Wednesday, March 30, 2005

:::A Betting Man:::

Henrick Bjornson was bored with planet living. There never seemed to be enough adventure in it anymore. He had flown his plane, a craft that he had built himself with nothing but the basic principles of aerodynamics as a guide, through mountains and over deserts. He had seen many strange sights and was able to say without exaggeration that on more than a few occasions he had "barely escaped with his hide."

But that sort of life seemed to be ending for him. Heck, it had been almost a year now without a single mysterious or life threatening incident. All of the jobs he had taken had resulted in low, but steady pay with plenty of soreness but not much in the way of excitement or surprises. It had gotten so that a betting man would put his money firmly on the side of Henrick's survival into old age.

So Henrick had decided that the time had come for him to "make the ultimate leap," as he put it, "into the great black unknown." Unfortunately, Henrick was always a little unclear with his metaphors, and his use of this one combined with his recent spate of melancholy had left several people who knew him with the worrying impression that Henrick was planning to commit suicide - possibly by leaping off of something - instead of that he planned to book passage on a starship, as he had intended.

Henrick's first step was to sell his beloved airplane, a task that would sadden him but that he knew was necessary because he could not possibly take it with him, and besides, he would need the money. With that purpose in mind he had contacted a woman with the unflattering name of Dorg, who compensated for her uninspired christening by being an extremely shrewd merchant.

"This is your plane?" Dorg asked.
"Yep. Beautiful isn't she? I built her myself with nothing but the basic principles of aerodyn-
"She's a godforsaken antique. No one's built aircraft like this in a couple hundred years!" she said, reaching toward it, but stopping an inch away as if afraid it would fall apart if she touched it. "Does it fly?"
"Of course it flies! Look, this plane is a perfect example of how classical principles of design and the fundamental laws of-
"Look at these blades on the sides! I bet they used to use them to cut off the wings of other aircraft!"
"Those are propellers! They pull air over the wings to create the lift that allows it fly."
"Where are the ATs?" she asked, bending down to look under the plane.
"It doesn't need atmospheric thrusters. Look, it's…aw forget it. What can you give me for it Dorg?"
"Well, I won't be able to sell it to any pilots - they wouldn't know how to get it off the ground." She stepped back and squinted at it. "But I might have an idea for it. I'll give you five hundred."
"That's it? It's a working aircraft in perfect condition!"
Dorg just looked at him. Henrick sighed, closed his eyes, and stuck out his hand.

The next step for Henrick was to find the right starship. It couldn't be a normal passenger carrier. It needed to be something with a little more edginess to it - like a cargo shuttle that had room for an extra body in the crew quarters. He talked to cargo ship captains until he found one that reminded him of an old sergeant he used to know and who seemed a little cagey about the contents of his hold. They worked out a deal for Henrick to be a temporary member of the man's crew. He would go as far as their next delivery and then they would discuss whether he should stay on as permanent hand or not.
With any luck, he thought as he followed the captain toward the ship, they'll turn out to be smugglers or bounty hunters or something.


A month later, they were entering the atmosphere of another planet. Henrick had learned a lot since his arrival on board - mostly about the mechanical workings of a starship. The crew had taken to him reasonably well. He had thrown a lot of darts, played a lot cards, and cleaned a lot of engine parts with them. But despite the camaraderie, he couldn't help feeling a little bored. Danger and mystery had so far failed to find him. The only bright spot was that, try as he might, he had yet to learn anything about the cargo that they were transporting, and he felt that this was promising. After all, why keep something like that a secret unless there was some danger involved in revealing it?

The planet they were landing on was not unlike the one he had left behind. There were a few large city-states near the coastlines and on the major rivers, and then there were vast undeveloped areas of wilderness. Their ship headed down towards the outskirts of one of the urban areas. They landed on a flattened area of ground between foothills that, much to Henrick's delight, kept them well out of sight.

The crew rolled out a wheeled platform at least twenty feet square on which something large was covered by a yellow tarp. The captain approached him and said that even though it was a little out of the ordinary for a temporary hand, they were going to let him come along to help with the delivery. Henrick grinned in excitement, and quietly strapped his pistol on under his coat. Several of the other crewmembers had firearms as well, which Henrick took to be a promising sign.

