Re-Education

She kissed me once, outside the store, under the overhang between the propped-open door and a curtain of rain. I remember wondering if she really meant it or if she was just stoned and making bad decisions. This was when you could still be out late, when there were still shows to go to, contact highs to acquire, munchie runs to execute.

When everything shut down I didn’t see her for months. When finally I ran into her, she had that stupid uniform on and that vacant smile plastered across her face and the smartwatch on her wrist, recording everything she said and did and anyone else in her vicinity to boot. “When are you coming in to the Center?” She asked like it was a foregone conclusion. You’ll give in. I know you.

“Not sure. Maybe soon.”

“I hope so.” It was half a threat. “What about Bobby?”

They’d been looking for Bobby. He’d said the wrong thing to the wrong people. A squad had been to his mother’s house, twice, three times now. Once they’d come before sunrise. “Haven’t seen him.”

Her eyes drilled into me, trying to decide if I was lying. “Call me if you do.”

Wobbler

“You OK?”

She waited before answering, still angry, still frightened, the rhythm of her pounding heart syncopating against a chorus of distant car alarms. “Yeah.”

“We should head for the stairs, there’s—”

“Fuck off.”

“Listen, I—”

“Head for the stairs, go on. Nobody’s stopping you.” There was dust settling on her tights; she brushed it violently off, then her shoulders, arms, shook it out of her hair.

He got out from under the table, stepped gingerly over broken glass to a suddenly open window, looked out, whistled. “The front of Hawley Hall fell off. Like, you can see into the rooms.”

“John, I don’t give a shit, get out. Get out. You don’t get to tell me that you want to break up and that you cheated on me and then act like nothing happened. I—”

“There was an earthquake, Ariana.”

“I don’t care.” She pushed back further under the table, until her back was against the wall. “Go.”

“You can’t stay in here. It’s not safe.”

“I want you to leave. Fucking go find Carrie or whatever the fuck her name is.” Outside, sirens were starting to sound. “Go. I hope Hawley Hall falls on the both of you.”

Hostile Takeover

Thank you, thank you. Thanks. First, I’d like to thank the outgoing Chairperson, Amanda Unvers, she’s been great, really fantastic last six quarters, Amanda. Let’s hear it for her.

So I know a leadership transition can be difficult for any well-established company, and I know there’s some trepidation in middle and even upper management about downsizing and other changes, and I’m here to tell you: there’s gonna be some downsizing and other changes, but we’re gonna get through ‘em together. Well, some of you aren’t: some of you will be torn to shreds and fed to the hellhounds we now have chained in the basement. Starting with Amanda here. But some of you are going to come through just fine.

Now, if you’re worried that you’re part of the torn-to-shreds group, you probably are. But there’s good news: you can get out of this group, there’s totally a way, and here’s how: inform on people who deserve to get torn to shreds more than you. I mean, ultimately, we’ll be the judge, Asmodeus, and Mammon and I, but some good dirt on your coworkers will go a long way towards swaying us.

Anyway, that’s all, and enjoy your casual Friday.

Our Final Rest

“Found him.”

I made my way to where Finch stood, hands on hips, looking down. “Are you sure that’s Thomas?”

He snorted. “How many skeletons you think there are out here?”

“Dunno. I’ll bet more than one.” It was an ideal dumping ground, actually, close enough to a gravel road that you wouldn’t have to carry a corpse far, but far enough from civilization that you could perform the task without once being seen. “Could be bodies all through these woods, going back decades. Maybe—”

“Fine, fine. But this is him.”

“It’s me, Ben.” The voice came from the skull, though there was no movement. There was no jaw to move, or lips or tongue, and yet…

A cold chill ran down my spine; I hissed at Finch, “Jesus, don’t do that. You always… Can you warn me before you cast the spell? Can you do that?”

“Well, not now I can’t, it’s done.”

“Sorry if I startled you, Ben.” The skull intoned, in that familiar voice. “Seriously.”

“Whatever, let’s get on with this. Who killed you?”

There was a pause, before Thomas’ skull finally said, “You don’t know?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be—”

“It was Finch, Ben.”

