Diverse Energies

by Joe Monti Tobias S. Buckell

  Felipe kneels down and sees the damage. “Oh fuck, Jefe,” he says. “What’d it do to you?”

  But I see Big Happy moving behind Felipe now. My face must tell the whole story because Felipe grabs me by the waist and drags me back around the counter without even looking at the door. He’s panting and taking little crab steps. I can smell the joint in his front pocket. He drags me around behind the counter and as I watch my blood smearing behind me on the tile floor, I think, shit, man, I just mopped that.

  We make it inside the doorway behind the register and into the cramped back room. There’s a low row of stainless steel sinks full of soapy water, a wall of cleaning supplies, and a little cubby desk in the corner that has our punch clock sitting on it. In the very back is a narrow hallway that leads to the alley behind the store.

  Then Big Happy plows into Felipe out of nowhere. Instead of following behind us, the fucker was smart enough to climb over the counter and head us off at the pass. I hear a thump and see Big Happy bash Felipe across the chest with its forearm. Not at all like getting punched by a guy; more like getting hit by a car or, like, nailed by a falling brick or something. Felipe flies backward and hits the cabinet doors where we keep all the paper towels and stuff. He stays on his feet, though. When he stumbles forward, I see a dent in the wood from the back of his head. But he’s wide awake and more pissed off than ever.

  I drag myself away, towards the sinks, but my shoulder is messed up and my arms are slippery with blood and I can hardly breathe from the pain in my chest.

  There aren’t any weapons or anything back here so Felipe snatches the mop from the filthy yellow bucket on wheels. It’s an old mop with a solid wooden handle and it’s been there I don’t know how long. There’s no room to swing the mop but it doesn’t matter because the robot is hell-bent on grabbing Felipe the same way it grabbed me. He rams the mop up and gets it wedged under Big Happy’s chin. Felipe isn’t a tall guy but he’s taller than the machine and has a longer reach. It can’t get a hold of him. He shoves the machine away from us, its arms waving around like snakes.

  The next part is awesome.

  Big Happy falls backward onto the cubby desk in the corner, its legs sticking straight out, heels on the ground. With no hesitation, Felipe raises his right foot straight up and comes down with all his weight on its knee joint. Snap! The robot’s knee pops and bends backward at a totally fucked-up angle. With the mop handle stuck under its chin, the machine can’t catch its balance and it can’t grab hold of Felipe, either. I’m wincing just looking at that knee but the machine doesn’t make any noise or anything. I only hear its motors grinding and the sound of its hard plastic shell banging into the desk and wall while it struggles to get up.

  “Yeah, motherfucker!” Felipe shouts before crushing the robot’s other knee joint backwards. Big Happy lays on its back with both legs broken and an angry-as-fuck sweaty two-hundred-pound Mexican on top of it. I can’t help but start thinking that everything is going to be okay.

  Turns out I’m wrong about that.

  It’s his hair, you know. Felipe’s hair is too long. Simple as that.

  The machine stops struggling, reaches out and clamps a gripper down on Felipe’s dark black mane. He hollers and yanks his head back. But this isn’t like getting your hair pulled in a bar fight; this is like getting caught in a shredder or a piece of heavy equipment in a factory. It’s brutal. Every muscle in Felipe’s neck stands out and he screams like an animal. His eyes squeeze shut as he pulls away with all his might. I can hear the roots tearing out from his scalp. But the fucking thing just pulls Felipe’s face closer and closer.

  It’s unstoppable, like gravity or something.

  After a couple seconds, Felipe is close enough that Big Happy can get hold of him with its other gripper. The mop handle clatters to the floor as the other gripper closes in on Felipe’s chin and mouth, crushing the bottom part of his face. He screams and I can hear his jaw cracking. Teeth pop out of his mouth like fucking popcorn.

  That’s when I realize that I’m probably going to die in the back room of Freshee’s fuckin’ Frogurt.

  I never spent much time in school. It’s not that I’m stupid. I mean, I guess I’m just saying I’m not generally known for my bright ideas. But when your ass is on the line and violent death is ten feet away, I think it can really put your brain in gear.

  So a bright idea comes to me. I reach behind me and bury my good left arm in the cold soaking water in the sink. In the water, I can feel cookie sheets and dippers, but I’m fishing for the drain plug. Across the room, Felipe is quieting down, making some gurgling sounds. Blood is pouring out of him, down Big Happy’s arm. The whole bottom of his face is crushed in its gripper. Felipe’s eyes are open and kind of bugging out, but I think he’s pretty much out of it.

  Man, I hope he’s out of it.

  The machine is doing that scanning thing again, being really still and turning its face left and right real slow.

  By now my arm is going numb, the blood cut off from where I have it hooked over the lip of the sink. I keep fishing for the plug.

  Big Happy stops scanning, looks right at me. It pauses for maybe a second and then I hear its gripper motors whining as it lets go of poor Felipe’s face. He drops to the ground like a sack of bricks.

