"Introducing Kangaroo"

INTRODUCING KANGAROO
By Curtis C. Chen

"Come on, DAD would be a great code name for you."

He gave me the look that said he wasn't in the mood for jokes. Actually, he was almost never in the mood for jokes—unless he was making them—but this was the look that really meant business. This was the look that threatened physical harm if I continued down this path.

So, of course, I kept pushing.

"You know," I said, "because you're such a father figure to me. Right? Except nobody else would know that. So it's super easy for us to remember, but completely opaque to anybody else."

He stared at me for another long moment, then said, "Are you planning to be this idiotic during the meeting?"

"That is my plan, yes."

"You do understand what's at stake here."

I could hear his voice switching into lecture mode. "Yeah, I do, but why don't you remind me again, in excruciating detail."

He touched the controls on the back of the driver's seat, and the clear partition between us and the vehicle's front compartment darkened. At the same time, the outside road noise became muffled as the active suppression systems engaged. Even in a secure agency vehicle, one could never be too careful about eavesdroppers.

"This meeting is going to decide the disposition of your entire future," he said. "After today, you're either going to be a lab rat or a field agent. And only one of those occupations offers a halfway normal life."

"I have no chance at a normal life," I said. "I have a superpower, remember?"

"I said halfway normal," he said. "Science Division will not blink at locking you away for weeks of testing at a time. They won't even think of you as a human being. All they want is to figure out how to replicate your ability, either technologically or biologically. And if they have to trade your life for that knowledge, they will feel absolutely no remorse about it."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," I said. "But how does doing field missions at your beck and call improve my life expectancy?"

"I'm not saying you'll live any longer. It's quite possible you'll make a rookie mistake your first time out and get killed within minutes of infiltration."

I studied his face to see if he was attempting to make a joke. He wasn't.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said.

"Even the best agents can be brought down by stupid mistakes or plain old bad luck. It's nothing personal, KANGAROO," he said.

"And another thing," I said. "Can we talk about changing my stupid code name?"

"What's wrong with KANGAROO?"

I squinted at him. "You do realize that only female kangaroos have pouches, right?"

He stared back at me. "What's your point?"

I was certain he was joking now, but his face betrayed nothing.



Image: Rude kangaroo! by Tambako The Jaguar, July, 2010

"The Old Switcheroo"

THE OLD SWITCHEROO
By Curtis C. Chen

On the fourth day of my captivity aboard U-216, it finally occurred to me to ask Sato something that I should have thought of much earlier.

"What do the Americans think happened to their teleport?"

He paused his work and wiped his hands with a rag. "They believe you are dead."

Maybe he expected me to be satisfied with that, but I needed to know exactly how they were working this con. "Why would they think that, if they received nothing on their end of the teleport?"

Sato shook his head. "They did not receive nothing. They received ashes."

I wasn't sure I had heard him right. "Did you say 'ashes'?"

He reached underneath his work bench and pulled out a small locker. When I saw what was inside it, I felt sick.

Sato opened the locker and took out a bundle wrapped in what looked like cheesecloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a glass container filled with a thick gray powder, speckled with shards of white.

"Ashes," Sato said quietly. "Human remains."

I sat very still, determined not to vomit. I didn't need to ask Sato where the Nazis were getting human remains; I knew about their concentration camps, and I knew most of their prisoners didn't make it out alive.

I had heard stories about teleports going wrong. It was supposed to be exceedingly rare; usually, a teleport was an all-or-nothing proposition—either it worked or it didn't. But every once in a blue moon, a teleport damaged or killed the person being transported.

It didn't make any sense, given what we knew of teleportation, but then again, we didn't actually know how teleportation worked in the first place. We just knew that these symbols and these incantations combined would cause this effect. Sato's work was the first methodical experimentation I'd seen in this area of sorcery.

It did seem a bit appalling that people had been using this magic for centuries without understanding how it actually worked, but then again, we'd been setting things on fire since prehistoric times without knowing how combustion worked. Sometimes it didn't matter, as long as you got the result you wanted.