The platform, although motorized, was not really up to the challenge of the hilly terrain, and Henrick and the other crew members had to put their backs into it until they crested the nearest hill. From there they could see a small group of people waiting for them with an atmospheric ship ready to transport the cargo somewhere else.

"This is it," said the captain to Henrick. "Those are the people we are here to meet."
"Who are they?" asked Henrick, trying not to sound excited.
"Antique collectors," said the captain with a smile. Henrick felt his hopes deflating. "Oh?" he said.
"We couldn't meet them in the city because of quarantine regulations. You see, our cargo is a rare item that we hope they will want for the museum, but all off-world antiques have to be kept under observation a minimum of a hundred miles outside of the city for a week to make sure that they aren't a danger."

"Afternoon," the captain called as they approached.
"Hello Joshua," a woman called from the front of the other group. There were eight of them total, all armed, but waiting calmly. Henrick's group numbered seven including himself and the captain.
"What have you got for me, Joshua?" the woman asked.
"I have here, a piece of antiquity. Under this tarp is an ancient relic from the early days of civilization. Not only will it be the only one in your collection, but it will, without doubt, be the only one of its kind on the entire planet."
Henrick sighed and looked aimlessly off into the distance.
"What is its condition?" the woman asked.
"Lord only knows how it survived this long so well preserved. It looks like it could still be used today," the captain said.
"Well, let's see it," the woman said. The captain gave a signal to one of the crewmen who jumped onto the platform, untied the yellow tarp, and pulled it back to reveal what looked a heck of a lot like Henrick's old plane.
He stared at it in shock. Yep, it was his alright. He recognized every scratch on it.

Henrick was not the only one with a look of disbelief on his face. The woman in charge of the other party was gazing at it with one eyebrow raised.
"Do you think I'm stupid, Joshua?"
"What?" asked the captain.
"I don't take kindly to people trying to swindle me," she said.
"Swindle you? I would never! This is the genuine article, Madame."
"That's no archeological find. It's a fake!"
"I assure you it is not."
"What is it, then?" she asked.
"Obviously, it's a war chariot," the captain said.
"What?" said Henrick, unable to stop himself.
"It's a war chariot!" the captain said again, throwing Henrick a look. "It was only recently discovered sealed in the tomb of an ancient prince on the planet we just left."
"No way," said the woman. "It's too ugly to have been sealed in a tomb with a prince. Where are the ritual decorations and the ancient writing? This looks like someone's old lawn mower."
"Lawn mower?" said Henrick. He could feel his face turning red. The captain tried to ignore him.
"Madame, just look at it." He pointed at the cockpit. "Here is where the warlord sat." Next he pointed at the propellers. "These were obviously used to slice apart anyone who got too close."
"No!" shouted Henrick. "It's not a chariot. It's a plane! Those are the propellers."
"Look, you shut up! Don't pay attention to him, Madame. He's only a temporary crewman that we picked up on the last planet. And anyway, how would he know?"
"Because I bloody built the thing!" Henrick shouted.
"I knew it!" yelled the woman, and she reached for her gun.
The movement was like the start of an avalanche. Everyone was suddenly either leaping for cover or drawing their guns or both.
Henrick's pistol was in his hand before he had even known he'd gone for it. He leaned backward, letting himself fall. He heard a shot from the woman's direction, and a bullet burned a line alongside his neck. He fanned the hammer of his gun with his left hand as he fell. He landed hard on his back, the air knocked out of him.
A second later, the shots stopped. After some more shouting, Henrick saw the face of the captain looking down at him from above.
"What do you mean, you built it?" he said.


Both crews got off fairly easy this time, with just some flesh wounds that would have to be stitched up. The woman had been the only fatality. The men with her were just day hires, so once their employer went down they figured there was no more point in fighting.
It turned out that this was the captain's first foray into anything other than foodstuff transporting, and the experience was something that he had decided not to repeat. The glares from the rest of the crew were enough of an indication to Henrick that he would not be welcome as a permanent crewman, which was fine with him, given the relative lack of intentional adventuring in the ship's future.
They did, however, allow him to buy back his old plane for five hundred dollars, although not without saying a few nasty things both about it and a certain female merchant who had sold it to them.


It was well into evening when the ship took off again. Henrick watched it go from the cockpit of his plane and considered his circumstances. He had very little money left to him and almost no food. In the morning he would have to fly out over an unknown planet with no idea of who was friendly and who would attack on site, what might be poisonous, or even what was considered an insult. A betting man would not put much money on Henrick's survival.

