"Not From Montgomery"

NOT FROM MONTGOMERY
By Curtis C. Chen

On Thursday night, the angel reappeared in Gaby's room.

"Go away," the girl said to the glowing apparition floating above her bed.

The angel shook its head. The face was a haze of light, but the voice was unmistakably female. She wore a form-fitting, one-piece garment that covered all but her face and hands.

"I'm sorry," the angel said, "but I can't. I'll try to explain better this time."

"You're not real," Gaby said in a hoarse whisper. She didn't want to wake her parents. "I'm still sick. That's all. I'm not crazy."

"You're neither," the angel said. "I'm not actually here. You're seeing a projection—an image of me. Like a picture. Do you know what photographs are?"

"Yes," Gaby replied, somewhat offended. "Father has a brand new Kodak camera. He's quite the shutterbug."

"Hey! That's slang, isn't it?" The angel vibrated, momentarily dissolving into a mist of light. "Phil, can we pinpoint that word origin? If we can find the year—" The angel nodded. "I don't suppose you know the model number of that camera, do you, sweetie?"

"My name's Gaby. And no, I'm not allowed to play with Father's things."

"Right. Yes?" The angel nodded. "Okay, Gaby, this is very important. Can you tell me what year it is?"

"Leave me alone," Gaby said, pulling her blankets up. "I want to go to sleep."

The shape made of light pushed through the blankets and hovered underneath the covers, just a few inches from Gaby's nose. "Sorry, Gaby, but we're on a schedule here. I need you to tell me the date. Today's date."

"I don't know," Gaby pouted. "I've been sick."

"I'm very sorry, Gaby, but we need to know, and you're the only one we can reach."

"Why do you need to know?" Gaby asked. "And who's 'we?' I only see one of you."

The angel sighed, and the glowing outlines of her eyes looked sad. "There are others here with me, Gaby. You can't see them because—it's complicated. But we can only fit one person into this picture.

"It's very important that we find out when you are in time. We're on a very important mission. We didn't expect that you would be the only one we could talk to, but we can't control that very well."

"Are you in heaven?" Gaby asked quietly.

The angel pursed her lips. "Not exactly."

Gaby curled up tighter. "I know what you are. You're a devil. You're trying to trick me. Well, it won't work. I'm not telling you anything."

The angel frowned, vibrated, then turned and shouted over her shoulder. "Hey, you want to try doing this, Phil?" There was a pause. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Shut up and let me talk to her." The angel shook her head. "Asshole."

"Who's Phil?" Gaby asked.

The angel's eyes went wide. "I thought you said this mute button was working!"

She whirled around, and then her light dissolved away.

The angel didn't appear again that night. It took Gaby a long time to fall asleep.



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"Better Luck Next Time"

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME
By Curtis C. Chen

Dear Costumed Adventurer:

Thank you very much for submitting your application to shift home realities from Universe Ganymede.XII.52.0 to Universe Hupperts.XCVII.10.3! We regret that we cannot accommodate your relocation request at this time.

As you know, the Transcendental Oversight Office of Parallel Existences, Multiple Dimensions, and Alternate Histories receives hundreds of thousands of relocation applications every single month. This unfortunately prevents us from providing specific feedback on your particular application.

However, please check these important details first:

- Your application must include unique and proper identifiers for both your home reality and your requested relocation target (we prefer nominal signifier, timeline branch era lettering, retcon sequence number, and descant decimal).

- Your application must include your personal name, correctly spelled, capitalized, and punctuated. Due to the cosmological congruence constant, many creatures in one reality may share the same name, so please make sure to include other unique identifying information, such as your home planet, mother's shoe size, and favorite ice cream flavor.

- We cannot approve relocation requests which would result in an intra-universe talent conflict. Please verify that your particular preternatural ability combination, specialized training or skill set, and/or wardrobe color designs do not already exist in your target reality. Many public resources are available to help you perform this research.

- If our Superposition Quantum Uncertainty Interference Detection System (S.Q.U.I.D.S.) determines that you have an established nemesis in your home reality, and that you and your nemesis have unfinished business of a professional or personal nature, we cannot allow one of you to relocate to a new reality without the other. Please file a joint application using the current forms provided on our Weird Wide Web site.

