9 Tales From Elsewhere 2

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “He just tried to kill us,” Mac reminded her.

  “That was probably just instinctive,” said Harpe. “Can he kill someone in cold blood?”

  Releasing his grip, Mac looked her over. “Jack has a weakness for a pretty face, but I’ll make do with you. We can use that.”

  Harpe arched an eyebrow. “How?”

  A smile crept on his face. “Do you trust me?’

  Harpe snorted, “Nein.”

  Mac shoved her forward. “Too bloody bad.”

  It took them several minutes to find a through the labyrinth of corridors back to the main chamber. Jack was leaning against an obelisk still stroking the gauntlet. He looked up at them and shook his head, his voice coarse he said, “You shouldn’t have done that, Mac. I saved your life.”

  Keeping his voice firm, Mac replied, “I’m trying to do the same. Take off the glove, Jack.”

  Jack stood his ground. “No.”

  Mac drew his gun. “Take it off or I put a bullet in her head.”

  Jack studied him and laughed. “Ah, Mac always so gruff, so tough talking but we both know you don’t have it in you.”

  Mac licked his lips. “I’ll do it, Jack. I will put a bullet in her bloody, nazi skull if you don’t take if off right bloody now.”

  Jack shrugged. “I’m waiting, old boy.”

  A tiny bead of sweat ran down Mac’s head. He rammed the butt of his gun into Harpe’s skull. She fell to her knees with a shriek. ‘I’ll do it.”

  Jack pointed to Harpe groaning on the floor. “She’s still alive. Tell you what. She loves Set so much I’ll send her to join him.”

  Mac brought up the pistol to his head. “Then I’ll kill myself and only you can stop me.”

  Jack studied him. “You won’t do it.”

  “I won’t be turned into one of those things. You always cared about the welfare of the lads. Show it.”

  Jack frowned. He bent over as if in pain. “Don’t...make me...choose.”

  Mac kept the revolver pointed at his head. “You have to.”

  An expression of doubt crossed Jack’s face. He looked up at the ceiling and let out a scream. Tiny sparks of yellow energy crackled from the Gauntlet. Jack ripped the gauntlet from his arm and fell to his knees.

  When he didn’t move, Mac made his way over. “You alright, mate?”

  Jack vomited onto the floor. After several seconds of puking his guts out, he wiped his mouth. “Been... better. Cheers.”

  “No worries.” Mac looked back at Harpe. “What about you?”

  Rubbing her head, Harpe replied, “Mein gott. Did you have to hit me so hard?”

  Mac shrugged. “Had to look real. Given all this is your fault, I could have shot you. Be glad I didn’t go with my first instinct.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Now I’m going to destroy that thing, and I swear, if you move an inch from that spot I will kill you. No bluffing this time.”

  Harpe raised her hand. “Wait! You can’t destroy it.”

  Mac took a step forward. “What did I just say?”

  Harpe shrunk back. “I do not mean you can not attempt to destroy it. I mean it can not be destroyed. Why do you think it is still here?”

  Mac ran a hand through his hair. “So what are my choices here?”

  Harpe brushed red gold hair from her eyes. “Your only option is to put it back in the statue. That should seal it up.”

  Mac looked over at the large statue of Set, he could almost see it smiling as if mocking him. “So you and the rest of your nutcase friends can come back for it. No, I have a better idea.”

  A suspicious look crossed Harpe’s face. “What?”

  Mac grinned. “I think I’ll dump the bloody thing in the desert. A lot harder for anyone to find it buried in a few thousand miles of sand.”

  Harpe shook her head. “Please. It is a piece of history. You can’t do that.”

  “I damn well can. Now give me your jacket. I’m not touching the thing.”

  “As long as you don’t put it on, it is safe to touch,” said Harpe.

  “Forgive me if I won’t take your word for it,” said Mac.

  He leaned down and wrapped the gauntlet up in the jacket and tucked the package under his arm. “Jack you ready to leave?”

  Though still somewhat woozy-looking, Jack got to his feet and leaned against the wall. “Ready...when you are...old boy.”

