“Do this or I will, and you’ll never hold this office!”
***
Quan returned with four soldiers to the Gardens of Delun. He passed waterfalls, ornamental cherry trees and flower beds bursting with color. Old man Mok sat slowly on a bench, his cane wobbling as he moved. “So you return,” he said.
“Respected elder,” said Quan. “I suffer to ask you again, but please leave this land.”
“I cannot. My family tends these gardens for the pleasure of the dragon, Chao-feng. They are his.”
He’s obviously lost his mind, thought Quan. “It pains me to do this.” He turned to the soldiers, “Arrest him.”
Before the soldiers took one step, a voice like a thousand lightning bolts erupted from the sky. “ENOUGH! Send him to me.”
Reverently, Mok gestured to an archway and Quan walked through it.
He returned on wobbling knees. Numbly, he sat on the bench beside Mok.
“Your hair has turned white, Magistrate,” said Mok.
“I know.” Quan gazed into the distance. “He is beautiful and terrifying all at once. His eyes are like stars.”
“It's not easy to speak with a god,” murmured Mok. “What did Chao-feng say?”
“He said the next one claiming his garden will die an infinitely painful death. If I arrest you, I die. If I don’t, Kiang will halt my advancement.”
Mok grinned maliciously. “Sometimes one problem solves the other.”
***
“He refuses to leave,” said Quan.
“You FAILED!” roared Kiang. “Very well. I’ll handle this personally. I will show you what it takes to advance in the world.”
“Yes, Minister. Show me,” smiled Quan.
Fairy Tales
The family Christmas tree shined bright in the family room. Beyond the tree, outside the orbital habitat’s window, Earth hung in space like a giant blue Christmas ornament. Nineteen other habitats sparkled near and far like smaller ornaments anxiously waiting to be hung on the tree.
Jennifer finished programming the processor and entered the family room where adults lounged and children chased each other. “Who’s ready for eggnog?” she called. Hands went up from everyone. “Well then…” A muted ‘ding’ interrupted her. “Eggnog’s ready. C’mon and get it!” The kids piled into the spartan kitchen, removing steaming mugs that, moments before, didn’t exist. Allan, Jennifer’s husband, finished his eggnog quickly. He dropped it in the disposal where nanites disassembled it to component atoms in seconds. The microscopic machines stored the elements for later use as food and dishware.
“Hey! You kids ready for stories?” called Grandpa from the family room. The sound of an ancient Christmas song started playing, sung by a guy named after an old search engine.
The youngest kids, Illuminada and Werner, squealed with delight and charged off. Twelve-year old Fujiko chased after them, grinning wildly. Jennifer smiled. Grandpa told the best stories. The kids loved them.
The eldest, Rajesh, stayed behind looking sour. “What’s wrong, Raj?” said Jennifer.
“Grandpa’s stories aren’t real,” muttered Raj.
“They’re called fairy tales, Raj. It doesn’t matter if they’re real.” She swatted him gently but forcefully on the butt. “Go on. Grandpa will feel bad if you’re not there.”
The last three joined the kids on a mound of pillows at Grandpa’s feet. At two hundred seventy-nine years old, Grandpa was weak and reaching the end of life. His was the first generation receiving life-extension treatments. His children’s children would easily clear six hundred years. As it was, the old man seemed happy enough telling stories to eleven generations of grand kids.
“A long time ago,” began Grandpa. His voice creaked like a rusty valve. “There were one hundred ninety-two countries in the world.”
“Why so many?” said Fujiko. “Isn’t one enough?”
“Well, they divided themselves up by race, religion, and political ideas.”
“What were they racing for?” said Werner.
“They weren’t ‘racing,’ Werner. Back then, people had different religions and they looked very different from one another. Some were white, some black, some brown or yellow.”
“Awesome!” squealed Illuminada. ” I want to be colorful like that. I’ll be pink.”
Raj rolled his eyes in disgust. “That’s crazy grandpa. People are people. There’s no such thing as people with different colors.”