Henrick leaned back, closed his eyes, and let a quiet grin spread across his face.

posted by D @ 2:55 PM |

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

:::Sorrow, Soul, and The Good Life:::

The inside of Maggie's Brew was dim except for pools of yellow light that illuminated the steam rising from the patron's mugs and one spotlight that lit up the tiny raised platform at the north end. The walls were brick and the ceiling was high enough to disappear in the shadows up above the heavy wooden support beams. The crowd was low-key. They talked quietly, sipped hot drinks in the cool air, and waited. It was Thursday, and every Thursday night she would come. They never announced her, and there were no fliers with her name passed out or tacked up. If you came to hear her sing, it was because you'd been there before on a Thursday - maybe by chance or maybe because a friend told you to go - and every Thursday since you'd been looking for a way back in time - a way back to that first song.

Her voice was rich and sweet and full of tones from deep dark soul to golden aria. A chef from out of town had once described it as melted South American chocolate flavored with a bit of chili pepper. Word didn't spread too much because listening to her was kind of hard to talk about afterwards. Trying to explain it felt kind of like trying to explain love. You used what words you had, knowing that they would be inadequate, and mostly the people that understood where the ones who'd been through the same thing.

It was still a little early, and she hadn't made her appearance yet. The crowd seated closest to the platform relaxed into their waiting, emanating a sense of calm anticipation.

At the south end of Maggie's, where the crowd wasn't as thick, Jamie Mulligan was waiting too, but not for her. Jamie had never been to Maggie's before - Thursday or otherwise. In fact, that was the very reason that he had picked it. No one would have a reason to look for him or the person he was meeting in this place.

The door to Maggie's swung open. Jamie's right hand dropped to his jacket pocket, and he peered at the doorway through the dim light. Someone walked in, but it wasn't anyone he knew. He placed his hand back on the tabletop, watching it shake a little while he took another sip of coffee.

No matter what news his contact brought tonight, at least it would be over. Either way the dark times were going to end for him. He wouldn't even have to talk to the man to find out. It was safer for both of them that way. When the man walked in he would be wearing a scarf. If the scarf was dark, then things had gone well, they had listened to Jamie, and there would be no more secret killing in the name of patriotism. If the scarf was brightly colored... Jamie reached down and ran his hand over the outside of his coat pocket, feeling the hard shape inside.

At the far end, near the door, a lone woman stepped up onto the platform. She had long black hair and cream colored skin, and when she turned out to face the crowd, her eyes were closed. Just then, the door to Maggie's swung open again, and in came the man Jamie was waiting for.

Jamie didn't breathe. He leaned forward, staring through the gloom and feeling his heart beat. The scarf - it was dark! He took a deep breath, feeling a rush of emotion coming with it.

Then the man walked in front of the platform, and the spotlight lit up his bright, baby-blue scarf.

Jamie slumped slowly back against his chair. His eyes drifted down to the tabletop, not really seeing it, and his mouth hung open. This was it. He had his answer, and it was bleak. It was strange, but he had never really faced the fact that this could happen - that everything he believed in could fall away so quickly into nothing. The logical side of him had planned for it, perhaps, but he had not really prepared himself for what it would feel like. How do you prepare yourself to lose hope when you still have some left?

His right hand reached slowly down to his pocket. He scanned the room to make sure that no one was watching him which wasn't a problem, because everyone seemed focused on the woman standing on the platform. His hand came back up holding the gun. It was black and heavy and cold, just the way he wanted it to be. He placed it in his mouth, tasting the oil he had used to clean it. He thought about all that he used to believe in: that the good guys won, that justice would prevail, that heroes could make a difference, and that wrongs could be made right. If those things weren't true, what was left?

He went to pull the trigger, but something happened that stopped him. On the platform at the far end of the room, the woman had begun to sing.

The voice was deeper than he had expected. It rolled through the room - a smooth, black and blue song of sorrow that leapt up to catch the high notes. The energy built and built with every note she sang. It pushed at him, wrapping its arms around the place inside of him where it hurt the worst and pouring into him there. What had started out quiet, grew louder and louder, and when she got to the end, she opened her eyes and stared right at him while she held that last note. And what a note! It was pure golden light in the darkness.

Then, silence.