  I’m whimpering. The alley door is a million miles away and I can barely keep my head up. I’m sitting in a pool of my own blood and I can see Felipe’s teeth on the tile floor. I know what’s going to happen to me and there’s nothing I can do about it and I know it’s gonna hurt so much.

  At last, I find the drain plug and rake at it with my dead fingers. It pops out of the drain and I hear the gurgling of water draining out. I told Felipe a hundred times, if the sink drains out too fast it’ll flood the floor drain and then I gotta mop in here all over again.

  You know Felipe flooded that motherfucker on purpose every night for about a month before we finally made friends? He was pissed off that our boss hired a white guy for the front and a Mexican guy for the back. I didn’t blame him. You know what I mean, Officer? You’re Indian, right?

  Native American, Jeff. Osage Nation. Try and tell me what happened next.

  Well, I used to hate mopping up that water. And now I’m laying on the floor counting on it to save my life.

  Big Happy tries to stand, but its legs are useless. It collapses onto the floor, face down. Then it starts to crawl forward on its stomach, using its arms. It’s got that awful grin on its face and its eyes are locked on mine as it drags itself across the room. There’s blood all over it, like a crash test dummy that bleeds.

  The drain isn’t flooding fast enough.

  I press my back against the sink as hard as I can. My knees are up and my legs pulled in tight. The glurg, glurg of the water draining out of the sink pulses behind my head. If the plug gets sucked halfway back in to slow it down or something, I’m dead. I’m totally dead.

  The robot is pulling itself closer. It reaches out a gripper and tries to grab my Air Force One. I yank my foot back and forth, and it misses me. So it pulls itself even closer. On the next lunge, I know it’s probably going to get hold of my leg and crush it.

  As its arm rises, the whole robot all of a sudden gets yanked back about three feet. It turns its head and there’s Felipe, laying on his back and choking on his own blood. His sweaty black hair is clinging in streaks to his ruined face. There’s, like, no mouth on him anymore, just a big raw wound. But his eyes are open wide and burning with something beyond hatred. I know he’s saving my life, but he looks, well, evil. Like a demon on a surprise visit from Hell.

  He yanks on Big Happy’s shattered leg one more time, then closes his eyes. I don’t think he’s breathing anymore. The machine ignores him. It aims its smiling face at me and keeps on coming.

  Just then, a flood of water bubbles up out of the floor drain. The soapy water pools up quick and silent, turning light pink.

  Big Happy is crawling again when the water soaks into
its broken knee joints. There’s a smell of burnt plastic in the air and the machine freezes up and stops. Nothing exciting. The machine just stops working. It must of got water in its wires and, like, short-circuited.

  It’s about a foot away from me, still smiling.

  That’s really all there is to tell. You know the rest.

  Thanks, Jeff. I know that wasn’t easy. I got everything I need to make my report now. I’ll let you get some rest.

  Hey man, can I ask a question real quick before you go?

  Shoot.

  How many domestics are out there? Big Happys, Slow Sues, and the rest of ’em? Because I heard there were, like, two of them for every one person.

  I don’t know. Listen, Jeff, the machine just went willy nilly. We can’t explain it.

  Well, what’s going to happen if they all start hurting people, dude? What’s going to happen if we’re outnumbered? That thing wanted to kill me, period. I told it to you straight. Nobody else might believe me, but you know what’s up.

  Promise me something, Officer Blanton. Please.

  What’s that?

  Promise me that you’ll watch out for the robots. Watch ’em close. And . . . don’t let them hurt anybody else like they did Felipe. Okay?

  After the collapse of the United States government Officer Lonnie Wayne Blanton joined the Osage Nation Lighthorse Tribal Police. It was there, in service of the Osage People’s sovereign government, that Lonnie Wayne had the chance to make good on his promise to Jeff.

  Uncertainty Principle

  by K. Tempest Bradford

  The world always changed around Iliana, but she never changed with it. She could always feel this when it happened: a roaring, rushing sound filled her ears, invisible tendrils gripped her chest and heart. It never lasted more than a second. So fleeting she could dismiss it except for the consequences. Because when the sound faded and the pain eased, the world around her had changed, even if she didn’t know how.

  This went on all her life, as far as she could tell. Even before she knew what it meant. Looking back, she recognized moments she’d dismissed or misunderstood. Like the time her mother’s hair went from long to short right in front of her yet no one else noticed. Or the day her school’s name changed from King to Bond Hill Elementary, and no one remembered it any differently.

  But there was no mistaking what happened on the night of her seventh birthday.

  Iliana’s parents deemed her old enough to have a sleepover, so she got to invite five best friends. At bedtime, they all went to the basement to make pallets out of their sleeping bags and blankets. When the sound rushed up on her, she remembered thinking, Oh no, not again. Louder than it had ever been, the sound roared louder than a train speeding past.