  Mac gestured to Harpe to start walking. “Then let’s get the bloody hell out of here.”

  THE END.

  MECHANICAL|CHEMICALS by Daniel J. Kirk

  “Is that one yours?”

  I knew immediately her voice did not match her beauty. How could it ever? Her skin was warm like the sun without being too tan; her hair was light enough that it wasn’t jet-black, but dark enough that it framed her kitten-like face. Her round blue eyes blinked; counting how long my response took.

  “Yes,” I replied and shot my eyes back towards my robot. It wasn’t much to look at and the young girl’s face had now burned itself into the back of my eyelids. There it was again with every blink. She must’ve started to think I had something caught in my eyes.

  “That’s mine over there.” She pointed to a robot that was near identical to mine with less upgrades, but a shinier coat of paint. It had the same standard issue treads and its two arms had not been upgraded out of the box. They were easily a meter shorter than mine, though I had been meaning to add an additional shorter pair once I finished this job and could afford it.

  “Very nice, how long have you had it?” I asked, not sure where the conversation she started was ever intended to go.

  “Almost two years.” That meant she was 18, like me. And like me that meant this was her last year being spoon fed by the government. From here on out the jobs she went after would be in the private sector. The right one could buy the kind of upgrades that would allow one to rest on their laurels. At least that was the dream my parents always told me.

  It was all about upgrades. From the day we were given our robots to the day we died the key was to be continually upgrading. The more your robot could do, the more valuable it was. Right now ours weren’t much better than litter pick-up and food service—certainly not food preparation. I knew mine wouldn’t even pass for janitorial duties, but I had six more months until graduation and a few gigs would at least get me enough parts to make my resume look good. I’d read where a lot of places were willing to upload the software for free once you were hired.

  “Are you ready for graduation?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I kind of goofed off when I first got it. See all the pretty decals? Yeah, stupid, I know. My parent’s paid for it, but now I’m cut off and I wish I’d thought ahead, you know? I’m Becca by the way.” She stopped me before I could share my name, it was enough to make me blush when she said, “You’re Micah aren’t you.

  I nodded.

  Becca was so beautiful I had a hard time keeping my eyes on my robot. I should have been making sure it wasn’t malfunctioning as it removed the debris.

  “I know what you mean, but this is a good gig. You should get plenty for it.” I smiled and almost patted her on the back, but found my confidence had gone. So I just offered a chuckle.

  “Good gig?” Becca shook her head. “Fifteen thousand died.”

  “I know, but I mean, we’re helping now?”

  Her eyes apologized for her outburst. “I just get so mad about it. The terrorists just can’t leave us alone, I’ve thought about enlisting my robot. Uncle Sam pays for all the upgrades then.”

  “Yeah but if it gets destroyed in combat you’re back at square one,” I said.

  “Not too far off from where my robot is now. Plus you get monthly pay for service time. That might afford me a few upgrades on a standard issue robot, right?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t given much thought to military service since all the upgrades the government provided were dismantled when and if your robot returned from active duty, half the time they came back stri
pped of anything and all things you’d done before as well. Plus there were robots designed from start to battle threats, a standard issue was just cannon fodder and Uncle Sam had no qualms about that. I felt required to talk Becca out of it.

  “You know they can try you for war crimes if something faulty happens with your robot, right?”

  She didn’t blink. Maybe she had heard it before, but she said that she hadn’t.

  “I guess that makes sense. If your robot isn’t up to par it could jeopardize the others.” She paused giving the information some deeper consideration while I sent a command to my robot that would adjust its programming to give its gears a bit of a rest. I didn’t want it to overheat.

  Becca pointed. “That girder is probably worth nine thousand.”

  “Leave it. That’s gonna take a Gorilla upgrade to move.”

  “Nine thousand,” she reminded me, and produced a smile that I think I fell in love with. People say a smile can sparkle and usually they are just referring to the glare bouncing off damp teeth, but this one sparkled on her cheeks, on the tip of her chin, and in her eyes. It was a smile of a promise, a guarantee of excitement. But considering it was at the thought of pushing her poor little robot to attempt a nine thousand dollar girder removal, well that smile just might’ve been insanity.