- If you are under the age of majority in your home jurisdiction, you must obtain the legal signature of a parent or guardian before we can process your application.

Thank you for your interest in alternate realities! We encourage you to re-apply for relocation in the future, especially if environmental or social conditions in your home reality continue to interfere with your inexorable compulsion to fight crime, avenge your dearly departed loved ones, and/or put right what once went wrong.

Sincerely,
Merton V'X'Wanwo Adagamps
Administrator, TOOPEMDAH



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"Zugzwang"

ZUGZWANG
By Curtis C. Chen

"You lose," Ensign Darrow said. "Again."

He tipped over Erin's game piece, the one they were calling the king. Ton-Gla-Ben wasn't exactly like chess, but it was close enough, and the actual Quggano names were mostly unpronounceable.

Erin hated chess.

"This is useless," she said.

"You just need more practice." Darrow swept up the pieces and reset the board. "Let's try a different opening."

"Tell me again why we can't just cheat?" Erin asked. "Have me wear a hidden micro-cam and have you coaching me through an earpiece?"

Darrow shook his head. "The Quggano are honorable, and they enforce honor in others. The competition chamber is fully radiation-shielded."

"Why are we even bothering with this?" Erin stood up. "I barely have time to learn this game. I might as well concede and save myself the humiliation."

She wanted to pace, but there was no room. The Myrmidon wasn't designed to carry passengers. It was pure dumb luck that Erin had ended up here. A piece of space debris had killed her stardrive, and she'd spent nearly a week adrift before the Myrmidon happened into range of her beacon.

Unfortunately, a Quggano destroyer had also heard Erin's distress call, and intercepted the Myrmidon right after they picked up her ship. When Captain Yokota demanded a champion game, a variation on the Quggano single-combat tradition, the Quggano named Erin as their opponent.

"You could get lucky," Darrow said. "You never know."

Erin sighed. "Okay, let's go again."

The door chimed and slid open. Rayley, the ship's science officer, leapt into the room, looking very excited.

"We've got something," Rayley said. "A way for you to win."

***

"A kid?" Erin gaped. "They've got a child on board?"

The conference room display showed an interior scan of the enemy destroyer. There was definitely some kind of smaller creature running back and forth between two adult Quggano.

"We hacked into their comms," Captain Yokota said. "The adults are some kind of state dignitary and his mate. Their presence aboard a destroyer is unusual, but not unheard of."

"And now you can call out the child," Rayley said. "Name him as your opponent."

"You know it's a boy?" Erin said.

"We know his name, his age, his bedtime—"

"It's allowed," Darrow said. "They never asked us to name an opponent. Most champion games involve the captains of the respective warships by default. The Quggano named Miss Bountain because they knew she was a civilian, and therefore hadn't been trained to play Ton-Gla-Ben."

"And neither has this kid," Rayley said. "He's old enough to serve, according to their laws. They have to honor your champion request."

"The losing champion dies." Erin looked at the captain. "I'm not going to kill a kid. You must be considering other options."

"Sure," Yokota said. "I can blow up my ship."

Erin blinked. "What?"

"Nobody here is going to become a Quggano POW," Yokota said. "If you lose the game, we trigger the auto-destruct and hope we take those bastards with us."



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"Secret Stash"

SECRET STASH
By Curtis C. Chen

"The coffee was poisoned."

Samantha didn't say it like a question; she said it like she didn't believe me. That just made me angrier.

"You want to talk to the doctor here? The alchemist?" I said, feeling the edges of my phone dig into my fingers. "Jacob is in a fucking coma."

"Why weren't you affected?"

"Mom and Dad," I said. "Remember all those tinctures and potions they made us drink every morning? 'For luck, for protection?' We're immune to plant toxins and the most common thaumaturgic reagents."

"So you know what the poison was."

"We'll know in a few hours."

"Good," Sam said, sounding distracted. "I assume you want to stay there with Jacob. I'll call Lee and ask him to send someone else back to the house."

I wasn't sure what to say, but I had to say something. "What?"

"Is it not Lee? Who's your supervisor these days?"