Jamie took a long, slow breath. He could feel his hand shaking again. On the platform, the woman waited with her head bowed. Carefully, Jamie pulled the gun out of his mouth and replaced it in his pocket.

On the platform, the woman spoke.
"For all you travelers that have stopped in tonight to hear the music...welcome back to the good life."

posted by D @ 12:17 AM |

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

:::Reality Overdose:::

The roof of the parking garage was empty of everything except for cool air, yellow light, two guys, and one wheelchair. Jenson, the skinny guy in the chair with the blond spikes, could barely contain himself. He rocked backward and forward with his upper body and his right hand shook the way it always did when he got excited. His buddy, Trevor, a big guy with a beard and a t-shirt that looked like it served a dual existence as a painter's palette, took drags off a cigarette while he waited for Jenson to (quote) show him something that's fucking unbelievable (end quote).
"Okay," said Jenson. "I'm going to show you something, but the first part's going to seem really stupid. You've got to promise not to laugh; otherwise you'll screw up the cool part at the end."
"What are you gonna do?" asked Trevor.
"Dude, it's so fucking unbelievable, I'm just going to have to show you."
Trevor took another drag and arched his left eyebrow.
Jenson took a deep breath and let it out slowly, going almost limp as he did so. Suddenly, his arms sprang out to either side, his hands clutching at something unseen. His face went completely blank with his eyes unfocused and his mouth partway open. He held that pose for a few seconds before he brought his hands to within an inch of touching in front of his mouth. After that he spent about five seconds doing what looked to Trevor like something a raver would do with glow sticks while dancing. All that time his face didn't change. Then suddenly he stopped, his right hand held out in front of him, palm up, and a glowing, moving ball of orange and yellow fire the size of a baseball floating in the air above it.
Trevor raised both eyebrows and leaned in close to check it out.
"Dude! That looks like fire," he said.
"It is fire. It's a fireball!" Jenson said. Trevor put his hand out and felt the heat.
"Wow! How did you do that? Is it burning gas or something?"
"No man, it's magic!" Jenson said, a huge smile forming on his face.
"Oh, magic...yeah, cool. Dude, seriously, how are you doing that?"
"I am serious! Check it out." He held out his left hand and made a tossing motion. The ball of fire floated across to his left hand.
"That's awesome. Is it some kind of burning gel on your hands or something?"
"No! It's magic. Check it out - you know Wikipedia.org, the website?"
"Yeah, it's an online encyclopedia that anyone can edit."
"Well about a week ago, I posted an article on casting spells where I referenced that book from my anthropology class that was from the sixteenth century. It was supposed to explain how to do magic, right? Well, since then people have been editing it, changing pieces of it here and there to match what they had read about in other books. I was checking it again last night, and I realized that all of the edits had made the instructions a crazy mixture of different mythological beliefs from all around the world. So I tried it, and it worked!"
Trevor tossed his cigarette to the cement. He leaned in again to look at the fireball, his face becoming focused and intent.
"Wow. This is fucking unbelievable," he said.
"I told you so!"
"So what can you do with it?"
"The fireball?"
"Yeah."
Jenson opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. He looked at the fireball and then he looked at the empty parking lot.
"Throw it at your enemies?" he suggested.
Trevor shook his head. Jenson, stared at the ball of flame some more.
"Dude, you're right," Jenson said. "You know there's nothing I actually want to set on fire...that sucks."
Trevor nodded, and pulled out another cigarette.
"What good is a fireball if you don't have anything to throw it at," said Jenson.
Trevor shrugged.
"No monsters to slay...no haunted mansions to burn to the ground...this is a fucked up world we live in, man."
Trevor nodded, slowly. He leaned forward and lit his cigarette from the ball of fire.
"You up for tacos?" he asked.
Jenson let out a deep sigh.
"Yeah, sure," he said. He let the fingers of his left hand go limp, and the ball of fire disappeared. Then he unlocked the wheels of his chair and spun back around the way they had come.
The two men and the wheelchair left the roof of the parking garage to the cool air and yellow light as they made their way to the eternal comfort of late night tacos.

posted by D @ 10:54 PM |

Saturday, March 12, 2005

:::Oracle Bones:::

When the call came, it woke Eric from a dream about monsters. His bad dreams were always about monsters. This time they had been pale, growling things that tore at his arms and legs. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The electric blue numerals of his alarm clock read 2:00am. He was burning up. The sheets were soaked. He picked his glasses up off the bedside table and shoved them on, then turned to stare at the phone. It was still ringing. Frowning, he picked it up.