Foreign Policy

He followed her uphill, struggling, wheezing while she climbed effortlessly. When he reached the top, she was reciting incantations in a language only she could name, much less speak. An ethereal window appeared before her, through which the distant mountains appeared much closer. Between the peaks, he spied movement. “How big are these giants, Holiness?”

Her voice decanted a memory more distant in time than the mountains were over land. “Big enough to trample a man on horseback, and not realize it. Big enough to stand astride the Keep at Nochwallag with both soles flat on the earth.”

Nochwallag Keep was a crumbled ruin, and had been since before he was born. “Is that how it fell?” How old is she?

“It fell from hubris, and too little grain.” She glanced back at him, amused by the look of confusion on his face, and waved the window back into nothingness. “A story for another time. We still have many days walk ahead of us. And then, likely, many days of parlay. Come.”

He followed her down the front of the hill, the guards behind, the porters further still.

“Can they see us?”

“They knew we were coming before we did.”

Artifact

Brraaaang. Brraaaang. A sound he hadn’t heard in years, and only then because nostalgic types would make it their smartphone’s ringtone. He dug the old bakelite relic out of the chest, set it on the dusty attic table, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “…Hello?”

The distant, tinny voice on the other end said, “You’re braver than most people.”

“Sorry?”

“The phone isn’t plugged in. Even if it were plugged in, and you paid for landline service, phones like this won’t work with the new system. So when this phone rings, any reasonable person would be given pause. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose.”

“But you answered nonetheless.”

“I suppose I did. Was there something you wanted?”

There was a pause. “Well, as I said, it usually doesn’t get this far. I’m afraid you’ve rather thrown me off.”

“Sorry about that.” He switched the receiver to the other ear, held it in place with his shoulder while he straightened his tie. “Would it help if I admitted to being mildly disturbed?”

The voice sighed. “It’ll have to do for now. Hopefully the flickering lights will have more success.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.” A click, then only dial tone.

After The East Central Game

She met him where she was supposed to meet him, where she always met him: an illuminated island in a forest of darkness. “Did you get beer?”

“Only two.” He’d already almost finished one, and the odds were fair to good that they’d end up sharing the other. “Terry kept the rest.”

“Fuck Terry.” She took the second beer, the last beer, and twisted it open in the cinched-up edge of her sweatshirt, and took a long gulp. “If he’s gonna take four out of six he’s gotta pay half. I don’t care if he’s the only one with I.D.”

“What do you wanna d—”

“Make out.”

He turned red, looked around nervously. “Uh…”

“I mean, don’t you? If you don’t that’s okay, I guess.” She tilted the beer up again, killing all but a third of it. “I just figured, you know.”

“I mean… I do, it’s just, I didn’t think you’d be…”

“What? Horny?” She stared into space; her pupils had adjusted to the gazebo’s lights and everything around them was jet-black nothingness. “We’ve got a month of school left. Do you really want me to be all coy about it?”

He laughed. “I guess not.”

“Then c’mere.”

Jukebox

The music washed over him, soaked into his ears and the corners of his eyes, nudged his lips open and slid across his tongue and down his throat. There were wavering drones and percussive noises and phasing patterns all mixed with field recordings from some alien environment. He’d never heard anything like it. Eventually he realized he was also experiencing strong, but somehow unfamiliar emotions. He pulled one earcup off and said, “Why do I feel… I’m not sure. Like I’m home, and tired, but satisfied?”

“There is a telepathic component.” The alien said. “The specific results depends on compatibility with your nervous system; yours is sufficiently similar to ours that it should translate well. This particular entry is a meditation on Rithk, the ceremonial end of our migratory season.”

“Wonderful.” He pulled the headset off, laid it in his lap. “How much?”

“For the complete Gwainisch library, and six headsets: one hundred Polixaci credits. We also have a selection of add-on libraries from other systems. Thirty credits each.” It held up a long, blue, nail-less finger. “We don’t guarantee compatibility for those.”

It was a small fortune, but his clientele would pay through the nose for this. “Play another.”

