Social Engineering

Nua was disconcerted when she entered Tyo's apartment.  "Last week this was a shitty economy with a roach problem," she said, eyeing the solid gold fountain bubbling with Dom Perignon.  Overhead, a flock of phoenixes sang classic Limp Bizkit songs with full orchestration.

"Yeah, well," Tyo shrugged.  "I found the old Telnet server God used to make the universe.  Dude never changed his password.  Old people and computers, right?  Family members and birthdays, t'cha."  Tyo spat and laughed.  A diamond robot scurried out to clean the marble.

"Twelve twenty-five?" Nua asked.

"Jeez, how Americanized are you?  One over zero, babe."

"The Shallows" at Toasted Cake

So if you aren't listening to Tina Connolly's Toasted Cake podcast, first, you should do that, so go ahead.  I'll wait.  They're short, mostly.

You can then listen to the newest episode, which features "The Shallows," originally published at Flash Fiction Online.  :-)

Apparently No One Had Actually Staked a Claim Before

"Mine!" Jory yanked the toy truck away.

"Come on, what do we say?" said Greg wearily.

"MINE!"  Jory ran to the front door and tugged at the handle.  He spun and pointed at the rest of the house.  "Mine!"

"Hon?" said Rachel from the kitchen, "why did the mortgage statement come in Jory's name?"

"Open door?" Jory instructed.

Greg hesitated.  But then, it was his house.

Jory ran outside and gripped the ground.  "Mine!"

He really couldn't do much worse, Greg reflected, as the helicopters and sirens started in the distance, coming to retrieve the toddler who ruled the planet.

Unseen Workers

Cursing, the doll-sized gnome picked himself up from the plaster dust and the splattered remnants of breakfast.

"You were in the ceiling," Brent said numbly.

"Cripes," said the gnome.  "Now we're in it."

"Why do you have pliers?" Brent asked, beginning to feel concerned.

The gnome tried to dodge aside, but Brent menaced him with a fork.

"Look, I'll give you a hint, okay?"  The gnome held up his pudgy hands.  "Your warranty ends tomorrow, doesn't it?  On the dryer?"

"...what?"

"Just act surprised.  That's all I can safely say."  The gnome tapped the side of his nose and fled.

Expedition

"What we're primarily interested in," said Neeling, stepping cautiously across the feed-yard, "is how you managed to cross in the phoenix.  They're rare, finicky eaters, and ? most pertinently ? parthenogenic.  We'd never managed to even get one to survive long in captivity.  How did you manage it?"

Clem shrugged.  "Patience."  

There was a commotion to the side.  One of the birds was standing stiff, hiccuping.  Neeling stared.  "For myself, I suppose I might ask... why?"

The distressed bird emitted a single, sharp cry, then burst into brief flame.  Clem stepped in and plucked up the sizzling body, now denuded.  "Self-cookin' chickens."


The expedition to the polar entrance of the hollow Earth went as smooth as silk.  Even the descent had been no trickier than expected, the zeppelin inflating without issue and only a few moments of upsetting free-fall when the pressure differential started to collapse the bag.  Now they were landed safely on the safe green sward of one of the interior continents, and the Turing Automatic Servant was working to translate the language of the short, fuzzy bipeds that dwelt there.

"They want to know," the robot said in its metallic voice, "how we got out of the hollow universe."

A Red and White Fuse, Burning Slowly

A few seconds of ticking from inside a jack-o-lantern: that's all the warning we got before Halloween exploded.  It was a terrible scene; ghosts splattered against windowpanes or spread across streets like ectoplasmic butter on burnt toast; witches jammed hat-first through trees, their striped stockings all higgeldy-piggeldy; splintery candy shrapnel peppered walls, doors, and the occasional cursing parent; and everywhere, everywhere, the sobbing of children deprived of sugar.

But it could have been worse.

In a couple of months, we might have aerial bombardment to worry about.  How many presents do you think Santa stores in his sleigh at once?