"Hello."
"Eric, it's Jordan." He nearly dropped the phone, his already warm face reddening.
"Uh...hi..." he finally said.
"Eric, wake up."
"I'm awake. What's going on?"
"We need you to come to the subway station on South Kramer Street."
"Huh?"
"South Kramer Street, but you'll have to take a cab. It's shut down."
"The subway is shut down?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"You'll have to come see for yourself."
"But why do you want me there?"
"There's something carved into the walls. It's some kind of old writing. We want you to take a look at."
"What kind of old writing?"
"Eric, if we knew that, why the hell would I be calling you?"
"Oh, uh yeah...Right...I'll be there in half an hour."

The surface streets were dark and quiet on the cab ride over. The air was heavy with mist that was almost a drizzle, and the lights at the intersections became fuzzy blurs of red, green, and yellow. The entrance to the subway looked deserted, and Eric spent half a minute trying to decide if he should just call the cab back and go home, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and hurried forward.

It was darker in the tunnels than it should have been - some of the lights had gone out. He didn't see the man laying on the steps until he was almost stepping on him.

"Say man, do you have some change? I haven't eaten in two days - I'm just trying to get some food, you know?"
Eric knew he didn't have any change, but he checked his pockets anyway.
"I'm sorry man. I - I don't have any."
"I just want something to eat, man." He sat up, shifting closer to Eric, his face still too shadowed to see clearly. Eric resisted the urge to step back, telling himself to relax.
"It's been pretty wet lately, huh?" he said. The man didn't respond. He just stared at Eric, the sounds of his breathing like a raspy heartbeat in the stairway tunnel.
"Crazy weather!" Eric said with a feigned chuckle. His forehead was sweating. Just be calm, he told himself. This is just a guy who's down on his luck. Don't act scared.
The man leaned forward, slowly. His eyes were two dim points of green glow. Reflected light, Eric thought. It's not creepy. It's just reflected light.

"Hey Eric!" Jordan was waving to him from the bottom of the steps. "Hurry up. You're late!"
"I'm coming," he said, turning away from the man with relief and hurrying down the steps. The light was brighter at the bottom, and when he stepped into it he shivered as if he were shaking something off.

"This way," said Jordan, the police ID around her neck flashing in the light as she turned. She led the way past another officer and toward the subway platform. Eric snuck guilty glances at her ass as she walked, then attempted to distract himself by going over the stuff in his bag. It was mostly books that he had checked out from the university library for working on his thesis along with a magnifying glass, a little brush, and a penlight.

The subway platform was a mass of crime scene technicians. Jordan stopped just out of view of the rails and turned to him.
"I need to warn you about the crime scene. Have you eaten?"
"Uh, no. Not for about nine hours."
"Good. Things are pretty...disturbing...down on the rails. If you think you're going to throw up, use one of these." She handed him an orange plastic bag with "BIO WASTE" written in black on the side. Then she turned and stepped determinately forward. Eric stared down at the bag in his hand for a second, took a deep breath, and followed her.

The rails were partially submerged - only the tops were visible. There must have been water there already, Eric thought. There was water there already, and some blood got into the water and made it all look red. That can't all be blood, can it?
He took another step forward. There was a crunching sound. He checked the bottom of his shoe. There was something small and white stuck between the treads. He leaned down, balancing on one leg and trying to get a better look.
It was a tooth.

"Jordan. Jordan!" He felt dizzy. There was bile in the back of his throat. Jordan grabbed him before he lost his balance, steadying him with a strong hand on his shoulder. She leaned down and looked at his shoe.

"Hey, Raul," she yelled at one of the technicians. A tall man with hair gelled into an artistic interpretation of messy came over, gave Eric a pissed-off look, and started working. A short time later Jordan was guiding Eric further down the platform.

The wall on their left was done in white tiles interspersed with aquamarine. At the far end, someone had removed a whole section of the tiles exposing an area of cement about four feet in diameter, covered in hieroglyphics.