  “You’re going break your robot. Right back to square one and you haven’t even graduated.”

  “I’m not thinking of doing it with my robot.” She grinned wider as if I was supposed to guess.

  “It’ll bust mine, too. My robot has only half the strength required to lift that. Slow and steady wins the race they say. It’ll stick to the little stuff.”

  “Yes, but a big haul like that? Imagine the upgrades you could get for forty-five hundred.”

  “Fifty, fifty?” I finally caught on. And to be honest it might work. The two of our robots could probably handle the girder, but they’d have to work in unison, which works if they are programmed that way.

  “Yes.”

  Still if her robot couldn’t handle it she’d take out both of us.

  “We can do it.” She hit her control pad a couple of times and I watched her robot move to the far end of the girder, it positioned itself and waited.

  If Becca had been unattractive I’d walk away, but something primitive in me had me wrapping my hands around my control pad and debating the send button that would confirm my order.

  “Take them into manual mode, right?” she said switching her controls over. It could work if I did the same. We would have to work as fast as each other on all the commands. Perfect harmony.

  I lined up my robot. I had named it Gehrig, The Iron Man.

  I didn’t want to see him broken. He hadn’t reached his prime yet. There were so many upgrades I wanted and could have soon enough if I just kept on. Wasn’t there a story about a Golden Goose?

  Her hand touched mine.

  “If you don’t want to that’s fine.”

  It was electric.

  “I understand if you don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

  It was as if I was the robot and I finally received my orders.

  I switched to manual mode.

  “You have to keep up with me,” I told her. She agreed and going against every thing I knew, I went ahead and rolled the dice.

  The girder was heavy. The second my robot touched it I saw the alarms turn from yellow to red and could see Becca’s alarms out of the corner of my eye. We were both pushing it. I watched the girder shake, ash fell from its sides as it slowly rose up.

  I swiped away the pop up on my screen that wanted me to consider taking a tutorial for lifting heavy things. An advertisement followed offering 20% off an strength upgrade that would impress all the “other robots.”

  I swiped away the warning that total weight had exceeded my robot’s abilities. I checked its overall performance and while the grips had gone to red, my arms were still holding steady in a yellowish green, no it had dipped to yellow.

  Then suddenly they turned orange, like a bad sunburn.

  “Stay with me!” I yelled at Becca.

  “I’m trying,” she said. If I were smart right then and there I would’ve back out, let the girder drag her robot under and just get mine free, but I couldn’t. There was that smile still burned into the back of my eyelids and reappearing with every blink.

  A whistle screamed and I hoped it wasn’t a busted air tube or hydraulic.

  My screen blinked red and black, something I’d never seen before, something I never wanted to see.

  ASSISTANCE REQUIRED---ABORT ALL PROCESSES

  “No!” I smacked my screen and kept grinding my fingers where the manual control was, the girder was high enough now that we were ready to march it towards the recycler.

  Forty-five hundred, I began to repeat to myself. It would take me two years to save that up. I could have it right now.

  “It’s slipping!” Becca cried out.

  “No!” I smashed at my screen and the warning went away.

  “I’m going to lose it!”

  The debris beneath her robot gave out, I saw my robot turn bright red on my screen, but in the distance it just looked like a machine. It was clueless to the fact that it was going to be destroyed.

  Then, just as the debris shifted a large chunk of concrete burst up and caught the girder. Balancing it between our robots.

  Becca’s voice cracked with glee, “I’m green again!”

  The weight was lifted.

  That’s what they needed, a rest. A few blinks and my robot went green as well.

  “Almost there,” Becca said.

  I should’ve said no. I should’ve done the smart thing and realized it was too much for the two of us. My hands had started working as if someone else wasn’t going to let me give up. It was like I was programmed to continue against my better judgment, against every warning that popped up in my brain.

