"Money for Nothing"

MONEY FOR NOTHING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Don't know why you're wasting your time with the lottery," Rutina says, watching me twirl the ticket between my fingers.

It's because I know something you don't, Ruti. And I can't tell you my secret. It's too dangerous.

I don't know if this will work. It's a long shot, but even if it doesn't pan out, I'm only out a few bucks. And, you know, a third of the money goes toward public education. Hopefully including basic math skills.

The TV announcer shouts something—I'm only half listening, focusing my attention on the Lotto ticket, the object I want to push. Out of the corner of my eye, I see white balls spinning inside a metal cage.

"Maybe turn it down a bit," I say. "We just got Wally to sleep." A crying baby will definitely affect my concentration.

"Tevs." Ruti lowers the volume.

I have no idea what I'm doing. If I do win the lottery, how much luck does that count for? What's the price? Because I don't make the luck I push onto things—I steal it from somewhere else. And I'm always hoping it comes from someone I don't care about.

Ruti punches me in the arm.

"Ow!" I glare at her.

"Did you win or not, weirdo?"

I look up. I read the numbers on the TV screen, then compare them to my ticket. I read them again. And again.

"Well?" Ruti says.

"I did it," I say. "I won."

***

"Hey, Ollie! You're on TV!"

I rush out from the kitchen where I'm helping Ruti's mom with the dishes. Ruti's bouncing excitedly on the couch. Of course the news chose the worst possible photo of me, the one with my hair in those stupid curls, but the big number floating beside my dopey face softens the blow.

Six zeros. Two commas. More money than I've ever imagined.

And sure, a lump sum payout will be only half that amount, and income taxes will eat half of that, but that still leaves eight figures. Over a hundred thousand dollars, tax-free, every year for the rest of my life.

As soon as I finish doing the math, I'm reminded it's all too good to be true.

When I regain my senses, I'm kneeling on the floor, crying. Ruti is next to me, holding me upright.

"Ollie, what's wrong?" she asks. I point at the TV. "Who is that?"

"Dead," I sob. "He's—supposed—to be—dead."

Ruti's mom crouches down and puts a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Olivia. We'll figure this out."

"Mom?" Ruti says. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

Mrs. Alwen nods. "I haven't seen him in years, but that looks like Olivia's birth father."

So this is the price. This is what I have to live through to win the lottery.

Jesus, we're all going to be at the award ceremony, all four of us together. I don't know if I can do it. Mom sure can't. And I don't know how we're going to keep Steven from killing him.



Image: Fred Meyer Rewards Rebate mailer, August, 2013

"Meet Cute"

MEET CUTE
By Curtis C. Chen

"We have faster-than-light interstellar travel," Anglana said. "We have medical technology that can regrow entire limbs. I have a chip inside my skull which allows me to access the sum of human knowledge in a fraction of a second." She took a breath. "How difficult can it be to find one name on a goddamn registration list?"

"I'm very sorry, miss," said the robot behind the check-in desk. "Could you spell your name again, please?"

Anglana held out her passport. "Here. Can you see that? Can any of your sensors detect at least one of the three distinct identification markers in my official travel documents?"

"I'm very sorry, miss—"

"Of course not!" Anglana threw her hands up.

"Is there a problem here?" said a voice behind her.

Anglana turned and saw a man, roughly her height, wearing a hotel uniform and a nametag labeled RILEY. His dark eyes were as unreadable as the robot's. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Yes, Riley, there is a problem," Anglana said. "This robot can't verify my conference registration."

Riley nodded. "Yeah, that's been happening quite a bit. Some problem with their local data interfaces."

"How hard can it be to set up one lousy database?"

"I saw one of the conference organizers—a human—down that way." Riley gestured behind him. "If you'll follow me, maybe we can track her down and get this sorted out?"

Anglana exhaled. "Thank you. I will." She turned to the robot. "Thanks for nothing, you waste of silicon."

"I'm very sorry, miss."

"I'm married!"

Anglana followed Riley down the hall, around a corner, and then—after they both made sure no one was looking—through a door marked ASSOCIATES ONLY, down a service corridor, and into a supply closet. Riley closed the door, and they both began taking off their clothes.