"Wow," said Eric. He leaned close enough to put his face a few inches from the wall. "These are Chinese."
"They don't look it," said Jordan, sounding annoyed. "I thought maybe they were Egyptian."
"It's an older form of Chinese. This is what they were writing on oracle bones back around 1350 B.C."
"What does it say?"
Eric studied them, scratching the back of his neck absently.
"Hey," she said.
"Uh, give me a minute."
"We don't have a minute! What does it say?" She grabbed a handful of his shirt at the shoulder and jerked him around to face her. He stared at her in surprise, his mouth dropping open. A green glow was reflecting off of her eyes from somewhere.
"I'm sorry, Jordan. I'm just a graduate student. I'll get the translation for you, but it will take me a couple of minutes."

She deflated, releasing his shirt, and looking away for a second.
"I feel weird - like I've got a hangover but my head doesn't hurt. Sorry, Eric." She met his eyes. The green was gone, leaving a hazel color that Eric kind of liked.
"Don't worry about it," he said. He realized that a couple of the crime scene technicians were watching them and felt his face heating up, so he turned back to examine the wall.
"You said they used to write like this on bone?" Jordan asked.
"Yeah," he said without turning around. "They would write a question on the bone and heat it until it cracked. Then they would read the cracks to tell the future."
"This wall isn't all of it," she said. "We also found some bones with the same writing scratched on them."

Before Eric could respond, the lights overhead went out.
"Shit," said Jordan. "A power failure - just what we need." A couple of flashlights switched on around the platform.
"Let me see that light," said a voice.
"Get your own."
"It's bad enough they cut our pay, but then they can't even keep the fucking lights on," said someone else.
"Ow! Watch it!"
"I can't because you're hogging the flashlight!"
"Don't step there!" said someone else. "You're gonna contaminate it!"
"What the hell's going on with you people?" shouted Jordan.
"You want the flashlight? Here!" There was a cracking sound and a thump. Green pinpoints of light winked in the darkness.
"I mean, how do they expect crime to go down if they cut our fucking funding?"
"Don't shove me!"
"It would serve them right if we went on a fucking rampage. Then they'd wish that they'd paid us more!"
"Have some more flashlight!"
"I said, don't step there!"

Sounds of scuffling broke out in the dark. Eric didn't move. All around the platform he could see the glow of twin green points of light. His palms were sweating. He felt someone grab his shoulder and he jumped.
"What's happening?" said Jordan, her face near his ear.
"I don't know."
"Everyone's going nuts in here. It's that hangover feeling - it's getting worse. Even I feel like I want to hit someone."
Eric peered in her direction, but there was no green glow.
"Ahh!" There was a scream and then a raspy sort of growl.
"Jordan, I - I think maybe we should get out of here."
"Oh, did you hear that?" said a masculine voice nearby. "The little genius boy is scared. He wants to go home."
"Get back, Raul," said Jordan.
"Cause you got a thing for him, right? We all know it's true. You think he's better than me, huh? Because he's getting his fucking PhD?"
"I'm not gonna warn you again! Back off!"
Two green eyes appeared in front of them. There was a snarl, and Eric was shoved back hard against the wall. He heard a smacking sound, then again and again, and then a thump.

"You okay?" said Jordan.
"Yeah." He felt her hand under his arm, pulling him to his feet. Around them the sounds had changed from shouts to grunts and screams. They walked quickly in the direction that Eric had come in from, giving a wide berth to the sounds coming out of the darkness. When they reached the stairs they broke into a run.
"Hey!" someone shouted after them, their voice sounding deep and gravelly.

They burst onto the street, panting and looking around.
"This way!" Jordan shouted, pulling him toward a parked car. "Get in! No - wait!" She looked back at the entrance to the subway. "Stay here!"
"What? Where are you going?"
She didn't say anything. She just leaped into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. The engine of the car roared to life. There was a responding roar from the entrance of the subway. Eric turned and saw several pairs of green eyes glowing from the stairs. He looked back at the car and could see Jordan strapping on her seatbelt. The car leapt forward, peeling away from the curb and lining up with the subway entrance. The headlights cut on, blasting white light into the top of the stairway.
"Sh-shit!" said Eric. Snarling in the glare of the headlights were four of the crime scene technicians. There was blood on their faces around their mouths, and they held long bones like clubs. A fifth figure stepped out in front of the rest. He stood up straighter than the others, and his eyes glowed brighter than theirs, the green glow visible even in the beam of the headlights. It was the homeless man Eric had passed on the stairs before.

