by Anthology
The Question
D C Mills
I attend the trial in disguise. Of course, I do just about everything in disguise these days, except maybe shower.
For today, I have chosen a vaguely military or Guard-style look: black bodyglove, high boots, crimson leather tunic. An embossed scabbard holding a short, pointed sword on my left hip, and a shoulder holster with two snub-nosed laspistols. Over it all, a long, black cloak with the hood drawn up to shadow my face. Probably an unnecessary precaution these days, but old habits die hard. The overall effect is intended to keep people from looking at me too hard, to avoid risking a violent response to their curiosity.
The trial results, predictably, in a guilty verdict, and the convicted girl is brought straight to the scaffold in the courtyard outside. The crowd pours through the wide doors, now flung open, to take advantage of the full entertainment package. Everybody loves a good burning.
I haven’t seen who I came here to find, so I make my way upstairs to the private chambers of the higher officials. I go to the door with the right name on it, knock, and enter immediately, as if I really were an officer, taking access to any room for granted.
He is standing by the window behind his desk, reading from a data slab while making notes. I have, of course, been watching him for a while, but being in the same room elicits a response from long unused neural pathways. Old emotions awaken.
He looks up, surprised, annoyed at being disturbed, but quickly feigning politeness at the sight of my uniform.
‘What can I do for you, officer?’ He puts down the data slab to show cooperation. Sensible, even for a man of his rank. I wonder, briefly, if I can still trust him.
I pull down the hood of my cloak, releasing the holographic visor.
‘It’s me.’ I say. ‘I’m back.’
He stares at me, as if unsure whether I am real. I can’t say I blame him.
‘I have been mourning you for over a century,’ he says at last. ‘You were said to have died in the fire.’
The fire, indeed. The huge conflagration that destroyed not only our native city, but the surrounding countryside and neighbouring towns: most of the continent, actually, causing the ecosystem of the planet to tilt and slide over the edge.
‘I’m sorry. It was safer to stay in hiding.’
‘Safer? For whom?’
‘For everybody. You, too.’ I hesitate and then plunge in. It’s what I’m here for, after all.
‘I have been able to investigate, do undercover work. I believe I have found the cause for the destruction of Naxos, as well as the organisation behind it.’
‘What do you mean, ‘organisation’? It was the Enemy who destroyed our planet.’
‘It would seem that way,’ I say carefully. ‘It was supposed to seem that way. The evidence was compiled and manufactured to point everyone at the Enemy—or rather, to confirm everybody’s inherent suspicion that the Enemy was behind the attack.’
I hand him my data slab containing the details: times, dates, connections, code names. Plans and reasons, maps and lists. The insane rationality behind the planned destruction of a whole series of planets, an entire subsector of the galaxy.
‘This is unbelievable,’ he says. His eyes narrow. ‘How can I be sure that you are you?’
I have been waiting for this question; I had expected it sooner. Is he growing old? Or feeling too secure in his position of power, maybe.
‘Ask me anything,’ I say. ‘Or …’
He looks at me shrewdly. ‘A mind-meld? You know I wouldn’t risk that without knowing it really was you.’
Long ago, when our world was still green, we knew each other intimately and believed it would be so forever. We shared everything. Some secrets are hidden so deep that even identity theft or torture cannot bring them out: only someone who already knows the answer can ask the right question.
I think I know what his will be.
I shrug, outwardly unconcerned. ‘Ask, then.’
I brace myself for the coming wave of unleashed memories. Will my laboriously upheld balance of mind withstand the emotional assault?
He asks the question that will at the same time confirm my identity and be my undoing.
D C Mills (a.k.a. Dorthe Møller Christensen) is a scholar and teacher of classics; knitting designer, runner, reader, and writer of short stories. She lives in a small house in the middle of Denmark with three tall sons and a spoilt cat. [email protected]
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34.