The Backwards Man

I met a backwards man today.  His head face the right way, and he walked forward.  No rakshasa nonsense or anything like that.  But he was backwards.  I could tell.  He moved against the flow of the current.

The first thing he did was pull a knife out of my back.  He slapped me across the face, then leaned in for a lingering hug.  He kissed me on each cheek and walked away, waving in greeting.  I watched the bubble of mild confusion in the people around him until the crowds obscured him completely.  Totally backwards.

I kept the knife.

First Person

The First Person was on the move again.  It hadn't changed position in subjective years.  What that meant outside the game, the NPCs couldn't be certain; they only had the barest notion of what 'outside' even meant, and differential time flow was only one of many theories the best NPC scientists had managed to concoct to explain measured discrepancies.

The First Person was unstoppable, a juggernaut, a demigod, but it had long since stopped trying to hunt and kill the NPCs with any verve or vigor.  It barely even bothered to gun them down if they passed through its line of sight, though as catastrophically (and expensively, though again, 'money' was a theoretical construct for the NPC population, and most of them thought it was too silly to be real) overpowered as the First Person was, "barely bothered" tended to obliterate a few neighborhoods every time someone misjudged the placement of their hit boxes.

Now, though, it was moving.  It found the streets deserted, and though it might have entered the buildings and slaughtered every living thing inside quite easily (every year, another NPC inventor insisted they'd found a way through the invisible walls that penned them into their levels, but none had ever worked), it ignored the doors and alleys and ladders, instead plowing straight ahead, guns bristling, only firing off a rocket to jump from every now and then.

No one knew where it was going, but everyone wanted to keep out of its way.  On the other hand, no one wanted to let it completely out of sight, either.  Better to know which way the danger might be coming from.  So the NPCs trailed along at as safe a distance as they could manage, across the miles and through the levels.  Cycles passed and animations reset.  Items spawned and despawned, and still the First Person walked on.

Then, at last, they saw something coming the other way.  Another armored colossus, another following cloud of terrified NPCS.

Another First Person.

No one in the crowd had known there could be more than one (though the NPC poet-historians could recite the oral history of the servers and their long, slow decline.  Ping, ping, lag, went the mantra, in pursuit of the mystic state of latency).  A second First Person.  It seemed somehow obscene.  How long had it been since anyone had seen another?  How long had it been since anyone had even learned the word "multiplayer"?

They thought they had seen destruction.  They thought there was no more that could be done to them.

They soon learned otherwise.

Fun Factory

Jake found happiness under the couch cushions.  It was drippy.  It had been there a while.

Years later, the factory was fully automated.  Extractors, dehydrators, compounders, filters.  It squirted seltzer into bottles dosed with the minimum active dose of essence of happiness, added sugar and a label with a barcode, and shipped them out in pallets.  The trucks never stopped.

The main laboratory was off-limits to all non-authorized personnel, which at this point meant functionally everyone.  The sealed titanium "Happiness" cannister had long since fallen empty and dry as dust.

What Jake had discovered was that it didn't actually matter.

Good Cop

Ramsey pulled the badge off using both hooves.  The slick plastic stuck to his wool and squirmed from his grasp as if alive; it had, after all, been designed for someone with claws.  Lupine sniggers filled the locker room.  No one met Ramsey's gaze when he glanced around.

"I think it went okay out there today," said Doulpho.  He was Ramsey's partner, gray fur showing all around his muzzle.  Doulpho didn't like the situation, Ramsey knew, but Ramsey gave the old wolf credit for keeping a positive attitude on the outside.  For trying.  "It's hard for anyone to be the first."  Doulpho coughed and scratched at his chin with one paw.  "Hey, look," he said slowly, "it's Friday.  Everyone's going down to the watering hole after work..."