"'Married?'" Riley said, kicking off his shoes and undoing his pants.

"Orders said make a scene," Anglana said as she unbuttoned her blouse. "I made a scene."

"You had to have the last word." Riley had removed his shirt, and Anglana had to admire his naked torso for a moment.

"Do I need to do anything with this?" she asked as she pulled on the hotel uniform.

"Nope." Riley had retrieved a garment bag and extracted a new, business-casual wardrobe for himself. "Hotel imprints a new day code into the fabric at start of shift. You've got full security clearance until eight AM."

"Good." Anglana twisted up her hair and fastened it in back. "Visual confirm on target?"

"Room 1024." Riley handed her a keycard. "Still partying, last time I checked."

"How long ago was that?"

He blinked. "Just under three minutes."

Anglana stepped back into her shoes and adjusted the RILEY nametag. "How do I look?"

"Dressed to kill."

Anglana made a face. "Really?"

The man shrugged. "It's a weakness."

Anglana opened the closet door, walked out, and turned around. "Nice to meet you. Don't die on the way home. Good-bye."

She closed the door before he could respond.



Photo Credit: elkit via Compfight cc

"Sportsball"

SPORTSBALL
By Curtis C. Chen

Welcome back to everyone watching our live broadcast of the 127th Galactic Harmony Games! I'm Gropflixnum Square, and with me here in the booth is Braznart Morchey-Morchey-Pop. Whaddya say, Braz? Still having fun?

My status is unchanged.

Hey, me too! Now, I gotta tell you, folks, I have seen some outrageous plays over my five decades of announcing for the Harmonies, but what happened in this last quarter absolutely takes the cake. What do you think, Braz? Is this going to be the most memorably disastrous Harmony Games to date?

Gropflixnum, my dear friend, you are as ignorant as you are sexually promiscuous. Do you not recall the final moments of game seven of the 64th Harmonies, when an entire starting line-up of humanoids failed to defend their home goal from the onslaught of a trio of mind-bonded lump-beasts? Or game three of the 96th Harmonies, when a single Zallgallian child scored the winning point against an all-star team representing Arbogastia's best and brightest? I hardly think today's tawdry events will rate even a footnote in the grand history of this heroic competition, the greatest athletic tradition in the known universe.

And that's why we have him here, folks, to give you that unique Pop-Snarquijan perspective! Thanks, Braz.

It would not disappoint me if you were to perish in a conflagration, foul Gropflixnum.

Okay. Folks, if you're just joining us, I don't know what to tell you! We are still in a time-out here in game six of the 127th Harmonies, and the referees are still conferring over how to call that last play. Not to mention the stadium medical teams have been treating the wounded players for nearly twenty centizhus, and we still do not have an update on their status. Even the coaches have been barred from entering the surgical tents, and you know that's gotta be driving them crazy!

That is unlikely, Gropflixnum, you polyp on the rectum of existence, since the Earth humans use telepathic implants for communication. Their coach is surely aware of every development as it occurs—

Hold that thought, Braz, here comes a ref to make the call!

DECISION: UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS. PENALTY, EARTH HUMANS, FIVE YARDS.

Ouch, that's gotta hurt!

Gropflixnum, you are a genetically inferior specimen of questionable mental faculty.

Okay, folks, a quick recap of the action so far: the Earth humans are down by five points in the final six centizhus of the fourth quarter, and in what can only be described as an act of desperation, they finally unleashed their trademark "meltdown" attack! It's virtually guaranteed to generate some forward motion for them on the field, but always results in heavy collateral damage. Braz! Your analysis?

Thank you, honorable Gropflixnum. Taking all variables and available data into consideration, I believe—with better than 90% certainty—that your mother was surely an unlicensed sex worker, and more than likely a blood relation of your eventual father.

I meant your analysis of the game, Braz.

I know.



Photo Credit: Werner Kunz via Compfight cc

"Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?"

WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS?
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm not a terrorist," Ava said as soon as the man in the dark suit walked into the room. He ignored her, sat down across the bare metal table from her, and continued reading his display tab.

Ava watched the man's dark eyes scan back and forth. He swiped his finger across the display once, twice, three times. How was it even possible that her police file would be that long?