  Our robots marched along. And again the debris shifted but something shot up and supported the girder. When our robots went green again we continued. It was such a stupid endeavor that I was laughing. Laughing all the way to the recycler.

  Becca started to laugh with me. I watched the recycler accept the girder and I saw my account balance immediately add $4500.00.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I could afford more than a Gorilla upgrade. I could skip food service. I could upgrade the janitorial duties that might land me in one of those upscale high rises that offered free rent to janitors. It was the best I’d ever felt.

  I hugged her with no fear of rejection. She accepted it and didn’t let go. After a moment of feeling I should let go of her, I stopped and just relaxed in her arms.

  “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

  “No.”

  “You saw where some of the robots who have better A.I. claim they have guardian angels. The say this is because the robots are aware that something is helping them, guiding them, making them make decisions they wouldn’t always do on their own and keeping them out of harm’s way. We are their guardian angels. I think we have guardian angels as well. How else would we have met and attempted that?”

  “I don’t know. Every action has a reaction, it just led to this.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Becca said. “I barely came here today. I was going to sign up for the military this week. I couldn’t even tell you what thought made me come here for the clean up. I believe we were brought to each other. Just like something moved all that debris just when we needed it most. We control the mechanical, but who controls the chemical?”

  I thought of when her hand touched mine. How right then and there I felt under someone else’s control. I thought of her smile and I wondered if one day the machines could control other machines so simply. What upgrade makes a robot swoon?

  THE END.

  HUSH, THE DOGS OF ACTAEON by James B. Pepe

  The Bohème insurgent had died sitting upright, palms upturned, as if he wanted me to inspect
them. Flat and thick, they were the hands of a Wing Chun fighter, a wood-block palm striker--the hands of a hard man; and someone, probably me, had quieted them, made them cold.

  “Can I talk about the Syllable?”

  The Bohème didn’t answer; he just sat there at the picnic table. He wore a mouthless gray veil, froggy blast goggles, and a blood-soaked derby, nailed in place by a 4mm flechette.

  Okay, I nodded. Okay. I touched my polymer Skull Face, my grafted Death’s Head, with adrenaline-jangled fingers. To the south, three brainstems of radioactive smoke capped the Wichita skyline. Fallout settled like gray snow on the empty swing sets and basketball courts of MacDougal Park.

  Okay then. Alright. I talked instead about Ranger Pudding--about mixing Nescafe, crushed crackers, and Coffeemate--while on bivouac, in the freezing rain, after a grueling 15K ruck; or that sacred drip of water, dripping like God’s silver, down Esther Jordan’s naked silhouette, as she sat on the edge of the dock, her feet dangling, heels drumming the wood; or how three birds flask-forged in a military lab can love someone with a fierce protective love.

  Talk to me, Bohème: What’s it like to skin a mother and her three sons, live on Public Access; to pack a nail bomb, to cut a grandmother’s turkey-wattled throat while she begs and begs and begs? How is that narrative sacred, holy--preferable? La Joie de la Face Grise. The Syllable. The Gray Face. Help me understand. Tell me; okay, okay, no, better yet--show me.

  Zip, buckle, pop--my coyote-brown trousers went down, and my survival knife came up, trembling, poised just beneath my avocado-nut genitals. Fast and hard, my lungs bellow-puffed in and out; cold and sharp, the sawback carbon steel was ready to cut. My loins shrank like a frightened snail, and I whispered: Hush.

  A Wound, a vaginal slit of molten light began spreading on the bark mulch between the picnic tables. My Skull Face, a hellish funhouse smear, looked back at me from my blade’s mirror-polish tip. Hush now.

  And beneath this strata of reality, something heard me. It Hushed, and I felt a hundred suns go cold; it Hushed, and a fire-hardened spear brought down an elk; oh yes, it Hushed again, and a Bohème survivor, two clicks to the west, took a self-inflicted Blackout nine to the dong. Behind my eyelids, I watched him drag a slime trail of blood toward the Von Franz Grain Elevator, cupping his butchered junk, sobbing--a hollow-point mushroom embedded in his femoral artery.