A Close-Run Thing

The Sorcerer limped from the mouth of the cave, tearing fabric from his robe to wrap around his wounded arm. “Minthray! Minthray!”

“Here, my Lord.”

“Bring the horses. And water.”

“The beast, is it—”

“Finished. Go.” He sat down in the dust, sighed, coughed, and was thinking seriously about laying down when he heard a noise behind him. He twisted, hands at the ready, and saw her: a little girl, hair tied up in colorful ribbon, dressed as if for Temple. “You’re dead.”

“I am. You’ve won. But I have a question.”

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and his shaking hands held their place, but he answered conversationally: “Ask away.”

“You could have taken my offer, and had great wealth, and even more power than you already possess. Which is clearly substantial. Instead you fought.” Her head cocked to one side with a sickening cracking and grinding of bone. “Why?”

“You would have killed everyone in the town.”

“What do you care? You’re more like me than them.”

“You’re dead; I’m not.”

“True.” She slumped, and her body was already bleached bones when it hit the ground.

Minthray returned to find him vomiting and laughing.

The Old Brookville Store

“I swear to you, as sure as I’m standing here, it’s still there.” The man’s finger rested on the map, halfway down a side road none of them knew. “Little mom-and-pop grocery, even has a pump around the side. Used to fill up there sometimes when my wife forgot to get gas—”

“And it hasn’t been hit?”

“Only the locals really know it’s there. And they’re all dead,” he sputtered out a nervous laugh, “or undead.”

“Why aren’t you holed up in there right now, if it’s so well-stocked?”

“It’s a fishbowl.” His eyes darted around, found no comprehension on their faces. “Glass front. I’ve seen them push in big windows like that, shatter ‘em just on pressure alone.”

“All right.”

“Anyway, I’m alone. No gun. I can’t fight, all I can do is run. If there’s one in there, or more than one, what would I do about it? But you fellas, you—”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re waiting here, handcuffed. A couple of my guys are going to recon the place. If everything checks out, you get to stay, and you get a share of the haul. If you’re lying — and I mean, about anything — you’re dead.”

Founder’s Day

There hadn’t been a water delivery yet that day; the general consensus among the old men sitting in the shade in front of the meeting house was that there likely wouldn’t be a water delivery at all.

“The Vylid started their weekend early.”

“The Vylid started drinking early.”

“Don’t take much.”

Callo walked down the dusty path towards the Wind, just to be sure there wasn’t a tanker crawling its way alone the snakelike road that led to the plateau. He was staring down at it when he felt Lise at his elbow.

“We have some left.” She whispered it, conspiratorially. “Not much. Mother has been rationing us for two weeks, just in case. She said this might happen.”

“You mother doesn’t like—”

“I’ll share mine.” Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, slid down to his palm.

“There’s so much water,” he said wistfully, “right down there.” Past the Wind, past the foothills and the Vylid town and the beach, was the vast ocean: Buol territory.

“Salt water. Can’t drink that.”

“I made a solar still. It—”

“What’s that?”

“Turns saltwater to fresh. Works by sunlight.”

Her fingers gripped his hand tightly. “We’re not allowed down there.”

“We need water.”

Static

“How long now?” Mays didn’t wear a watch, with screens on every wall and ELLE to kick him out of bed before every shift.

“Three hours overdue,” came her voice, from all speakers including his subcutaneous earbud. “We have sent numerous hails in the clear on all bands: no response. Company policy is—”

“I know what company policy is.” He flipped the primer switches up, and started the intermix injectors running.

Rebbo, at his shoulder, rumbled: “Where will you begin searching?”

“They were coming from Fwalbach. At least that’s what Dixie said: they had a big-money contract from Fwalbach to Zunnis, that’s why they could afford to meet us here.”

“We are to wait a further two hours in the absence of a distress signal,” Elle said. “I have contacted Corporate, and they are monitoring the situation. Search action will likely be approved, in two—”

“We’re going now.” Mays pushed the ship’s nose over to point at the pale blue gas giant’s horizon and lit the reaction drive.