"I want a lawyer," Ava said.

The man looked up from his tablet. His expression was unreadable.

"I want a lawyer," Ava repeated.

The man turned the display face down on the table. "Where do you think you are, Miss Farman?"

"I want a lawyer!"

The man shook his head. "You are no longer on American soil. In fact, since this room doesn't officially exist, you are not anywhere. And nothing that happens here is real."

His smile made Ava want to punch him. She couldn't do that with her wrists cuffed to the table, so she kicked him in the shin. He yelped and jumped out of his chair.

"What the hell!" he said.

"Oh, are you experiencing some phantom pain?" Ava asked. "Because I'm pretty sure nothing at all just happened."

The man glared at her. "Fine. Here's the deal. We've confiscated all the computer equipment in your home and disabled your networked computing projects--"

"Bullshit," Ava said. "You can't shut down the grid. It's a decentralized global volunteer network. Open source, asshole."

"What do you think the 'National' in 'National Science Foundation' means?" the man snapped. "We see everything that's managed by the Berkeley servers."

Ava gaped. "You're NSA."

The man shrugged. "Close enough."

"I'm not a terrorist. I was sequencing my mother's genome—"

"To try to cure her, we know."

Ava shivered. "Right. My search history." She had always known the government was watching every unencrypted thing she did online, but the reality of it had always seemed distant, academic. Now it was a very real knot in her stomach. "Then you know I'm telling the truth. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Not yet," the man said. "But it's only a matter of time."

He turned the display tab around and held it up. Ava recognized a PCR scan of her mother's DNA, showing the thousand or so base pairs which might be causing her cancer. Ava blinked back tears.

"How the fuck is curing cancer a national security issue?" she spat.

The man lowered the display tab. "You're not going to cure cancer, Miss Farman. Not like this. We already know what these particular genes do."

"And what's that?"

The man manipulated the display tab, then slid it across the table. Ava looked down and saw a dense block of text. She had to read the page twice before its meaning registered.

"This is an employment contract," she said.

"Yeah," the man said. "All things considered, Miss Farman, I'd much rather hire you than kill you. But I'm going to let you choose how you leave this room: in a body bag, or with a keycard."



Photo Credit: Boreio Selas via Compfight cc

"Photorps and Emotions"

PHOTORPS AND EMOTIONS
By Curtis C. Chen

Shut the fuck up, son. I won't allow that kind of talk on my deck. Those officers have earned your respect. Sit down, you're going to get a lecture. Yes, that's an order!

There's a Lieutenant JG up in Science, Spork or something--I can't pronounce Fulcan names. Anyway, couple months ago, he figured out how to stabilize the yield on our new torpedoes, those Unlucky Thirteens. Intermix chambers always went out of calibration after firing and dampened the impact detonation. Annoying as hell.

Of course the captain's interested. He reassigns my entire work crew, including me, to help Spork. Pulls us off vital shuttlecraft maintenance to experiment on three torpedoes. But what really chaps my hide is how Spork struts onto my deck and starts giving orders left and right, telling my people when to jump and how high.

I was ready to give him a piece of my mind. But I'm no dummy, I ain't gonna put my chevrons up against his stripes. So I don't confront him directly. I tell my gang to sabotage his little science project. Nothing dangerous, just a solid fail, enough to make him lose face in front of the captain.

I was wrong. Yeah, you're not gonna hear me say that again in this lifetime, so enjoy it while you can.

Yarrison and Belso got the worst of it. Third-degree plasma burns, toxic inhalants. The rest of us just got thrown back by the explosion. Spork cracked his skull against the deck. I saw him bleeding like a motherfucker, but he didn't hesitate. He yanked on half a hazmat suit, walked right into the burning debris, pulled Yarrison and Belso out before the fire suppression force fields suffocated them.

Anyway, Spork won't go to Sickbay until he's checked the torpedo, and I stay to cover up what we did. But of course I can't. His scanner readings are clear as day; there's no way the intermix went that far out of true without tampering.

But Spork just closes his scanner, looks at me, and says, "It appears one of us miscalibrated the inputs. We should be more careful in our next attempt."