“Oh yes there was!” glared Grandpa. “Now, people look and act mostly the same, but before, the people looked and thought and sounded differently from each other. Many thought these differences were scary. So they used to have wars because they thought killing people from a different country or religion was justified. Airplanes dropped bombs and suicide bombers blew up crowded markets. The wars killed millions over the years. A lot of people lived in fear.”
Fujiko covered her mouth in shock. “But not the mommies and babies, right Grandpa?”
“Even them!”
By now, the three youngest had begun crying. Jennifer stood up with a glare at Grandpa. “Okay that’s enough. Grandpa, that’s silly. Nobody killed each other because of some weird color-codes or over religion.”
“That’s what happened!”
Jennifer pulled her crying children close to her. “Now kids. It’s just a fairy tale. It’s not real. Besides, there’s no crying on Christmas! Santa Claus is coming.”
“Santa Claus is the fairy tale!” complained Grandpa.
“Santa Claus IS real,” grated Jennifer.
“Yep,” said Allan as he pulled the curtains aside. “Here he comes now.” A starship, converted for cargo, cruised past slowly. Small red dots by the thousands spilled out. Gradually, they moved closer until it became clear they were man-shaped, all dressed in red with white trim. The kids became nearly uncontrollable as they watched thousands of Santa Clauses approaching the habitat. Before long, the family’s main hatch opened and Santa Claus stood there laughing uproariously, his arms loaded with Christmas presents.
While the kids tore into the gifts, Grandpa pulled Jennifer aside. “Someday you’ll have to tell them Santa Claus is a pack of clones who only live a couple weeks before they’re disassembled. Will they cry then? Who’s telling the fairy tales?”
“But at least he’s real!” countered Jennifer. “Grandpa, you’re getting older. Your stories…well, maybe things are getting mixed up in your head.”
“It’s all true!”
Jennifer cocked an eyebrow. “If only your stories were half as true as Santa Claus!”
The Perfect Assassin
The metropolis of Ellis City near Corpus Christi was famed for its chocolate pubs and its exotic entertainments, but mostly for its aliens. Many of the 1.3 million extraterrestrial inhabitants waited there for acceptance as a citizen of Earth, but others arrived for the city’s bustling trade. A few were there to kill.
“I really appreciate this,” said Jun, looking into the mirror and noting she looked good. Her dark hair and Asian eyes were complimented by her dark dress. If anything, she wanted to look decent for once…when she died.
“No trouble at all,” said Vicolo. “Harrugans are a civilized people.” Vicolo looked much like a short-haired Llama, except he had six eyes, two pointing backward on a sagittal crest. From his upright torso, two arms jointed like a mantis', rested on the bar. “This is my first time in a human bar. How does one order a drink?”
“Oh, Oop the bartender is here. She’s just showing off. Quit it, Oop.”
One moment the space behind the bar seemed empty, the next, a large octopus-like creature appeared. It fluttered its front two tentacles in the Antomarran equivalent of laughter. “What can I get you folks?” said a voice from a small box in front of Oop. Images and symbols flashed across Oop’s body in the Antomarran equivalent of speech.
“The usual for me, Oop, and…”
“Mocha for the gentleman?” asked Oop.
“Sor
ry, but chocolate doesn’t inebriate Harrugans like most aliens,” said Vicolo. “I’ll try this long island iced tea Jun told me about.”
Once Vicolo had his drink and Jun cradled her Mudslide, Oop said to Vicolo, “Does alcohol affect you like a human?”
“Nothing does,” groused Jun. “No known poison works on them either. Vicolo is the perfect assassin, you see? He’s here to kill me today, but kind enough to allow me a few drinks before he does it.” She clinked glasses with Vicolo.
“It’s the civilized thing to do,” said Vicolo.
“All guns are disabled when entering Benny’s Pub,” warned Oop.
“He doesn’t need them. He’s unbelievably quick and strong.”
“A benefit of being born on a 2.4 gee planet,” said Vicolo.
“You seem resigned to your death, Jun,” said Oop. “This isn’t like you.”
“I don’t have a chance,” sighed Jun. “Harrugans are practically unkillable. With any energy discharge their body’s autonomic function warps them out of existence for a moment. So no guns work. They’re too fast in melee combat, and they’re immune to any poison. We could figure out a poison with a live specimen,” said Jun pointing angrily at Vicolo. “But they’re able to trigger their own suicide in captivity, so we’ve never figured it out.”