"What the fuck," I said, "are you talking about?"

Sam sighed. "Who should I call at your office to redeploy agents to the house? Just tell me, Rachel."

"You're not calling anyone," I said. "I'm waiting for the toxicology report, and then I'm getting a warrant and a SWAT team and breaking down that old geezer's front door."

"No, you're not," Sam said, in the tone of voice which asserted her older-sister-ness and which I hated down to my very bones. "The priority here is repatriating those artifacts. Look, don't worry about it. We'll send another team to negotiate—"

"I'm going to say this one time." I spoke slowly and clearly. "My partner is in a coma. Strickland poisoned us both. He is going down. We can seize the goddamn artifacts after he's behind bars."

"No, no, no," Sam said. "Once those jars are in a DC evidence locker, they become part of a criminal investigation, and it'll be hell to get them out of the system. No. We get Strickland to sign the papers as a free citizen; we remove the jars legally and quietly; and we avoid an international incident."

"And then we arrest Strickland for assaulting a federal officer?"

Sam hesitated before answering. "We can talk about that later."

"Don't fucking bullshit me here, Sam."

"Look," she said, "you want the truth? Strickland's going to ask for immunity from prosecution. He knows what he did, and he knows the value of those artifacts. He knows he has leverage.

"And my hands are tied here, Rachel. The Prime Minister of Egypt sat in the Oval Office and looked Marshall right in the eye and—"

"Oh, so it's 'Marshall' now?" I said. "Not 'Mr. President?'"

"So not the point right now, Rachel."

"You know what?" I pictured Sam sitting behind her giant wooden desk, and I focused my hatred. "Call whoever you want. I bet I can beat them back to Strickland's house with a black-and-white. Let's have a little race. Just like old times. Whaddya say, Sammy?"

"Rachel!" Sam said. "Do not—"

I hung up on her and headed out of the hospital.



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"Just Follow Your Nose"

JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Then the girl said the guy coming out of the bathroom was her boyfriend. But the old man didn't believe her. So he went over to talk to the bathroom guy. This corpse is twenty-two hours dead. Are you sure I'm not talking too much?"

"Absolutely not," Andy replied before Jake could. "Could you say that part about the corpse again?"

"Sure." Jennifer waved at the vaguely human-shaped lump of charred flesh and bone on the ground. "This man died no more than twenty-three hours ago."

"How can you know that's a man?" Jake asked.

The teenage girl stared at Jake like he was some kind of alien. Which wasn't far from the truth; Jennifer had been raised by Varna'ut for the last ten years, ever since her birth parents—Earth's ambassadors to the Varna'ut homeworld—died in a shuttlecraft accident. Jennifer was physiologically human, but all her habits and behaviors were distinctly Varna'ut.

"I can smell his burned testicles," she said, pointing. "Enzymes from the seminal vesicles have a very distinctive odor. Even more so when they've been oxidized through combustion."

"I don't want to know how she knows that," Jake muttered to Andy.

"Anyway, the old man stops the guy coming out of the bathroom," Jennifer continued, without missing a beat. "Of course, the guy has no idea what's going on. But he recognizes the girl."

"Sorry to interrupt," Andy said, "but would you mind finishing that story later?"

Jennifer blinked. "This isn't interesting to you? You can just say that. Are you trying to be 'tactful?' They told me you might do that. I can tell a different story. There were at least four different attackers in this room. There was also this really hairy man on the flight. His beard came all the way up his cheeks, and he was wearing sunglasses."

"It's not the story," Jake said. "It's the way you keep changing subjects. Go back to the four attackers."

"I thought humans liked to talk," Jennifer said.

"We like to talk about one thing at a time," Jake said.

"Jake's very focused," Andy said. "Could you try... limiting our conversation? Just for a little while?"

Jennifer shrugged. "I'll try it. I can smell the residue from the attackers. You could, too, with proper training. The first thing Varna'ut children learn in school is how to use their noo'usp."

"You're doing it again," Jake said through gritted teeth.

"No," Jennifer said, "we're still talking about scents."

"Look—"

Andy grabbed the sleeve of his partner's jacket. "Can I have a word with you, Jake? Outside? Please excuse us."