He knows what I did, but he ain't gonna tell. He doesn't have to say anything. I feel bad enough already--I nearly killed two of my own people, and for what? Because I don't like the guy? What the fuck am I, ten years old? I'm an engineering supervisor on a goddamn starship.

So I say, "It won't happen again, Lieutenant."

He nods, and we get back to work.

Forget him saving Yarrison and Belso. He also saved me from myself. I didn't trust the Academy for graduating him, I didn't trust the captain for assigning him, I didn't trust all the evidence telling me that Spork knew his shit.

Yeah, everybody makes mistakes. But don't fuck up the same ways I did, okay? Don't worry, you'll find plenty of new ways to screw up. Just be a little bit better than your old man, that's all I want.



Photo Credit: MATEUS_27:24&25 via Compfight cc

"Bookworm Adventures"

BOOKWORM ADVENTURES
By Curtis C. Chen

"Shouldn't you be talking to your advisor about this?" I ask Nicole as she pulls another book off the shelf with purple-gloved hands.

"I don't trust my advisor," she says. "Is that thing ready?"

She points at the old film camera which I borrowed from the campus art center and lugged down here at her behest. She still hasn't told me why she wanted it, and I can't imagine a dozen dusty old books in the library's basement will make for an especially compelling student film project. Unless maybe she's planning to take off her top and read them aloud.

I check the camera and nod. "Willing and able. But you know you can record videos with your phone, right? And why don't you trust Professor Wigan?"

Nicole starts opening books carefully—some of them look like they could fall apart at any second—and arranging them on the table. "My phone won't work for this. And Wigan is the one who started me down this path. I think—" She shakes her head. "I don't know what I think anymore."

"Nicky, have you been getting enough sleep?"

She laughs, then looks at me with unfocused eyes. "Start the camera."

I flip some switches, and the camera clicks and whirs. "Okay, it's going. You've got about ten minutes before this cartridge runs out."

Nicole looks into the lens and starts talking.

"My name is Nicole Redberg. I'm a master's student at Leland University. My thesis is on the phonological evolution of Sino-Tibetan languages during the seventh century AD. I found these rime dictionaries in the university's rare books collection and was studying them when I discovered—something."

She holds up one book, showing a dense grid of Chinese characters.

"There are gaps in the rime tables," Nicole continues. "Missing sections corresponding to sounds which are known to exist. In fact, the gaps are different in every book, and tones which are missing from one book appear in others. They have been excluded deliberately.

"Each table has a specific grid pattern, and the gaps indicate a unique sequence of excluded sounds. When combined, they don't correspond to actual words in any of the known languages from that period, but there is something else interesting about them."

She puts down the book, pulls a folded-up paper from her jeans, and recites a series of vaguely Asian-sounding noises. I wonder if it's supposed to mean something to me. After all, Nicole could have finagled her own camera; why did she want me here, too?

"Do you see it, Rachel?" she asks quietly.

"See what?"

She points at the table. Twelve open books, just as before, the overhead lights casting their shadows across the wooden surface--

Shadows?

The books are all floating several inches above the table.

I stumble backwards into the wall. I gape at the levitating books, then look at Nicole. She's smiling.

"Good," she says. "You see it, too." She nods at the camera. "Now let's develop that film and make sure we're not both crazy."



Photo Credit: citizenoftheworld via Compfight cc

"Free Advice"

FREE ADVICE
By Curtis C. Chen

I wait an agonizing fifteen minutes in line for the right maker window to open up. Gods aren't used to waiting for anything, you understand; and the bored smiles I get from the hostess in a flimsy Naiad costume are infuriating.

At least I know my own disguise, as a potbellied business drone, is working. Normally a woman would be all over me within seconds. Especially the married ones. It's a curse to be the god of betrayals.

Finally, the diner at window three rolls off his stool, and the hostess waves me over.

The boy working window three can't be more than sixteen years old, but his hands are nimble and quick. He could be one of mine. I order Thunnus sashimi to start and watch as he makes art out of the preparation.

Cut, dip, form, assemble; his grace honors the once-living ingredients and the patron who demands this sacrifice. It's a quaint ritual, designed to give mortals a simulation of receiving worship. I don't begrudge you that need, but it is only a shadow of what real adulation feels like.

