Decision Point (ARC)

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Hope she’s still smiling afterwards, he thought nervously and

  struggled to focus, trying his uncle’s deep breathing again.

  The VS28s waited in smooth, perfectly aligned rows, their

  snub noses and three wings gleaming under the light of the twin

  suns overhead. The transparent cockpit blast shields waited open

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  Decision Points

  at ninety degree angles from the cockpits below as the pilots

  prepared to climb into their ships. Davi glanced over and saw

  Bordox sneering at him from nearby.

  Professor Jonas approached. “Rhii, switch fighters with

  Bordox.”

  The smug smile vanished from Bordox’s face as they both

  turned toward the professor. “What? Why?”

  The Professor sounded irritated. “All the fighters are the

  same. What’s the issue, Cadet?”

  Davi kept his eyes on Bordox’s face watching for a reaction.

  He saw the truth in his eyes. You did it again, didn’t you?

  Bordox ignored him, grumbling to himself.

  Davi and Bordox both moved to the fighter to which the other

  had been assigned.

  Yao climbed the ladder to help Davi strap in. “Maybe

  Professor Jonas suspects Bordox had something to do with what

  happened on your practice run.”

  Davi shrugged and smiled. “Doesn’t matter. As long as the

  competition’s fair, I’ll leave him in the dust.”

  Yao chuckled and climbed down, saluting with a wink of his

  purple eyes.

  Davi’s group went through their preflight checks, then

  launched in pairs through the launch tubes, rendezvousing again

  at the sky course starting zone. He greeted the twin suns like old

  friends. The sky seemed clearer than usual. A good day for a

  race.

  When the signal came over their comm channel, they flew

  into the course as fast as they could.

  Bordox kept his fighter even with Davi’s as they dodged the

  first obstacles and shot several targets, then his speed dropped

  off as his ship began angling downward. Davi looked over,

  watching him struggle with the controls.

  He keyed the private comm channel. “You need help over

  there, Bordox?” When he got no answer, he sped on through the

  course. Bordox wasn’t one to ignore the offer if he really needed

  it.

  Five minutes later, Davi landed at the starport, riding the high

  from an almost perfect run. Once he’d gotten into it, he’d

  forgotten all about his competition and just done his job,

  enjoying the ride. Looking around, he realized Bordox and his

  fighter were nowhere in sight. Had he even completed the

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  course?

  Then he heard a whining overhead and turned as a VS28

  arced in at an odd angle and slammed to the tarmac in a

  dangerously rough landing, Bordox still at the controls. The man

  had moxy, that was for sure. Davi would have ejected and let the

  ship crash. The fighters were rigged for ground activated self-

  distruct if their crash trajectory took them too close to any

  grandstands or populated areas.

  As those around him gasped and mumbled, Bordox’s hateful

  eyes locked on Davi’s own from the cockpit.

  *

  Later, Professor Jonas announced the winners. Davi had the

  highest score by far. As he and his friends walked back toward

  the grandstands, Davi overheard a commotion down an alley

  between buildings. As they reached the alley’s mouth, they

  stopped and peered in.

  Bordox forced one of his friends back against a wall. “You

  were supposed to make the fighter slow, not unflyable. I could

  have been killed!”

  “You’re the one who didn’t want him humiliating you

  again!” The friend said.

  “It’s not our fault the professor switched the fighters for the

  first time ever,” another friend said.

  “You humiliated me in front of my father!” Bordox pounded

  a fist against the wall above his frightened friend’s head.

  Davi and his friends exchanged a look then hurried past

  before anyone spotted them, continuing toward the grandstands.

  “We’re so proud of you,” his mother, Miri, said as she

  wrapped Davi in a warm embrace. Her light blue eyes radiated

  warmth.

  “Well done, Xander,” Xalivar said with pride, addressing

  Davi by his given name, not the nickname Davi and his mother

  favored. Uncle Xalivar wore his usual gold robe with a white

  collar and cuffs. In the center by his neck lay the jewel known as

  the Emperor’s eye. Shorter than Davi but taller than Miri, he had

  a dark beard.

  Davi smiled. “Thanks for coming.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it,” Miri assured him, pride

  almost bursting off her face.

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  Davi tried not to frown as Lord Obed and Bordox

  approached. Obed wore a ceremonial robe similar to Xalivar’s.

  His skin had a light yellowish brown hue with the same intense

  brown eyes as his son. He smiled and extended his hand to Davi.

  “Congratulations, Prince Rhii. A great showing.”

  Davi shook the proffered hand, smiling. “Thank you, sir.”

  Lord Obed turned and looked at Bordox, who stood there

  looking down at his feet. “You’ve embarrassed me enough

  today,” Obed growled.

  Bordox sighed and extended his own hand. Davi had to hide

  his surprise as he shook it. “Congratulations, Rhii. You deserve

  it.”

