"Dear John"

DEAR JOHN
By Curtis C. Chen

The day Michael's dead wife wrote back to him was the day the world started to end.

Michael had written to Barbara every day since the one after her funeral, when he'd woken up, bleary-eyed, to face a house full of the assorted stationery she loved to collect.

There were notepads of all sizes, and letterheads from fictional organizations like "The Watchers Council," and whimsical cards featuring original, hand-drawn cartoons. Michael couldn't bear to throw any of it out, but he also hated the idea of packing it away. Either one felt too much like he was making an effort to forget her.

Then, while sorting through a pile of note paper made from strips of recycled concert posters, Michael started writing down a grocery list. Maybe the long, narrow format of the paper influenced him. Maybe his subconscious had decided that since he wasn't going to get rid of the paper, he might as well use it.

Partway through the list, after "eggs" and "milk," he didn't know what came next, but his hand continued moving the pen. What emerged was a series of questions that Michael would have asked Barbara: do we need more cereal? what dishwasher soap do we use? does the spinach really need to be organic? why don't you just subscribe to that magazine?

He filled the rest of that page and several more, until his tears made the ink run.

After that, he wrote a new letter every day, using a different type of paper each time. When he finished a letter, he sealed it in an envelope and packed away the rest of that stationery. After sunset, he started a fire in the living room and burned the letter, watching as his words became glowing flakes and spiraled up and away.

One morning, three months after the funeral, Michael brought his mug of coffee into the living room and dropped it on the hardwood floor.

He stared at the envelope which sat on top of the ashes of last night's fire. It was not the stationery he'd used; that had been lavender-colored, with ponies prancing around the border of each page. This was a plain white number ten envelope.

Michael fell to his knees and crawled through a lukewarm puddle of coffee to reach the envelope. He poked one shaky finger under the flap, tore open the seal, and pulled out the letter.

It was a single sheet of paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, folded in three parts to fit inside the envelope. On the paper was written a single word, in Barbara's delicate script, without capitalization or punctuation:

run

Michael turned the paper over, then held it up to the window, trying to see if anything else might be written or watermarked or scratched there. There was nothing. He went back to the kitchen and placed the letter and envelope on the counter.

As soon as he let go of the papers, they crumpled themselves into balls and disappeared in two flashes of green flame.

Michael ran.



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"Overtones"

OVERTONES
By Curtis C. Chen

"No," Hailey said as soon as Mark dropped the brochure on the table. She didn't need to read past the title: MECHANOID DEVELOPMENT EXPO, rendered in shiny chrome letters above a photo of an automated sentry unit guarding a little girl.

"Come on," Mark said, sitting down and unwrapping his sandwich. "This is the perfect opportunity for us."

"To embarrass ourselves?" Hailey shoved the brochure across the table. "No thanks, I can do that just fine right here at my day job."

Mark frowned, pushed the brochure back at Hailey, and said through a mouthful of roast beef, "You want to design robots. We both do. This is our chance to get out of the tech support salt mines."

Hailey sighed and put her sandwich down. She turned the brochure to face Mark and tapped a finger against the photo. "What's that?"

"A little girl."

"A little white girl," Hailey said.

Mark shrugged. "So?"

Hailey shook her head. "Boy, it must be nice to be a tall white guy from an upper middle class family."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Hailey pointed a finger at her own face. "What's this?"

"Your... face...?" Mark said.

"This is an Asiatic of indeterminate national origin," Hailey said.

"You were born in Oakland."

"And you can tell that by looking at me?" Hailey held up the brochure. "Every single robotics manufacturer depends on some kind of government or domestic defense contract for the majority of their income. They're not going to hire a non-white, potential security risk when there are plenty of 'real Americans' available to do the job."

"You're exaggerating." Mark bit off another hunk of sandwich and started chewing. "Besides, the prejudice works in your favor. Everyone thinks Asians are good at math."

Hailey counted to ten before responding. "Do I look Chinese to you?"

"Dude, your family's from Bangladesh."

"Forget that you know me," Hailey said slowly. "Do I look Chinese to you?"

Mark shrugged. "How should I know? You look Asian. Maybe a little Hispanic."

Hailey scrunched up her face in disbelief. "Hispanic?"

"I don't know!" Mark threw up his hands, sending a shred of lettuce flying over his shoulder. "I can't tell. You just look—normal."

"No," Hailey said, "you look 'normal.' People look at you and they don't have any preconceived notion of who you are or what you do. People look at me and they instantly think they know something about me."

"That's stupid," Mark said.

"It is what it is." Hailey dropped the brochure and stared at her sandwich. "But I have to deal with it every day, whether I like it or not. I'm not going to go looking for more of it to deal with, and I'm certainly not walking into a convention where everyone is going to be paranoid about Chinese spies stealing their secrets. Can we talk about something else now?"

Mark nodded. "You are good at math, though."

Hailey stood and jabbed both middle fingers up at Mark. "I'm going back to my desk."



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"Hang a Lantern on It"

HANG A LANTERN ON IT
By Curtis C. Chen

"I can't feel my legs," Trager said.

"Is every word out of your mouth a goddamn cliché?" Jamie held down the field communicator's power button until both her thumbs were numb. The screen lit up a second later. "What the hell does 'OPSEC' mean?"