"Don't touch anything," Jake said as Andy dragged him out the door.

"Why would I touch anything?" Jennifer asked.

After Andy had shoved Jake around the corner of the building, he said, "What the hell is your problem? She's helping us. Not to mention this will become an interstellar incident if you punch her in the face."

"I'm not going to punch her in the face," Jake said. "Stomach, maybe."

"Hard to believe you're still single."



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"Not Necessarily Genre"

NOT NECESSARILY GENRE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why is he wearing one glove?" I whispered.

"Quiet," Anne replied. "He hates interruptions."

We were sitting near the back of the lecture hall, fingers poised over our tablets to take notes. But Professor Glendor hadn't covered anything new yet. I also couldn't believe he hadn't noticed that his left hand was purple.

"That's a sterile glove," I hissed. "If he came from his lab—"

"Apparently someone has a comment," Glendor's voice boomed.

His eyes scanned the room. I sat perfectly still.

"Now you've done it," Anne said.

Glendor pointed at me. "You!"

I gave Anne a dirty look. "Thanks a lot."

"Would you like to share your scintillating conversation with the rest of us?" Glendor asked.

"I was just wondering," I said, "why you're only wearing one sterile glove, Professor."

He squinted at me. "Who are you?"

My mouth felt dry. "Jodette Shah."

"I didn't ask for your name," Glendor said. "Who are you?"

My tongue was a desert. "I-I'm a third-year pre-med—"

"No!" He smacked the podium. "Who are you?"

"I don't understand the question!"

Glendor stared at me. "Come down here, please."

I walked to the front of the lecture hall slowly. I didn't want to trip and fall and make an even bigger scene than I already was.

"Now," Glendor said when I was standing next to him, "I'm going to ask you a different question. Why does it matter that I'm only wearing one sterile glove?"

"It's just—unusual."

"What makes it unusual?"

"You wouldn't wear gloves unless you were doing lab work or a medical procedure," I said. "And you wouldn't wear just one. You walked into class like that, which implies—possibly—you removed the right glove and forgot about the left one."

"So?" Glendor said. "Maybe I'm just eccentric."

"You've never done it before," I said. "And it doesn't matter which situation is more likely. Not knowing is the problem."

Glendor nodded. "I'm going to ask you again, Miss Shah: who are you?"

I took a chance. "I'm the one who asked the question."

"Close enough!" Glendor snapped off his glove and addressed the room. "Miss Shah is the only other person here with even half a brain.

"If any of you shared her concerns about why I walked in with a sterile glove on one hand, you sure didn't speak up. You see something out of the ordinary, you ask about it. You're afraid you'll look dumb in front of your peers? Get used to it.

"Given the choice between saving face or saving your patient, which do you choose? If you have to think about that for any amount of time, get the hell out of here right now!"

I leaned over and asked, "May I sit down now, Professor?"

"Sit down?" Glendor pulled me over to stand behind the podium, then sat down in the front row. "You're giving the rest of this lecture."

As much as I hated the old man in that moment, I also fell in love with him that day.



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"A Middle Portion of the Star-Sailor's Tale"

A MIDDLE PORTION OF THE STAR-SAILOR'S TALE
By Curtis C. Chen

The sailor refused to answer questions about why he had journeyed into prohibited space, but the Brigadier could prove no wrongdoing more severe than trespassing on the sailor's part. After the prescribed holding period had expired, the peacekeepers released the sailor onto a small merchant moon in the Western Spiral Arm. Once again penniless and friendless, that is where the sailor met the gene-seeker.

Indeed, these are the fables you surely heard as a child, or saw played out in countless popular holodramas: the adventures of the star-sailor and the gene-seeker, traveling the known galaxy and beyond in search of adventure! But those swashbuckling tales are not the whole story, of course.

The sailor was not so carefree and inquisitive when he first encountered the gene-seeker. In fact, the sailor was quite single-minded in the pursuit of his sworn enemies, the pirates of the near-core systems. His first meeting with the gene-seeker was a clash over which of them would hire a particular starship out of lunar orbit.

"Your dead science can wait," the sailor said to the gene-seeker. "I have more pressing engagements. And none will stand in my way."