So it would have been shocking, but perhaps not too surprising, for my compatriots back at OSS to have received a pile of ashes instead of my living self. We had known that there were Nazi sorcerers in Rome. There would be nothing conclusive, of course, so my death wouldn't dissuade OSS from continuing to teleport when they needed to. Losing one person once in a very great while was nothing compared to the convenience and security of being able to place a spy anywhere you wanted in the blink of an eye.

"So they believe I am dead," I said. "They will not try to find me."

"Yes," Sato said, putting away the jar. "This means you are safe. You are free."

No, I thought, this means nobody's coming to rescue me. I'm on my own.

I was going to escape. The only questions were how, and when.



Image: To Ashes by Julian Kliner, April, 2012

"Food for Thought"

FOOD FOR THOUGHT
By Curtis C. Chen

I have never actually liked Japanese cuisine that much. I've never even been to Japan. I was born and raised a Hawaiian girl, so my favorite dishes involve pineapple and pork and sweet bread.

I hoped my straight face held as I watched Sato fill a bowl with steamed rice, dark green seaweed, and yellow chunks of—carrot? I hoped I would be able to choke it all down.

Sato presented the food to me with a slight bow, as if it were some kind of great gift. I bowed back at him, took the bowl, and started eating. Thank God my parents had forced me to learn how to use chopsticks.

"Will you not eat as well, Sato-san?" I asked. Honestly, it's kind of creepy for you to just sit there staring at me.

"I have already eaten," Sato said. "I apologize for the lack of privacy, but the captain does not want you to accidentally wander into a dangerous area of the vessel."

I nodded while chewing the hell out of a piece of cold, rubbery seaweed. "Sato-san, may I ask what you are doing here? I understand if you cannot answer, for reasons of military secrecy."

He smiled. I was speaking the most formal, deferential Japanese I knew, and keeping my body hunched over, a small and submissive female. I promised myself that I would clock this guy before I escaped.

"I will answer," Sato said. "It is good to hear and speak Japanese again.

"I am a sorcerer of sorts," he continued, gesturing to the workspace behind him. "Emperor Hirohito loaned me to the Germans in order to investigate how we might interfere with the Americans' magic. It is the will of the Emperor that we should seek less confrontational means to injure our enemies."

"That seems wise," I said.

"The Emperor is a wise man," Sato said, but his eyes belied the conviction of his words. Interesting. "There has been enough killing. Whatever we can do to end this war quickly, I will do my best to help."

"You appear to have been somewhat successful already," I said. "You rescued me from the Americans. How did you do that?"

He hesitated. I scooped up more rice and puckered my lips around the chopsticks, sucking slowly. Sato was a man, and the way his gaze went to my mouth told me he was a man who was interested in women. Good. I could use that, too, when the time came.

"You have the talent, Hachiya-san," he said, looking back up at my eyes. "Is that correct?"

I inclined my head, as if bashful. "I am not trained in the magical arts, Sato-san, but I was told by my teachers that I have some inborn ability."

"So you know something of sorcery."

"Only what a schoolgirl learns."

"That is enough." Sato picked up a worn leather notebook. "I think it is time for you to learn more. As I have."

And then he told me one hell of a story.



Image: Crab Kimbap Rolls by Emily Barney, April, 2009

"Bottoms Up"

BOTTOMS UP
By Curtis C. Chen

The Lieutenant lifted a still-burning cigarette out of her ashtray and touched it to the corner of my letter, setting it on fire.

I jumped out of my chair. "What the hell! Ma'am," I added quickly.

Markey crumpled up the paper and dropped it and the cigarette back into her ashtray, out of my reach, letting my words of protest burn away. "Did you really think, for one second, that I was going to let anybody else see that fucking letter?"

"They're not ready for this," I said. My legs felt weak, and the urge to throw up was quickly returning. "I'm not ready for this."

Markey stared at me for a second, then turned around, unlocked one of her file cabinets, and knelt to pull open the bottom drawer. I heard glass clinking, and then she stood up holding two lowball glasses and an unlabeled bottle of dark red liquid. She thumped the glasses down on top of her desk, pulled the stopper out of the bottle, and poured.

"Please tell me that's not blood," I said.