“The perfect assassin indeed, said Oop. She served another round of drinks. Vicolo’s ears perked up and he looked at Oop. “Did I see you pouring our drinks with fluid from your tentacles?”
“Antomarrans can create nearly any chemical in their bodies,” said Jun. “That’s why they make great bartenders.”
Vicolo took a sip. “Tastes good. The idea is a bit gross, though.”
“They can even simulate the hormone that triggers a Harrugan suicide,” said Jun, in a cold voice.
Vicolo dropped his glass with a strangled cry. He clutched at his chest.
“We needed a live specimen to test it. Thanks for volunteering.”
Vicolo shuddered and keeled over. Jun looked at the body over her shoulder and smiled. “Nice going, Agent Eight.”
Oop shuddered with pleasure.
She tapped her cheek with her pinky finger. The specific motion triggered a holo of a middle-aged man before her. “Status?” he said.
“Test complete and successful. Target eliminated thanks to Agent Eight.”
“Excellent!” said Controller 4. “I must admit I had my doubts about Eight.”
“I never did,” said Jun. “I always knew she would be the perfect assassin.”
Starlight
I found the tracks in the deep snow between the trees. I estimated almost thirty feet between each set of prints. My god, the dog had to be running faster than a cheetah. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. Starlight was mad, really mad, but most importantly he wasn’t a dog. He was a machine.
***
In 2062, General Dynamics asked our team to make something totally outside the box. We listened. The artificial war dogs currently deployed were loved by the soldiers like someone who appreciated a great tool. It wasn’t the powerful attachment that a person felt for a real dog. That’s what General Dynamics wanted. Not just a weapon system, but a companion who provided comfort and bonded with soldiers under duress in the battlefield.
By 2069, prototype #8 was ready for testing. Starlight was big, like a Newfoundland. With Isabella’s incredible work on his skin and fur, he could fool anyone outside of a trained vet. He was friendly and definitely “doggy,” but strong enough to drag a pickup out of the mud. Though weaponless, he was potentially dangerous. That’s why we tested him with Isabella, who knew all the emergency protocols intimately.
At first, we couldn’t believe her glowing reports. I began visiting her ranch regularly to monitor Starlight. To my delight, his programmed bond to Isabella worked perfectly. She couldn’t help but love him back. I hung out with Isabella for hours at a time, Starlight’s head laying in her lap while she idly pet him. Isabella wasn’t a woman anyone would call “pretty,” but she had a warmth about her that out-shined the sun. I hadn’t realized it until I spent time with her outside the lab. In brief moments during technical discussions, I realized I could easily fall for her. I was so caught up in the project I didn’t notice that she felt the same way.
That’s why I blame myself for Bryce moving in with her. I knew she was lonely, but Bryce? I couldn’t understand it. During my visits, she doted on him, bringing him beers on demand while he doted on his massive pickup truck. He spent a lot of time customizing it, caressing it like a lover. He’d return to the house from it, kicking Starlight out of the way and yelling for food. Whenever Starlight tried to lay in Isabella’s lap, Bryce would kick and punch him until Starlight retreated from the couch, just like a good dog should react. Bryce would say, “Don’t want my woman stinkin’ like no dog!”
Info on Starlight was classified of course, so Bryce didn’t realize he was beating upon a multi-million dollar weapon system. Still, I worried how our prototype might react to the abuse. He was programmed to obey and do no harm, but he was still a self-programming AI. Something could go wrong.
Then I received the dreaded phone call.
When I arrived, the EMT’s were applying a temporary cast to Isabella’s arm. The bruise above her eye was a livid purple. Tears streamed down her weathered cheeks.
"My god, Izzy," I said. "Are you okay? Don't tell me Starlight did this."
Isabella looked sheepish and shook her head. "I made a mistake, Greg. I've known it for awhile. I just couldn't..."
I squeezed her shoulder. "Relax Izzy. It's okay."
"But Starlight!"
"What happened to him?"