"Oh, you intend to hunt down your former captors all by yourself, do you?" the gene-seeker replied. "Be realistic, my friend. The peacekeepers devastated that pirate fleet when rescuing you; the surviving raiders have surely scattered to distant stars by now. It would take years to track them all down."

"I have nothing but time," the sailor said.

"Allow me to propose another situation," the gene-seeker said. "You have, I understand, been sequestered for some time, and may lack knowledge of certain current events. I offer my services as information broker, negotiator, and guide. I mean no offense, but it seems clear that you are not, at this time, well suited to the task of establishing and maintaining interpersonal relationships."

"And what do you want in return for these services?" the sailor asked.

"Let us travel together," the gene-seeker said. "We shall begin the long and difficult task of locating your enemies, and along the way, explore the various worlds we encounter and inspect any life-forms of interest. My research is not constrained; I have no predetermined path. As long as there is biological data to collect, my analysis can proceed. You will be free to direct our travels."

"Fine," the sailor said. "Just stay out of my way."

"Of course, my friend," the gene-seeker said. "We shall journey side by side."

And so they did, for nigh on a century. I will not repeat those tales here, for they are numerous, and you have surely heard the most engaging of the lot many times before. Suffice to say that the star-sailor and the gene-seeker became great friends, boon companions through all manner of hardship and mystery, inseparable except by death at the end.

And so it was, when the gene-seeker passed on, that the next part of the sailor's story began.



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"The Space Between"

PREVIOUSLY: "Funny Story"

THE SPACE BETWEEN
By Curtis C. Chen

"How's your migraine?" Barrett asked.

"Better." Liz shifted in her armchair. It should have concerned her that Doctor Sawhney had a ready supply of placebo pills on board, but she could see where they'd come in handy with elderly hypochondriacs. "How was your thing?"

"Pretty awesome," Barrett lilted. "I'm editing the video now. You are going to be so impressed."

Liz closed her book and watched Barrett fiddle with his laptop for a while. She looked around the ship's library. It was about half full of other passengers relaxing with books, drinks, games, or just with each other.

"How do you do it?" Liz asked.

Barrett looked up from his computer. "Well, first I import the video from my camera—"

"Not that." Liz smacked his shoulder with her book. "How are you so happy all the time? I've never seen you upset or even irritated. Other people get depressed; why don't you?"

"I get depressed. Were you there when we watched Titanic?"

"I'm serious."

He nodded and closed his laptop. "Okay, this is going to sound dumb, but... every morning, when I wake up, I tell myself I'm going to be happy, that it's going to be a good day."

"That's it?" Liz squinted at him. "That actually works?"

"That's just the first step," Barrett said. "Look, I'm not saying this would work for you, since your job's a lot more stressful than mine—"

"I'm not asking for advice," Liz said. "I just want to understand. I want..." She looked away. "I want to know more about you."

Barrett gave her a lopsided grin. "Well, at least you didn't say 'we need to talk.'"

Liz shook her head. "Okay, you wake up, it's going to be a good day. What next?"

"I just keep telling myself it's a good day," he said. "No matter what happens, no matter how bad or how difficult things get, I remind myself how lucky I am. I'm healthy, I have clean water and plentiful food, I have a rewarding career and wonderful friends." He smiled at her. "I'm a very lucky man. And that makes me happy."

Liz thought about all the times she'd been infuriated by Barrett's apparent obliviousness. He wasn't actually clueless, she realized. His optimism was a monumental effort in the face of all the evil and hardship in the world.

Liz saw pain and suffering every day in the ICU. She couldn't just ignore the darkness by focusing on how she was mitigating it. It wasn't enough to light her one candle.

But maybe Barrett could help her. If she asked, he'd rattle off a list of things she should be happy about. And he'd do it in such a friendly, reasonable way, she would have to believe him.

Maybe that would be enough.

She leaned over and kissed him.

"I'm glad we came on this cruise," she said.

"Me too."

"You know what we should do later?" Liz grinned. "Karaoke."

Barrett made a face. "I thought you wanted me to be happy."

The book made a satisfying thump against his forehead.



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