Ramsey could sense ears pricking up all around them.  Barely suppressed snarls vibrated in a dozen throats.  Inside his head, Ramsey adjusted his opinion of Doulpho sharply upward.  Assuming the offer was genuine, Doulpho had just made a lot of enemies for the sake of a comradely gesture.  Ramsey forced a smile.  "No, thanks, Doulpho.  I've still got those night classes.  Maybe next week."

Doulpho nodded his understanding, his predator's eyes wide.  The tension in the room ebbed slightly.  No sheep in the bar, not yet.  Ramsey worked his bulletproof vest over his horns, which just this year had started to curve inward at last.  Fuck the night classes.  He'd go home and watch television, then sleep.  Then on Monday he'd come back, and the job would start again.  He'd wear a badge.  He'd carry a gun.

He would be a cop among wolves.

Linkdump, of sorts.

Recent stories that I have neglected to announce here:

"The Strongest Man in the World," at Daily Science Fiction - Surreal circus-flavored creepiness.

"Enginesong" reprinted in audio at Podcastle - Trains got legs? 

From eons past here at Mirrorshards, "Traveler in a Distant Land," as the drabble for Drabblecast #316, where the main story also features the vocal talents of my lovely spouse.

Jenkins' Job

“Look, Graham, before Jenkins gets in,” said Mary, “I just... I wanted to warn you not to say anything.”

“About what?”

“Shh!  He’s here!”

A small orange tomcat padded into the office, a tiny briefcase in its mouth.  It leapt onto the desk and sat to wash its face.  Then it abruptly stood and darted back outside.

“He forgot the files,” Mary sighed.  “Typical.”

“You could have just said he was a cat,” Graham snapped.

“What?  I just meant you shouldn’t mention his operation.  He’s very sensitive about it.”

Graham blinked.  “He’s neutered?”

Mary gave him an odd look.  “Declawed.”

Jangleangle

You can get used to anything, my uncle Otto used to say.  That’s probably pretty true.  I don’t think about it much because the Noise gets louder when I do.

For me, the Noise sounds like an alarm clock in the next room.  Most of the time it does, anyway.  Sometimes it gets closer, when... you know.

Yeah, don’t think too hard about that.   Did it spike?  You’ve got to be careful.  That looked like it kind of hurt.

Oh, I don’t remember much before the Noise.  I wasn’t born with it, but I was pretty little.  I’m almost as good as most of the younger kids; they don’t even have to try to avoid thinking wrong.

What?  What?

Hold on.

Sorry.  I was... I got distracted.  I was confused.  I’m okay now.

Oh, I was telling you.  I was telling you something.  Acclimation.

Right, yes.  It was Tony.  I mean, Tony isn’t here anymore.  That’s a thing I had to get used to.

Ow.  No, I’m fine.  I said I’m fine.

Anyway.  Tony.  I saw him last, you know?  I’m the one who had to...  He was always in the basement.  He called it his “laboratory,” but it was a stupid basement and that’s all it was, okay?

Five years.  He was five years older.  So he had, you know, he knew Mom and Dad before the Noise came and taught us the right way.  To think.  The proper way.  Not many people remember moms and dads.

Tony kind of helped raise me.  Like a volunteer Mentor.  I mean, everyone does it now, yes, of course, and that’s the right way and proper, but this was before, in the early days.  The chaos.  He did it because he wanted to.

Ow.  Right.  Yes, of course everyone wants to, that’s the right way, yes.  That’s the right.  Way.  But it was different somehow when Tony.

What?  What?

Sorry.  No, I was just.  Thinking.  Tony was bad, okay?  And it’s hard for me because I liked what he did, what he was in those.  In the days.  Before.  But he was bad.  He did bad stuff.

It was in the laboratory.  He made a bad thing.  I went down there.  I went to get him because I had some food.  Some cans.  It was.  I had to work hard to get them.  I think.  It’s.  I can’t remember.

I went down and it was quiet.

Ow.  No, look, this is important.  I can do this.

Ow.  No!  I will.  I’m going to say it.