  Obed led Bordox away as Yao stepped away from his parents

  and stopped next to Davi. “That had to hurt.”

  Davi nodded, continued to watch Bordox for a moment. He

  feared things had changed forever between them. He’d never

  wanted to make an enemy, but it hadn’t been his fault.

  “Come on,” Farien called, waving him over, “we’ve got a

  party to get to!”

  Their hands met in a high five as Davi joined them, and they

  hurried off for their favorite bar.

  Bryan Thomas Schmidt is an author and Hugo-nominated

  editor of adult and children’s speculative fiction. His debut

  novel, The Worker Prince received Honorable Mention on

  Barnes & Noble Book Club’s Year’s Best Science Fiction

  Releases. His short stories have appeared in magazines,

  anthologies and online and include entries in The X-Files and

  Decipher’s WARS , amongst others. His anthologies as editor

  include Shattered Shields with co-editor Jennifer Brozek ,

  Mission: Tomorrow , Galactic Games , and Little Green Men—

  Attack! with Robin Wayne Bailey (forthcoming) all for Baen,

  Space Battles: Full Throttle Space Tales #6 , Beyond The Sun ,

  and Raygun Chronicles: Space Opera For a New Age . He can be

  found online at www.bryanthomasschmidt.net .

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  16-year-old Allison wants what most girls her age want: a

  normal life with school, boys, and fun. But due to her grandma�
��s

  strange illness, she’s needed at home, and being away for long

  poses major problems. Beth Cato has quickly become a regular

  in my anthologies, with this dark fantasy you’ll see why. A 1970s

  animal rights group’s sleeper curse becomes a nightmare in …

  A N E C H O I N T H E S H E L L

  By Beth L. Cato

  Despite the bitter autumn chill, Jonah’s kiss warmed Allison’s

  lips and sent unaccustomed heat swirling through her belly.

  Gravity didn’t weigh her steps as she hopped up to the front

  porch. He had kissed her. He had held her hand and kissed her.

  Allison squealed and spun in a dizzying circle.

  Feet away, the walls of her house shuddered. Something

  heavy smacked against the inner window, unseen behind the

  thick cover of nailed plywood. In that instant, the heat from the

  kiss evaporated and reality grounded her like an anvil.

  Grandma.

  Allison flung open the screen and fumbled with the key to

  unlock the doorknob and both deadbolts. She jumped inside.

  Glass squealed and crunched beneath her flats.

  “Shut the door!” screamed Mom.

  Allison kicked the door shut and slammed the locks in place.

  Decision Points

  Grandma’s solid weight impacted against Allison’s back,

  sending a gush of air from her lungs. The doorknob gouged her

  gut. Grandma’s knobby fingers inched up her arms towards her

  neck. The buzzing sound grew louder; the earthy, indefinable

  odor more potent.

  Then Mom was there. With an sharp squeal, Grandma

  released her hold. Allison slipped around just in time to catch

  Grandma as she slumped to the ground. Mom stood there,

  panting, her hair electrocution-wild. A syringe gleamed in her

  hand.

  “She took an extra-long nap and was too quiet when she

  woke up and then I couldn’t catch her.” Mom blew stray hair

  from her lips, tears filling her eyes. “Her first Kafka rage.”

  “So how long were you chasing her—oh.” As Allison heaved

  Grandma onto the couch, she finally had a good look at the room.

  Broken glass littered the floor. Two side-tables lay broken, one

  leg embedded in the wall like a spear. Through the arched

  doorway to the dining room, she saw more overturned chairs and

  the light of the gaping refrigerator door. Grandma had broken

  things before or tried to bust out, run towards lights outside, but

  nothing like this.

  The rage. The next symptoms … no.

  “Oh, Grandma.” Allison stroked Grandma’s shorn scalp.

  “Looks like she has some cuts and bruises. I need to take

  pictures of her and the room and then I can sweep up this glass.”

  “You should have called me,” Allison said.

  “Like I had a chance,” Mom snapped. “But no, you had to go

  on your little date. I hope you enjoyed it, because you aren’t

  having another one for a long time. She always seems to respond

  best to you.” Mom gnawed at her inner cheek as she stared at

  Grandma.

  “Mom! That’s not fair!”

  “Life’s not fair. You’re sixteen, Allison. You’ll have plenty

  of time for boys and all that nonsense later on. Go grab the digital

  camera for me.”

  Glass crunched underfoot as Allison stalked towards the hall.

  Like Mom had any place talking to her about boys, seeing how

  Dad left, seeing how Mom hadn’t even attempted a date since

  Y2K.

  But maybe Mom was right, too. Maybe Grandma had missed

  Allison. Maybe that was why she flipped out. Maybe this wasn’t

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  “the rage” doctors talked about. Maybe it was something …

  weird. A tantrum. That’s all.