The boy bows his head when presenting the wooden slab, adorned with three perfect portions of fish. He doesn't look up as I consume the offering. The textures and flavors unravel magnificently in my mouth, and it almost feels like a sin to swallow.

I compliment the boy, order an Arachne roll, and ask: "Did you grow up on the island?"

He stiffens, but doesn't pause his dance, spinning inside the tiny booth to retrieve a soft-shell crab, turning back to fold it into his next edible creation. "Long time ago, sir. Live here now."

"Ever visit back home? Friends, family?"

He pauses, knife in mid-air, and glances at me. "Got no family since the war, sir. No friends, neither."

The knife descends, slicing through the seaweed-wrapped bundle.

"Not even Kritodemos?"

He stops the blade and looks up. His hands move to grip the edges of his counter, and I see them shaking. "How you know that name?"

I smile at him, a god's smile, and I know it calms him, even if he refuses to soften his stare.

I pull out the hundred-drachma note the man in the alley gave me. The hologram of Zeus glitters in the light. You'd never know it was counterfeit if you didn't have a god's eyes.

"He's here," I say to the boy. "Paroled last week. He will arrange a chance meeting soon, be surprised to run into you, want to catch up. You'll go along. Why not? It'll feel just like old times. You'll wonder how you ever had any fun without him. But he will betray you at the first opportunity."

I slide the cash across the counter.

"I can't accept," the boy says.

"A generous gratuity," I say. "Take it. You're right, islander: you have no friends. Only the gods."

After a moment, he snatches the money and hides it in a pocket, faster than even my eyes can follow. Nimble and quick.



Photo Credit: korafotomorgana via Compfight cc

"Where the Shadows Run From Themselves"

WHERE THE SHADOWS RUN FROM THEMSELVES
By Curtis C. Chen

The elevator stops and the doors open on a featureless white chamber, a single room with a square table in the middle. There's something on the table, blinking different colors, but you can't quite make it out from here.

You step out of the elevator.

The doors slide shut behind you, and when you turn back, the elevator has disappeared. There's only a blank white wall there, and all around you. No windows, no doors, nothing.

Soft white light seems to emanate from every surface, as if these objects are glowing from within.

The lights on the table keep blinking. You walk forward to get a better look.

Attached to the table is a rectangular white box. You can't move it; the box feels like a single, solid block, except for three blinking lights on top.

The lights shine inside three big plastic push-buttons—red, green, and blue, from left to right—each one a convex disk as big as your palm.

You reach out and press down on the red button. You feel something click inside the box.

A male voice booms from the ceiling: "I said don't push the red button!"

You jump back. Nothing else happens. You wait for what feels like a long time—you start counting slowly, but stop after you reach twenty-six.

The button-lights continue blinking.

You push the green button. Nothing happens. You push it again. Still nothing.

You push the blue button. All the illuminated surfaces around you go dark, leaving just the buttons blinking in blackness. You push the blue button again. The lights come back on.

It's weird that the green button doesn't seem to do anything.

You stare at the buttons for a while, and you realize that each one is blinking a different sequence. Sometimes the light stays on for a long time, and sometimes it's much shorter; similarly, there are short pauses, long pauses, and extra-long pauses between lights. The sequences repeat.

The red and green sequences are very similar. The only difference between them is where their single extra-long pause occurs. For red, it's after a long light and before another long light. For green, it's after a short and before a long.

The blue sequence is significantly different from red or green. Blue has more short lights, and a longer sequence overall. You wish you had some pen and paper to write this down, but it's a small enough data set that you can keep it all in your head.

You leave out the extra-long pauses, since that's where each sequence repeats, and the short pauses, which simply appear to separate the lights. What does that give you?

Red: long, short, pause, long, long, long.

Green: long, long, long, pause, long, short.

Blue: long, long, long, pause, short, short, long, short, pause, short, short, long, short.

Recognition snaps into place. You know what this is. You know what the lights are telling you to do.

You push the green button, then the blue button.

And then you see it.



Photo Credit: iseethelight via Compfight cc