It was quiet.  And he.  Tony.  He looked up at me with a big grin, his big stupid teeth.  He looked at.  Smiled.  At me.  And he said, “I did it.”  And I didn’t ask him what.  Because.  It was quiet.

I had to.  The Noise shows us the right way.  He made it stop.  His machine.  I had to stop him.  I had to stop the quiet.  That was... the right way.

No, I’m fine.  I’m okay now.  It’s... everything’s fine.  Just remember.  You should.  I can’t.   Remember.  What I told you.  You have to.

Listen.  You have to.

Hear that?

Trufellas

 “The name was your mistake,” I growled.  “Arrogant.  ’Bottom Shelf Goods?’  What are bottom shelves if not low racks?”

“Yes, very clever, Onceler,” he responded.  “But nobody needs you.  Not anymore.  I’ve got what they need.  I’ve got what everyone needs.”

“Well, I’ve got this.”  He didn’t react to the gun, but I could tell he was surprised by the tilt of his mustache.

“We were almost finished here anyway,” he said.  Then he simply picked himself up and carried himself away.  I didn’t shoot.  I didn’t dare.

After all, one day the Lorax and his friends might come back...

The Storm-God's Lover

After she had cleaned up the floodwaters and chivvied the snarling clouds back into their pen, she returned to the bower, where her lover sat, hangdog and fuming.

“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” he said, before she could speak.  “I wanted to make a beautiful storm for you.”

“I didn’t ask,” she answered.  “But tell me, since you bring it up: why?”

“Because I’m not divine.  I’m just a man.  I wanted to do something.  To be something.  Why would you love me otherwise?

“Silly,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.  “You are special because you are mine.”

Clickjack

He finished the e-mail and paused to reread.  He was disconcerted to see, instead of a polite request to be removed from the course, nothing but “FEAR IS WHAT THE PREY CAN CATCH FEAR IS WHAT THE PREY CAN CATCH FEAR IS WHAT”

He hit control-A and delete almost instinctively.  The page was blank, and he was suddenly unsure what he’d seen.  Control-Z.  Nothing.  He pressed a button experimentally.  “B” floated peacefully on the screen, as expected, black on white.  He started retyping the e-mail.

The letters appeared one by one, not at all matching his busy keystrokes:

“E-H-I-N-D Y-O-U”

Aftereffects

It was the one hundred and fortieth day in the bunker, and the sixtieth straight day of rain.  Today, the head-height clouds were charged with electricity, and your hair stood up on end if you walked through them.  Gigi had a red mark on her cheek where a wee lightning bolt had earthed itself.  The tiny droplets pattered down, already half an inch deep.

As a miniature waterspout formed over Kathleen’s bowl of cereal, sucking up Cap’n Crunch pieces with its tiny, terrifying windspeeds, Kathleen shrugged.  “If it’s this bad in here, just imagine what it would be like outside.”

Already Here

We didn’t find out about the invasion for a while.  They said on the news the aliens looked like us and talked like us and were generally exactly like us except they came from space and we didn’t.  They came down and lived among us, infiltrating every country, every institution, every life.  But there was a test, they said on the news.  And they started bringing people in, one by one.

The news has gone quiet since the tests finished.  Every last one of us tested, and now we know who the aliens are.  They’ll make the announcement any minute.

Stonebones at BCS

Stonebones is currently available at Beneath Ceaseless Skies for Science Fantasy Month!  Hooray for dead dragons and guns that don't work!

One for Everyone

The bowl was full of Death, individually wrapped.  The skeleton sat on the porch with the bowl between its knees.  A sign taped to its ribcage read, “One per person.  No exceptions!”  The huddle of plastic be-masked elementary schoolers huddled at the end of the sidewalk, unwilling to move forward.

“No one wants to go?” said Mike, who had been unhappily drafted into trick-or-treating duty.  “Well, then let’s get to the next house.  C’mon, chop chop.”

There was a cough from behind them.  “The sign,” said a hollow voice, “is clear.  One for everyone.”

And that’s the way it was.