two rabid animals?"

"I told you we should have waited for MCAS," Laura said, moving her light up to the dog's head. "Huh. This is weird."

"What?"

"Look at her mouth." Laura pointed. "No blood."

Maryellen frowned. "If this is the missing pooch, and she didn't chew up TSA back there—"

A clanging noise echoed down the corridor, and both officers jumped to their feet. A metal drum clattered against the wall. Two human-shaped silhouettes swayed in the distance, slapping at each other.

"Hello!" Laura called. "Portland PD. Who's there?"

The silhouettes stopped moving, groaned, then started shuffling toward Laura and Maryellen.

"Goddammit." Laura drew her firearm. "I say again, Portland Police! Identify yourselves, please!"

The groaning and shuffling continued. One of the silhouettes moved into a pool of fluorescent light, revealing a sallow face whose bottom half was covered with blood and fur.

"Okay," Maryellen said, "can we shoot these motherfuckers?"

Laura took a breath, then cocked her weapon. "What the hell. It's only a little paperwork."

THE STORY CONTINUES ELSEWHERE...





Did you enjoy this blog post? Check out more stories by Curtis C. Chen!

Image: fedex by Dustin Brice, March, 2008

"A Hitch in Time"

A HITCH IN TIME
By Curtis C. Chen

"Remember," Stacy said, "there's no guarantee the beacons will be transmitting. Wait two minutes, then switch to your compass."

"And if I can't find magnetic north, look for the Sun," Andrew said.

"And if you can't see the Sun?" The last probe had come back pitted all over, as if it had been through a dust storm.

"I sit and wait." Andrew tested his helmet spotlights. "Sixteen hours of air, thirty minutes emergency OPS."

Stacy plugged her diagnostic wand into Andrew's backpack. "PLSS is good to go. You have the weapon?"

Andrew held up the pistol. "Gotta tell you, feels weird to be wearing a spacesuit and carrying a gun."

"It's a last resort." Stacy went back to her console. "We've tested the darts. They will penetrate a suit, but he won't lose much air."

The self-sealing suit material should also protect Andrew against dust storms. She trusted that he would abort if he started losing air. Don't turn one victim into two: that was the first lesson of search and rescue.

"How strong is this tranquilizer?" Andrew asked.

"Don't take chances. Hit him at least three times. Aim for his legs."

"Bigger arteries?"

"So he won't be able to run."

Andrew chuckled. "You're all heart, Professor."

Stacy's console chirped. She opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe. "Portal's fully charged. Ready to go?"

Andrew pulled open the med-port on the left shoulder of his suit. "You ever going to tell me what happened to those mice?"

Stacy shook her head. When Bobby hadn't returned from his mission, the lab had sent several probes containing mice. The animals had reacted badly, coming back highly agitated and all having injured themselves—some fatally. Then someone had suggested sedatives. Sleeping through the actual transit seemed to be the answer.

She had no idea how the displacement event had affected Bobby's waking mind, but she hoped he was still alive. She hoped she wasn't also sending Andrew into delirium and death.

"I'll send you the report when you get back," Stacy said. "It's got pictures. Your kids will love it."

Andrew laughed. "You married, Professor?"

Stacy frowned. "You're married."

Andrew shook his head. "I just hate to think nobody is enjoying the pleasure of your company every night."

Stacy wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Did you just pay me a compliment, Major?"

Andrew smiled. "I'll tell you when I get back."

Stacy shrugged. "Ready?"

Andrew nodded. "Let's do this."

Stacy attached the syringe to his med-port and pushed the plunger in. Andrew blinked. "Okay, that's working... fast..."

"Sit down." Stacy helped him into the chair. Andrew's helmet clanged against the metal headrest, and he started snoring.

Stacy looked at his face. "Please come back."

She went back to her console and tapped the controls. Thin red lasers lit up and intersected at the center of the invisible event horizon. Stacy pushed another button. The motors in the floor pushed Andrew's chair forward, to the other side of the room, and through the portal into the future.



Image: A Hitch in Time by Steve Jurvetson, January, 2011

"Dying on Mars"

DYING ON MARS
By Curtis C. Chen

I wake up when the rover jolts to a stop at the edge of Robinson Crater. Its front wheels are caught on a ridge of shattered basalt. Geologists believe this plain was created by a volcanic lava flow, the same one which also buried the ancient Martian city.

No human has ever been this close. I'm not supposed to be here, either. I'm supposed to be back in the colony hab, waiting for NASA to send more medical supplies.

Like hell. I know I'm dying. Nothing can stop that now.

There's no clear path from here to the city. I line myself up with the least rocky slope I can see leading to the nearest exposed metal spire, sit down, and slide off the ridge.

The uneven surface rattles my teeth as I scrape my way down into the crater. I drop over an outcropping and fall a good three meters, landing on a small boulder. Something tears in my right knee. I start tumbling. The world becomes a blur of red dirt and a cacophony of scraping noises until a loud crack stops everything.

Now I'm lying on my side, my helmet impacted against the silver spire. Oxygen hisses through the fractures. I can't feel my legs.

I don't have much time.

I twist off my helmet. Cold Martian air rushes in, and fine Martian dust tickles my skin. I open my mouth to exhale. My saliva boils in the thin atmosphere. No human being has ever felt this before.

My father's penknife is the only personal item I brought with me to Mars. I had the blade cleaned and sharpened before launch. My gloved fingers are too bulky to reach into my pressure suit's pockets. I yank off the gloves and pull out the knife. Capillaries burst beneath my skin, the blood inside overheated by naked sunlight.

I hold the knife with both hands, steady myself, and slash the blade against the ancient Martian spire.

Nothing.

The shimmering silver surface remains completely smooth, unmarred by either the molten rock which congealed around it millennia ago or the asteroid impact that unearthed it or my feeble attempt to vandalize it just now.

The knife falls to the ground. I can't hear myself laugh, though I feel my chest shaking. Stupid idea. My right hand makes a fist, but I think better of it before throwing the punch, and instead smack my palm against the spire.

The metal feels warm.

Is it my imagination, or does this thing feel like it's moving—vibrating?

If the atmosphere was thicker, would I hear noise? Music?

Voices?

My eyes are watering from all the dust in the air. The poisonous atmosphere burns my lungs. My right arm starts going numb at the shoulder. Something aches at the base of my skull.

None of that matters.

I put both of my bare hands on the spire, feel its quivering warmth in my bones, and smile.

The sun is setting, and its golden reflection off the spire blinds me. I close my eyes.



Image: Dissecting the Scene of Sky Crane Crash by NASA/JPL-Caltech/Univ. of Arizona, September, 2012