  She remembered how it felt — as if someone pulled her heart out of her — and cried out as it stopped for a beat. She didn’t remember falling down or passing out. When she could hear again, Cara’s voice yelling for her mom cut through the haze. Ripley shook her, saying, “Wake up, wake up!” while both Sarah and Nora cried.

  Her mom hurried down the stairs, footsteps like thunder on the old wood. “Ili, sweetheart, are you okay? Open your eyes, m’ija.” She didn’t want to move, irrationally afraid that the pain would come back. But the fear in her mother’s voice made her scared, too, so she obeyed.

  “What happened?” her mom asked.

  “I felt —” The girls had moved in closer, and she noticed one standing next to Ripley that she’d never seen before. “Who’s that?”

  “Who’s who?”

  Iliana pointed at the new girl, who looked both scared and a little hurt.

  “That’s Nivair, honey.”

  “But . . . where’s Grayson?”

  Grayson was her first best friend. The only girl in class with kinky curly hair like hers. She hated bananas and broccoli, loved playing basketball and braiding hair, and was two inches taller than every other girl in the second grade.

  Those are the things Iliana remembers about Grayson. The only things. She held on to them. Because that night in the basement was the last time she saw her.

  Both her mom and her friends said that they didn’t know anyone named Grayson. But everyone knew Nivair. Iliana didn’t understand. Nivair didn’t look anything like Grayson or any other girl in her school. Where did she come from? How could she stand there and say she was Iliana’s friend when they’d never met? Everyone, even her mom, looked at her like she was crazy.

  It was the most awful feeling. Even worse than the pain in her chest. And when she wouldn’t stop crying, her mother decided to take her to the hospital while her dad called the girls’ parents to come get them.

  In the ER she told nurses and doctors about the pain but refused to talk about Grayson. They hooked her up to machines, did tests, and found nothing.

  The pain, like Grayson, must have been in her head, one doctor told her mother. Iliana knew that wasn’t true, but it seemed safer to agree and stay quiet. She promised herself that’s what she would do if this ever happened again.

  The changing didn’t stop, though it did pause for a long time. Two years went by before it happened again — just long enough for Iliana to start mistrusting her own memories. Certainty came rushing back along with that sound, now familiar and dreaded, in the middle of math class.

  Less severe than the last, the pain dissipated almost as soon as she felt it. Her eyes stayed open, so she saw the classroom walls turn from white to dingy gray. The desks changed, too, now looking older and more abused than they had before. Panic bloomed in her stomach. What, or who, had she lost this time?

  No one, it turned out. None of the kids she knew had disappeared. Her house was still there when she got home. Her parents came home in time for dinner, like always. But even that little change at school had to mean something, she decided. So she started keeping track.

  She bought an old-fashioned pocket notebook from the paperie in the mall and wrote down all the dates and times she could remember in one column and any changes she could think of in the other. Next to her birthday she wrote just one word in bold, green letters: Grayson.

  After the day in math class, the changes came faster. The next one happened months later, not years. Same as the one after that. Sometimes the only indication came from the sound and the pain; the differences weren’t always immediately apparent. They still affected her, just the same.

  The day she had to bring home a report card with a big red C next to Social Studies she wanted to tell her parents how hard it was keeping up with current events and history when the details kept changing on her. And the textbooks. But how could they possibly believe her? It’s not like they or anyone else noticed how much the world changed around them.

  Like the way their neighborhood went from a community where everyone knew each other to one where people barely talked and then to one where chain-link fences separated increasingly unkempt yards and the only interactions happened when someone’s dog or cat violated the boundaries. Peeling paint now scarred every house on her street and the neighboring blocks. Iliana missed flowers the most and the delight of walking home from school in the spring, the air full of bees and fragrance. All over the space of four changes in middle school.

  Her parents went from encouraging her to go outside and play with her friends from the block to grounding her if she didn’t make it home before the 4:00 P.M. Under-13 curfew that hadn’t existed just a week before.

  At home, the problems always centered around money. It felt as if funding at the university where her parents worked always shrank after a change. They worried about their department downsizing or having to give up their research. Apparently things were the same at other schools, so no point in moving, according to her father.

  Iliana obsessed over news feeds on the family computer or the ones at school, trying to track changes in the wider world. It sometimes took days or weeks of reading and rereading news reports, Wikipedia entries, and magazine archives to find the differences
between events and people that she remembered. Though there were plenty of obvious ones.

  The US went to war, then a change hit and that war didn’t exist. There had been one five years before that caused a major oil shortage. Now they only had one car — an old pre-hybrid style — that they rarely drove because they couldn’t afford the gas.

  Cities on the coasts had to turn off all electricity during planned hours to save energy. Then a change swept through and the same had been true for Ohio and the rest of the Midwest for over a year.

  By the time Iliana started high school, changes might come just weeks apart, keeping her off balance and in a constant state of anxiety. Still, she kept her log faithfully, copying it to multiple pocket notebooks after the morning she woke up to discover the furniture in her room completely rearranged. Nothing was permanent.