"Operational Security," Trager said. "Need access code."

"What's the code?"

"Can't tell you." Trager's left arm twitched, then fell back into the dirt. "I'll do it."

"You're about to pass out," Jamie said. "Tell me the code."

"Can't. You're civilian."

An energy beam sliced past the bunker, making the ground sizzle. Jamie grabbed Trager's helmet and turned the other woman's head until their eyes met.

"Tell me the fucking code, please," Jamie said.

Trager grinned. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

Jamie bit her lip. Trager's pupils were huge. Whatever painkillers and other drugs the battle armor was pumping into her system, they were working fast.

"I need the code to activate this beacon or we're both dead." Jamie pressed the communicator screen up against Trager's visor.

Trager pursed her lips. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

"And now she's speaking in tongues."

Trager raised her right hand and unbuckled her chestplate. The seal opened with a hiss, followed by the urgent beeping of alarms.

"Whoa!" Jamie said. "Stop! That armor's keeping you alive—"

"I'll give you the code," Trager said. "But you need to do something for me."

"Sure, anything, just put your armor back on!"

Trager reached under her chestplate and yanked hard, snapping the chain around her neck. She held out her fist.

"No," Jamie said. "You're not dead. I'm not taking your goddamn dogtags."

"Not my tags," Trager said. "The other thing."

Jamie looked down at Trager's open palm. Strung beside her dogtags was a smooth obsidian ring, bulging on one side but with no gemstones or markings.

"Your ring?" Jamie said.

"Not mine," Trager said. "Found it."

Jamie picked up the ring. "Okay. I'll get it back to HQ—"

"No!" Trager clamped her hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Not the military. Give it to my brother."

Trager slumped forward. Jamie caught her.

"His name is," Trager slurred. "What's his name?"

"I'll find him," Jamie said, shoving Trager's chestplate back into place. The armor resealed itself and stopped beeping. "Don't worry. Now what's the code?"

Trager recited a string of digits. Jamie started typing them into the communicator. It was hard to work the keypad while holding the ring, so she slipped the black circle onto her finger.

"Don't do that," Trager said.

"What? Ow!"

The ring bit into Jamie's skin, like a pinprick, then grew warm. It rotated itself around her finger until the bulge faced upward. Multi-colored dots danced beneath the surface.

"Holyshitwhatthefuck!" Jamie said.

"Told you not to do that," Trager said.

"You could have warned me earlier!" Jamie tugged at the ring, but it wouldn't move. Flickers of light appeared at the edges of her vision, then coalesced into clusters of unfamiliar shapes. "What is this thing doing to me?"

"Funny story," Trager said, and passed out.



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"Hailing Frequency"

HAILING FREQUENCY
By Curtis C. Chen

Carranda waited for the captain to turn his head, then palmed the data chip from her control panel.

"Request permission to visit the head, Captain," she said.

Captain Bailey Numpshol, Hero of the Tenth Fleet, recipient of the Plated Crescent for Valor in Service, inclined his head toward the comms station, grunted, and waved his hand as a sign of approval.

Carranda bit her tongue to keep from saying something her career might regret later, stood up, and walked to the private lavatory in the starboard aft corner of the bridge. She waited for the overhead illumination to flicker on, checked the lock on the door, and then pulled the computer tablet off her equipment belt. She slid the data chip into the tablet's reader slot.

She hated the face that appeared on the tablet screen a few seconds later, after her personal encryption key had unlocked the coded transmission from Central Command. She hated her nineteen-year-old self for agreeing to run an errand for a devastatingly handsome midshipman. One stupid task which had plunged her into the dark and twisted tunnels of political espionage, where she was now trapped.

"Hello, Lieutenant Vurzo," said the face on the screen. The audio was being piped directly into Carranda's cochlear implant. "First things first. Your transfer request has been denied."

Carranda cursed under her breath.

"I'm sorry," the face said, without a hint of apology in his voice, "but you're just too valuable in your current posting. We need an asset aboard Scamander, and your bridge station is the perfect cover. You're right in the middle of the action, but nobody notices you."

She wanted to punch the man on her screen. She wanted to punch him in the nose and make him bleed. She wanted to do anything that resulted in a visible, tangible result.

Eighteen months aboard the Scamander, suffering under that arrogant bastard Numpshol, passing intel back and forth without ever knowing why or if her work was making a difference. Central Command said she was essential, but they said that to everyone. Sometimes right before they "closed the loop" to prevent any possible security breaches.

"Your next assignment will be somewhat complicated," the face said. "Encoded in the sideband of this transmission is a chemical formula. Follow the provided instructions to override the safety protocols in your personal food dispenser and synthesize the compound.

"Once you've manufactured the liquid, put a few drops in Captain Numpshol's morning coffee. The compound acts very quickly. He won't feel anything.

"Complete this task before Scamander reaches Paglaban. If you can't get Numpshol to ingest the compound, find some other way to remove him from command, permanently. We don't care how you do it. Just make sure Commander Jauneen Marfish is the acting captain of Scamander when you make contact with Paglaban. We need her in that center seat.

"That is all, Lieutenant Vurzo. Go and execute."

Carranda turned off the tablet. Her stomach was churning, and her legs felt weak. She might actually need to use the toilet after all.



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"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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