Alecre and Shanno
S.M. Kraftchak
Peering into the busy passageway, Creela practiced a respiration, tugged her uniform into place, and stepped forward. She walked slowly at first, her eyes darting to each humanoid that passed, smiling when they smiled, and returning nods.
“Lieutenant Creela, a word, if you don’t mind?”
Creela paused. Looking around to be sure no one heard her hydra pulse quicken, she turned to face the tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes. She hoped she wasn’t being rude enough to blush. “Major Hanson, what can I do for you?” He stopped close enough that she could sense his musky smell, and found it strangely alluring.
“I was going over your thesis on alien incursion and found your premise quite interesting. I wondered if you might be available after-shift to discuss it over drinks.”
Creela spotted the corners of his smile quivering, as his pupils widened, and was relieved to know that humanoids couldn’t hear her hydra race as she could hear his heart. She felt her mouth drop open as her mind scrambled to find the correct response. Think quick, Creela, think. What would a humanoid do?
“Um, um, do you think the environmental controls are malfunctioning? It feels awfully cool in here,” she said.
Hanson’s face creased above his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned downward.
Creela hadn’t yet mastered the complex language of humanoid faces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Perhaps I should—”
“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ve been alone in deep space for so long that my interpersonal skills ….”
Creela smiled and held out her hand. “I’d love to discuss my thesis over drinks.”
Her own eyes widened and she forgot to respire as Hanson lifted her hand to his lips and pressed their warm softness to her palm.
“Until later, then.” His voice was a deep low purr.
As Hanson walked away, Creela tipped her head to the side to overcome a rush of vertigo. Her mouth formed a perfect O as she admired the man’s sculpted form. “Well, let’s hope our species have more than that in common,” she thought. She was mildly aware when another humanoid stopped close behind her.
“You lucky girl,” Yeoman Tate whispered in Creela’s ear. “Every red-blooded female on the station has been yearning after that one. You don’t even try and you lure him right in. If only he’d wear his uniforms a little tighter. . . .”
“It’s just a meeting to discuss—” Creela looked at Tate.
Tate snickered and fluttered her eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that.”
***
Looking both ways first, Creela pressed Hanson’s door chime. The door opened almost immediately. Hot moist air surged from behind the man, who nearly filled the doorway.
“Lieutenant Creela, so glad you could make it.”
Creela trembled involuntarily in the warm humidity.
“Come in, please.”
She nodded and stepped in. The room was lit by a small, dancing holo-fire. She tipped her head as the man stepped in front of her and removed his flowing shirt to reveal his glistening chest. She never suspected that humanoid mating rituals were so close to her own. Creela felt her tiny spiracles nearly suck her loose clothing to her skin. She struggled for composure and held a hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling—”
“No deception necessary, Alecre.”
Creela stepped back and stared into Hanson’s face. “How do you know that name?”
Hanson eased forward, gazing into her eyes. “You are so focused on your deceptive form that you don’t recognize me, do you? I’d know you across the galaxy by your essence.”
Mesmerized, Creela allowed Hanson to lift her flowing shirt over her head. As it slipped from her arms, her spiracles flared. “Shanno?”
A moment later, their spiracle-covered skin flushed lavender and their bodies pressed together, allowing their essences to entwine in sensual embrace.
S. M. Kraftchak notes: As a writer who spends most of her time in other worlds with dragons, elves, and the occasional alien, S.M. still enjoys sunrise on the beach, sunset in the mountains, and portraying Elizabeth Tudor. She has two dogs, who think they are footrests, a cat who thinks she’s a blanket, and three awesome daughters. Her husband is her best friend, her harshest critic, and her most fervent supporter. Writing is S.M.’s passion.
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35.
The Bold and Parenthetic—Dr. Emma Dash
Gene Hilgreen
The smells of wasteland, from long abandoned and burnt-out buildings—foul miasma of the Anacostia River—excited her soul. From the upper perch of her building, a swarm of mosquitoes circled Emma Dash as she stared at the dome of the White House—from the upper perch of her building. Each mosquito that entered her Kwan—an eighteen-inch invisible shield—dropped dead to the ground.