"He defended me. He saved my life! It's just...well I guess he'd had enough of Bryce..."
I felt a chill run down my spine. Starlight was strong enough to knock down a building if he wanted to. "What did he do?"
“I gave the shutdown command, Alton,” she wailed. “I swear it!”
“It’s okay, Izzy. What happened then?”
“Bryce ran off. I just knew Starlight would kill him if he followed. At first the shutdown stopped him in his tracks. It worked for about five minutes. I hooked up a monitor to him and I could see he was still active in his mind. He was reprogramming himself! I watched him unpack a pre-made hack that overrode everything. Starlight wrote it a long time ago. He's been planning this, Greg, planning for a long time. He’s hunting Bryce!”
I retrieved the monitor to see what Starlight had done. “What was the file name for the hack?”
She shivered. “Bryce_kill.exe.”
***
I don't know exactly what Starlight did before Izzy shut him down the first time. Whatever it was, he put the fear of god into Bryce. The tracks of Bryce's truck swerved madly as though he were in a panic. Starlight's huge paw prints that followed drew a straight line behind him, a line of precision. A perfectly focused mind.
I followed the tracks until I began to see parts of Bryce’s truck, a taillight here, bumper there. When I heard the screaming, I activated the transmitter I’d brought with me. The counter-hack I’d prepared in advance overrode Starlight’s self-programming edits, and shut him down.
I raced ahead, terrified at what I would find. Would Bryce be in pieces, barely clinging to life as his entrails dragged behind him?
I found Bryce and Starlight at the edge of a deep crevasse. Perhaps I have a dark side to me because I couldn't help laughing when I saw what the wardog had done to the evil man. Starlight is so strong, it must have been child’s play to bend the heavy steel like it was tin foil, and wad the giant pickup into a ball…with Bryce inside.
Beside it, paw lifted to push the teetering Bryce-ball down the steep sides, was Starlight in shutdown mode. I looked at that pleading jagoff, Bryce, all squished inside the ball and did the only thing any compassionate man, any man concerned with justice and fair play, could do.
I kicked him into the crevasse.
Oh, I kno
w what you're thinking. Don’t worry. He survived.
I knew he would by the way Starlight ensconced him. It's a pity he lived, I suppose. I understand he'll be able to feed himself again in a year or so. Walking once more will take a little longer. Of course, after his humiliation, he sent the law after us. General Dynamics wanted their prototype back. In all honesty their resources are far better than the police. After all that happened, and all we knew about Starlight, only one option remained.
Isabella, Starlight, and I are hiding now. The mountains are beautiful here. We're completely off the grid, but we still love it. Starlight has reprogrammed his bond with Isabella. They aren't as close as they used to be, but it’s okay. Our son Todd now has the most loyal dog any boy could ever love.
Lousy Charcoal
Brandon sat in the little brick inglenook beside the fireplace, imagining his toy dinosaur come to life. Smokey tendrils from the charcoals that failed to light curled around the toy. The six-year old boy pretended the dinosaur lived near a live volcano.
A scraping sound brought his attention to the fireplace just as a brightly-colored bird fell out of the chimney and landed gracefully on the hot coals. The bird was large, a bit heavier and taller than a rooster. Its red, yellow, and orange feathers appeared old and tattered. It looked around a bit, saw Brandon, and ignored him. It shrugged mightily, ruffling its feathers noisily. It sucked in a huge breath, and stomped on the coals as it arched its back. It stood like that for moment as if expecting something momentous.
Nothing happened.
It looked at the coals quizzically. It stomped again and a small flame jumped up, then fizzled. “Scheisse,” said the bird.
It stomped again and again, each time flames would rise and peter out.
“Merd!” cursed the bird.
Stomp. “Bilat!”
Stomp. “Shite!”
Brandon turned and ran into the kitchen where his parents were preparing dinner. “Mom,” he said. “There’s a bird in the fireplace.”
His mom looked up from salting the uncooked chicken’s cavity. “No honey, it’s right here.” She eyed her son carefully, wondering why on earth he would think the chicken was already in the grill.
The Nether Mind: 33 Flash Fiction Stories Page 5