  She made a slight detour to shut the fridge and reset the

  childproof latch. The office door was open, which meant Mom

  must have been working when Grandma’s rampage started. No

  surprise there. Mom tried to squeeze in freelancing whenever she

  could. The monitor was darkened in screensaver mode, the green

  light beneath blinking like a heartbeat. Allison grabbed the

  camera from its dock.

  She took pictures as she walked through the house. A new

  hole in the wall. She stopped in the doorway to the living room

  and took in an empty spot on a high bookshelf. That broken glass

  used to be her great-great grandmother’s vase. The one that used

  to be Grandma’s favorite.

  It was just a vase.

  There were no curtains over the board-covered windows. A

  Plexiglas shield covered the TV, and that was frosted and

  scratched. Any shelves were bolted to the walls, cupboards

  secured with childproofing snaps and locks. Mom leaned against

  an open cabinet beside the TV, set something inside, and shut the

  door. A shot of whiskey, probably. As if Allison didn’t know.

  Mom would probably finish off the bottle when Allison was in

  bed and bury the evidence at the bottom of the recycling bin, as

  usual.

  Grandma sat up on the couch. Her eyelids blinked as she

  stared dully into space. Her crudely-shorn hair lay flat against

  her skull, dull metal grey against pasty skin. Her shadow cast

  against the front door revealed the truth. Long antennae curved

  from her head and arced a foot in height. Two mandibles

  protruded from her face and worked at the air. From her

  shoulders, diaphanous wings clung to her back and stretched the

  length of her body and through the couch itself. None of that was

  visible to the human eye, of course. Not yet. Light revealed the

  strengthening curse, that Grandma’s body had become the husk

  of a soul-stealing bug.

  That was the proof that Grandma suffered from Kafka

  Syndrome.

  *

  Grandma used to be Loretta Christiansen. Retired letter

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  Decision Points

  carrier for the United States Postal Service. Sunday school

  teacher for thirty-five years. Widow of Johann Christiansen.

  Mother of one. Grandmother of one. Game show junkie.

  Really, when Allison thought of her grandma and who she

  truly was, her game shows were the first thing that came to mind.

  “Come on, you banana brain,” Grandma would yell at the

  TV. “The answer’s the Mississippi River! The Amazon isn’t

  even on this continent.” Grandma had declared that Alex Trebek

  was dead to her after he shaved off his mustache.

  Funny and old game shows were the best of all. Checkered

  bell bottom pants and big hair were standard issue, along with

  cheesy orange studio sets. Allison was crestfallen at age ten when

  she realized no other kids knew about Match Game 75 and

  Charles Nelson Reilly or the hilarity of the Whammies on Press

  Your Luck.

  Oh, how Grandma would laugh as she watched, light and

  feminine and free, and descend into giggles and wheezes.

  One day as Grandma and Allison walked the two blocks from

  school, Allison saw Grandma’s shadow. The horns were mere

  nubs then, the wings l
ike little fists from her shoulders.

  Allison wasn’t scared. She reached for Grandma’s hand and

  squeezed, and stood close enough so that the shadow couldn’t be

  seen.

  The curse had been on Grandma and others for decades and

  the victims never even knew. Back in the early ‘70s, some group

  of animal rights radicals laid a sleeper curse on laboratory

  workers in five states. Their goal: make the workers become their

  own test subjects. By the time the illness manifested in shadows

  decades later, there was nothing magic or medical science could

  do.

  Grandma had delivered mail to all the labs within the

  complex. For some reason, the Asian cockroach room’s curse

  was the one that clung to her soul. Ate it away.

  But Allison swore that sometimes a flash of clarity returned

  to Grandma’s eyes. Sure, she might not be able to talk anymore,

  or laugh. She ate with her fingers gathered like pincers.

  Sometimes she hissed when surprised. And at dusk, she fixated

  on the lights outside, especially the ones reflecting on the lake

  behind the house—so they boarded up the windows. That

  attraction made the Asian cockroach different from other kinds.

  They hungered for light.

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  They were also supposed to be really strong flyers.

  Allison refused to think about that final stage. It was a long

  ways off. But there were only some five thousand people under

  the curse, a few hundred with the Kafka variant. No one knew

  the exact timeline. Doctors said that most would die during that

  final physical transition, anyway.

  Until then, Allison had Grandma to love and care for, and

  that was all that mattered.

  *

  The next morning, the house looked normal again. Spartan.

  The sharp stink of fresh paint made Allison’s nose run.

  With the phone to her ear, Mom paced along the bay window

  in the dining room. “I know you’re still building the Kafka wing,

  but this was her first big incident of the rage. Yes, I read the

  report—no, we aren’t sending her to that lab. The whole point of

  that curse was to force her to be some lab animal, damn it!” She

  took in a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. She signed a living will