From the outside, it looked like every other disheveled building in the area. On the inside, it was a state-of-the-art Quantum Nanophysics Laboratory, and Em Dash, her preferred address to close friends and family—and long thought dead by the current administration, was exacting her revenge. Emma defended the Constitution—well, what once was the Constitution, but now was only a piece of art from the past with no meaning. The man who ruined her life went by many names (Barry, Obie, Barack, Soetoro, Soebarkah), and Emma knew them all. She knew his past and could prove it. The man she loathed more than anyone on Earth now went by—Harrison J. Bounel.
“How dare you challenge me—the Lord and Savior of America,” he said.
“Yeah Barry—you may have the Fourth Estate, the far left, and Hollywood fooled, but—you don’t fool me.”
“Well, Dr. Dash—you’re fired.” He turned to walk away, stopped and nodded to his Secret Service detail. “In fact—arrest her. Dr. Emma Dash—you are done!”
Three months later, with mounting support from the right, her bail was set at twenty-five million dollars. An anonymous admirer paid it and she was free.
Em Dash faked her own death—
She watched as the full moon shone blue-white over the White House dome. But enough with her sightseeing—she had work to do. That same moon shone over her neighborhood, thronged with gangs at war, the drunk and dissipated, adventurous students of debauchery, as well as the lonely, desperate and deformed—all there for her picking. Her robots extracted them from the grim and foul-smelling lodgings that they called home.
Dr. Emma Dash had perfected her own drone, a programmable biomechanical mosquito that would attack its designated target, and she was fully prepared to target American citizens with drones. One of the many flat screen monitors arrayed on her desk displayed the late edition of the Washington Post headline—Extra, Extra Twenty-Second Amendment Abolished—President Bounel Declares Marshal Law.
She looked to her army of human-like robots and said, “Get me three more subjects.”
There were many reasons she choose this site for her lab. The proximity to the White House was important, but the plethora of homeless subjects, and access to the river—for disposal—were the most important. She was never concerned with her own welfare; her army of androids protected her from any person who dared to encroach on the programmed boundary, which defined her sphere.
She turned her attention to the story in the news that followed the headline. From the White House lawn at 0900 hours on August 13—tomorrow morning—in celebration of International Lefties Day, President Harrison J. Bounel would declare to the world his new self-appointed title—Supreme Lord and Ruler of the United States of America.
Em Dash smiled and yelled out loud, “Never going to happen!”
At nine a.m. on August 13, three unwitting spectators awaiting the president’s speech unknowingly released a swarm of deadly mosquito drones. Within seconds, Harrison J. Bounel was dead.
Dr. Emma Dash—her boldness apparent—smiled.
Gene Hilgreen spent thirty-five years in information technology and ITGC audit. Now retired, he authored Dragon at 1600, the first of a series in which he lives through his protagonist Buckner Axele Davidssen, a protector of the Constitution … who reports only to God and Old Glory.
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36.
Arctic Freeze
Kalifer Deil
Mason Dodd, a salmon fisherman out of Scanlon Bay, had the Bering Sea as his mistress. It challenged him with its tree-tall waves and screaming winds, making him feel alive. He caressed it when it was glass-calm and the Chinook salmon seemed to jump onto his hooks. When he was on shore he felt uneasy, in a foreign land with people he didn't like. His boat, The Big Chinook, was his home, his refuge, his country.
He set out Tuesday morning on The Big Chinook, a custom Blasedale Sportfisher, constructed of heavy carbon fiber, unsinkable, self-righting, and providing the comforts of home. He set a course to his favorite spot, 70 miles east of Nunivak Island, and went below to sleep off a hangover. He never drank at sea but always in port to shut out the people. The only person he tolerated was Mike, a buyer who knew salmon.