“The Company—”

“Dixie rescued us before that moon broke up under us. We owe her.”

“The fine may approach the entirety of your share in—”

“Nuts.”

Just in his earbud: “…I agree.”

Mercy

There was a screeching, and a crashing of thunder, and a keening wail the likes of which Yan had never heard; still, his feet remained firmly planted while the terrified porters ran and jumped and tumbled down the hillside in an attempt to escape. He shouted into the swirling portal, “I hear you, Master, but I don’t understand. I fear you are in distress, but—”

“Oh, he is very much in distress.”

He turned to look. A girl had appeared, young, dressed in a bride’s robes, hair tied up in flowers and vines. Agreste. He shared the porters’ terror now, but there was no sense in running; the die was cast. “What have you done?”

“What I did, I did long ago, Priest of Troyal. He cannot be brought back in this way. All it grants him is pain.”

“Why…” There was another screech, short and knife-sharp. “…Why should I believe you?”

“You hear his pain. If you are truly faithful, you even feel it. The closer he gets, the more he is crushed.” She shuddered. “My brother’s punishment for opposing me was banishment, not this. Close the rift.”

Yan looked back into the swirling maw. “But…”

“For his sake.”

Malnourished

The door hung open, swinging by inches with the breeze. By the look of the shelves visible from the doorway, the place had been picked clean months ago. She pulled the door open with an extended creak, pushed the stopper down with her toe, and waited.

Nothing appeared. She scanned the street behind her: also empty. Haven’t eaten for three days. She switched on her flashlight, stepped in.

There was nothing left: not a can of beans, not a jar of preserves, not a twinkie. No jerky in the racks by the register, no bottled water stacked in the back.

She staggered outside and sat on the curb, unfolded her map and laid it on the asphalt with small polished rocks holding down the corners. She crossed off the empty market with a dying sharpie, and then circled another: two towns over, an all-day walk that would leave her in danger of passing out.

Or a twenty-minute drive. There were four cars within view, one with a door open. They’d probably all be out of gas. It never hurts to check.

One had a key dangling from the ignition. She hesitated before turning it, because it would ruin the quiet.

Just Another Spaceport Bar

I came to the sticks of Ecuador to get away from civilization; I opened a little bar out in the middle of nowhere and adjusted to scratching out a subsistence living where things were simpler.

Then they built the spaceport.

I get it: you want it somewhere near the equator, in a politically stable country, in a politically stable region. I understand the economics and the politics and even, just barely, the physics.

But now I have to keep hundreds of things in stock that none of the locals would ever order, and that’s just for the transient humans. The stuff the aliens order is expensive, often revolting, and in some cases even poisonous or toxic to my staff. I have to keep a special cooler just for the live reebt the Plogonree order, and I have to keep a net handy if they happen to get loose from the table before the Plogs can stun them for cooking. One of them bit Sheila once. And then there’s the per-booth climate control, and the translation computer rental fees. It’s a headache on any number of levels. And the insurance…

Maybe going back to Wall Street lawyering would reduce my stress.

‘Murican Gods

It was a tall beer, tall and thin, with very little head to it. His sister had been like that, though she had been paler, generally speaking. He nodded thanks at the bartender, who had already turned to resume his conversation with a regular, a tubby man in his 50’s with a boxer’s nose and ears.

I could know everything about them, both of them, if I switched it on. I could change everything about them. I could rewrite their DNA like a programmer editing code, turn them into Van Goghs or Einsteins or whoever I like, teetotalers both, serial killers either, whatever would be the most entertaining. I’ve done it a million times. “Boring.”

“What’s that?” The bartender called over, thinking he might be ordering something else.

“Nothing. Sorry; talking to myself.”

“That’s the first sign, buddy,” the boxer joked. He raised his own glass, a mug full of Budweiser, probably.

“Yeah.”

His sister had tried for the Crown, and paid for it. He’d gone into forced retirement, it having been explained that he’d been a bit too neutral even given the circumstances. They hadn’t hobbled him, at least. There was still trust there, of a sort.

“Another, please.”