She filled both glasses about half full, then pushed one across the desk toward me. "Drink."

I picked up the glass. The liquid was a dark ruby color, too translucent and not quite thick enough to be actual blood. But I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that it had been thinned by something even more disturbing.

There was magic, and there was superstition, and then there was tradition. Lots of people held on to completely nonsensical traditions for no good reason, and I didn't put it beyond Markey to be beholden to some weird cultural heritage that might have included light vampirism.

"Please tell me this isn't human blood," I said.

"When Hades abducted Persephone to the Underworld," Markey said, "she was forbidden, by the rules of the Fates, to eat or drink anything while she was there." She held her glass up next to her desk lamp, swirling the liquid around. Crimson light played across her face. "If anyone still living consumed food or drink while visiting Hades, that person would have to remain, trapped by her own indiscretion."

"Please tell me this isn't your blood."

"Persephone's mother, Demeter, discovered that Hades had abducted her daughter, and forced Zeus to demand Persephone's return," Markey said. "It's interesting to note here that Zeus was the one who had originally goaded Hades into abducting Persephone to be his bride in the Underworld."

"I don't suppose I could get a mixer for this?" I said.

"Zeus didn't want any more trouble that day," Markey said. "So he ordered Hades to return Persephone, and you don't fuck with Zeus. But, as you no doubt are aware, Greek gods are all about following the letter of the law. Before he released Persephone, Hades tricked her into eating four seeds from a pomegranate."

Relief swept over me. I held my glass up to my nose and inhaled a sweet, fruity scent that was not at all like blood.



Image: POM by Howard Walfish, May, 2009

"Able Was I Ere I Saw Elba"

ABLE WAS I ERE I SAW ELBA
By Curtis C. Chen

"How's Cook doing with his glamours?" Markey asked, turning her head to look at me. Her dark hair and eyes made a striking contrast to her pale skin, and even in uniform—or maybe especially—she turned men's heads at a hundred paces. I wondered if that was the reason she cultivated this persona, of a mysterious and dangerous witch. Though I'd never utter the actual word in her presence. Not unless I was ready to die.

"He's improving," I said, standing at parade rest, with my hands clasped behind my back to prevent fidgeting. "Focus is good, but transitions are still slow. We just need to drill for a few more weeks, and then I think he'll be ready to deploy."

Markey shook her head. "No time for that. Transitions won't be an issue; he's only got to run one identity. Who else do we have who speaks fluent German?"

I rattled off a short list of MAGIC personnel who spoke decent German. "Those are the guys I've heard," I said. "Daisy can probably get you a more detailed list."

"I'm not interested in their records," Markey said. "I want to know about people you've worked with in person. Do you think all six of these men could fool an entire squad of desperate Nazis?"

"Well, Cook for sure," I said. "Not sure about the others. I don't know if they've done a lot of field work before."

"This is OSS," Markey said. "Nobody here has done anything like this before. You're going to drill them, starting this afternoon. I'll get Daisy to make it official." She found a clipboard and started writing out an order for her secretary to type up. "What about our translators? Do any of them speak German as well as reading it?"

I frowned, not sure where she was going with this. "All our German translators are women, as far as I know, ma'am."

"Yes," Markey said, not looking up from her clipboard. "And how many of them speak the language?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," I said. "You're going to send civilians into a recently captured Axis stronghold on a potentially deadly mission?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Markey said. She finished writing, dropped the clipboard in a tray at the corner of her desk, and pushed the call button on her telephone. I couldn't hear the buzzer, but I knew it was sounding on Daisy's desk outside. "Everyone here knows they could be called upon to do extraordinary things in the service of their country. Don't worry about vetting the girls; you tell me who's fluent, and I'll interview them to see who's up for a field trip."

"That's a lot of glamours for one operation," I said. "You'll have to disguise the women's voices as well as their looks."

"Good thing you have tons of experience doing just that," Markey said.

"I'm not going to be able to train anyone to do that in time for—"

"Who said anything about training?" Markey blinked at me. "You're going with them."



Image: Marine Corporal, Quantico Flag Day by "England," January, 2008

"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