When he awakened Wednesday to a sea of blue-green glass and air minus 6 Celsius, a thin sliver of sun could be seen that spread on the horizon. He walked out on the icy deck, holding onto the rail with his gloved hands. Realizing he would be at the area soon with 12 lines to set he went back to the cabin, filled his pockets with trolling sinkers, wrapped his right arm around a set of poles, and grabbed a can of live bait with the other. He set all the poles into their sockets, circled back to bait the hooks, and attached a sinker.
While he was baiting the third pole, the boat heaved and the bait can took off toward the opposite gunnel. He dove after the bait, so the trip would not be a loss. The ice on the deck made no attempt to slow either Mason or pail, so both hit the gunnel together. The round can, now on its side, became a wheel, flipping Mason over the side under the railing. No life jacket, a pocket full of sinkers, going down, and before losing consciousness he was enveloped in a blue-green glow, "Bioluminescence?" he thought.
Mason awoke in a room with an indiscernible light source. Puzzled, he yelled out, "Am I dead?"
A familiar voice answered, "No." It was Mike, now walking toward him.
Mason, still confused: "Mike, where the hell am I?"
"Your mind's been resurrected. We were inspecting an ancient crash site; then we surfaced under your craft, causing you to drown. Your body is dead."
Mason looked down. "I have a body."
"A virtual body, and all else can be what you think it to be."
Suddenly Mason found himself on his boat. "I did that?"
Mike was standing on the deck in front of him. "Yes, I'm your memory of Mike, with alien help."
"You mean space alien? You saved me?"
Mike faded, saying, "We fix what we cause."
He wished for things as they were, and he was on the deck baiting hooks. The boat slowed to troll, dropping all lines. Mason was beginning to think all that happened was a dream.
A little impatient, he thought, "What if they all bit at once?" Then, all the lines flexed. He jumped from pole to pole reeling in the salmon, 12 beautiful specimens, and 40 pounds each. He repeated this twice and returned to Scanlon Bay.
Mike was there, since Mason radioed him. Mike yelled as he docked, "So, you had a bit of luck today." Mike, amazed at the catch: "These are perfect."
It all fe
lt real. He thought himself younger; he was. He thought huge Chinook salmon; he pulled in a 120-pounder. He thought the best-looking whore in Anchorage, Trixie Card; he had sex with her. He thought Joe Grundy, a fisherman he hated, fall overboard and die; he heard the commotion by radio: when pulled from the water, Joe was dead. Mason smiled.
He couldn't die. He could wish anything.
Mason thought, What if I think something impossible like this boat flipping over and not righting? He noticed a rogue wave on his starboard side but failed to notice another on the port side. The starboard wave crashed into the boat, flipping it; then the port wave hit, an instant later, crushing the boat between them. The remains quickly sank. In the darkness of his dimming mind, he heard Mike's voice, "We can rescue you from our mistakes but not from your own folly."
Kalifer Deil is the writer pseudonym for Gary Feierbach, a Silicon Valley engineer. He writes mostly hard science fiction but occasionally branches off into occult, fantasy. He also writes science articles and has a website, http://www.kaliferdeil.com, with curiously interesting science articles and some short stories.
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37.
The Duplicate Goodbye
Jon Ricson
Ergo sat on a large pipe near the airlock. Through the portal window, he saw the Jure, his beautiful second home. He’d be aboard her for quite some time, so it was a good thing he thought of the ship so fondly.
Looking back into the busy port, he saw his To-Be-Beloved approach. Not until she neared did he notice that she had done him yet another injustice.
They had been Predestined for several seasons, but it had not been easy. They were not well-paired. She was from one of the most traditional families on Padar, who did not appreciate his more progressive proclivities. His decision to undergo a transform was especially troubling for them, even though Solian transforms had become very popular across the entire planet.
Onni was also disgruntled that her To-Be-Beloved was about to take off on yet another monitoring mission near the Sol system. Traditionalists had been quite vocal against the Padarean obsession with the Sol system since the first transmissions had reached Padar many seasons ago.