Recruitment

She waited for someone who lived there — someone with a key — to appear at the corner; she timed her walking to arrive at the steps just as they did. She was carrying a grocery bag so that they would, being polite, hold the door for her instead of forcing her to use her own, which of course didn’t exist.

Four floors up by the stairs, because her benefactor had headed for the elevator. She left the bag and its contents on the last landing and slipped through the fire door into the hallway.

She didn’t have to knock on the door; it opened to reveal an old woman, and beyond her, a child playing on the floor in front of an old tube television. “It’s not time yet.”

“That’s not up to you.” She brushed past the old woman and knelt next to the playing child. “Caroline?”

“Go ‘way.”

“You need to come with me.”

“Go ‘way.” The child looked up. “I’ll burn you if you don’t.”

She smiled. “I don’t burn, Caroline. I’m like you; I burn other things. I can teach you to—”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Caroline…”

The air jumped, and flame began playing across the ceiling. “Don’t wanna.”

Contract Killer

“Is that the sword?”

It had been dug out from between fallen layers of a ruined castle, a solid week of labor by twenty men at great expense. When it was uncovered, they called him down, knowing better than to touch it themselves. It felt warm to the touch, then, even through his gloves, and it still did now. “It is, your Majesty.”

“May I?”

It was an uncomfortable moment for Karol, but he knew it to be a test. He drew the blade, rested it across the backs of his hands, and knelt; the king stepped down and leaned in, close enough to trace the filigree with his eyes. He knows the legend, he knows better than to take it.

“Beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. I won’t touch it, of course.” The King stood up, tall, and smiled. “I have known women like that.” The joke was answered by laughter from the assembled courtiers, a little too loud, lasting a little too long.

Karol sheathed the sword and stood, silent.

“How many dragon heads do you think, in all?”

“No one knows. Including the Old Grey Worm-King, at least five.”

“And with ours, six.”

“If I live, yes, your Majesty.”

Doors Closing

Lumb blinked in, looked around, blinked out. Arnauld would be seconds behind him, less if it was young Arnauld, with young Arnauld’s reflexes and adrenaline production. Two blinks ago he’d seen a forest, daytime, probably morning from the dewy sheen on the leaves. Then a concrete corridor, lit by bare incandescent bulbs spaced too far apart. This last time, a beach at dusk, the sun low on the horizon, a low tide teasing the sand. Then…

A busy subway platform, just behind a pillar, just as the train arrived. Bingo. Lumb slipped into the throng and then the train, traded his hat for one lifted from an exiting passenger’s coat pocket, reversed his jacket from exterior-blue to liner-red.

Arnauld would know within seconds that he hadn’t blinked again, but by then Lumb would be one face in ten thousand, somewhere on the train or on the platform or hurrying up the steps onto the city street. He’d have to—

“Lumb.”

Arnauld sat behind him, holding a newspaper. Under the paper, there’d be a gun, and Arnauld’s Blinky, and a Bracelet slaved to the Blinky. “I’ve disabled yours, so don’t bother.” He handed the Bracelet forward.

“…I almost got away.”

“Sure.”

Free Shrimp Cocktail

Rickover looked down at his cards, trying to concentrate through the discomfort of the heat, trying to remember the last couple hands, trying to count cards. “Hit me.”

The demon snapped another card off the top of the deck and deposited it in front of Rickover, hissing, “Jack, bust. That’s another thousand years you owe me.”

Rickover didn’t swear at his bad luck; that would just have cost him more time. “Deal again.”

“My pleasure.” The demon dealt each of them a card face-up, and then likewise one face-down. “The dealer shows an ace; want to buy insurance?”

“How much?”

“Up to five hundred years.”

“No.”

The demon looked at his hole card, and then turned over a Queen. “Blackjack.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m cheating, Mister Rickover?” The demon leaned in, steam coming from its nostrils. “I’m not the one at this table who cheats, am I?”

“…No.”

With a grin, the demon dealt again. After looking at the card, its toothsome grin expanded. “Rickover shows a pair of tens. Want to split?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this.” The demon turned to grab an enormous blade from the wall. “Now, hold very still.”