The car jumped the curb and flew down the stairway, bowling over the creatures in its path and
disappearing from Eric's view. The sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass exploded back up to the street. Eric ran to the stairs.
"Jordan!" he called.
The car had flipped about half way down and was wedged across the stairway, blocking it off. He ran down to it, struggling to see in the dim light. The passenger's side was wedged into the ceiling, and the roof of the car was facing him. The windshield had burst, and there was glass everywhere. He could see Jordan, still strapped in place by the seatbelt and unmoving.
"Jordan?"
He reached in and unlocked the seatbelt, amazed that it hadn't jammed. She fell forward. He grabbed her then struggled to pull her out. A broken piece of glass caught on her leg and she cried out, opening her eyes.
"Jordan?"
"Eric." She gripped his arms and crawled forward, pulling herself up once her legs had cleared the windshield. They climbed back up the stairs, leaning together for support. When they reached the top they turned and looked back at the wrecked car blocking the subway.
"They'll move through the tunnels," said Jordan.
"We have to warn people," said Eric.
"Come on," she said.
The two of them turned and walked away down the misty street.

posted by D @ 1:11 PM |

Sunday, March 06, 2005

:::[A Cool Website]:::

I discovered a cool blog today called The Synchronicity of Indeterminacy. The creator of this site pulls a random picture off the web and writes a one minute story about it. On the weekends he invites readers to submit their own story about the random picture for that day. I submitted one I'm calling "The Zebra" in the comments of the March 5th post.

posted by D @ 8:57 PM |

Thursday, March 03, 2005

:::Sighs from the Underground:::

In the not too distant future...

A video shot opens on a dark alley with a pool of yellow light in the foreground. A lone figure walks slowly toward the camera from the dark part of the alley and stops at the edge of the yellow light. A dim silhouette more concealed than revealed, reaches out a hand and beckons to the camera. A smooth male voice that sounds like it should be introducing performers in a smoky jazz club speaks.

"The world of the light is blinding. All day you run from place to place buying and selling and seeing nothing. Come with me into the cool shadow of the city after dark. Everyday you march in step for the rule makers. I say, step off of the stage. Your life is not a show. Follow me and leave the harsh spotlight behind. No one will find you here with me, backstage in the real city..."
The figure turns and walks away into the darkness of the alley, and the camera follows him. At the mouth of the alley, he stops, and turns back toward the camera. He holds out his hand. The camera continues to come forward until it sits in his palm. The image goes dark for a second as he turns it around to face ahead of him. It comes back up with a moving visual of the street ahead.

"I am Adrian, and this is 'Sighs from the Underground' - your source for free and independent entertainment. That's right. I said the 'F' word: free. Brace yourselves, take a deep breath, and come to terms with this: there is no transaction taking place here tonight. We are out of bounds, off the edge of the map, and in clear violation of the federal Private Enterprise Protection Act. Even as I walk and talk this video is being randomly dumped in discrete packets of data onto the web where it will be reassembled and made available for free. There's no turning back now."

The camera pans around to show tall buildings along a street that runs sharply uphill. A taxi cab crests the hill, driving toward the camera at a quick, downhill speed. Adrian and his camera pause until the cab passes then jog across the street and cut into another alley.

"I have something really fantastic lined up for everyone tonight. A few friends of mine are putting together a little shindig for us."

He exits the alley and turns right onto another uphill street.

"The Roman philosopher, Boethius, said, 'Music is a part of us, and either ennobles or degrades our behavior.' I'm hoping that tonight we'll get a little of both of those possibilities."

He turns down another alley, and the camera shows a lowered fire escape. Adrian begins to climb, keeping the camera in front of him. As he nears the top of the four story building, the sound of guitars tuning up can just be made out. When he reaches the top of the building, he eases the camera up over the lip of the roof, slowly revealing a group of musicians - three men and one woman, each with a black bandana covering the bottom half of his or her face. The woman is setting up a trap set, and the guys are tuning up an acoustic guitar, a string base, and a muted trumpet.

Adrian swings himself over onto the rooftop. The musicians freeze for a second, then wave as they recognize him. Adrian walks over and takes a seat on an overturned plastic trash can that looks like it was left out for that purpose.

"What we are about to witness here was once considered the ultimate prize of discovery amongst the hipsters of the previous era - a free concert. Prior to the enacting of the PEPA, news of a free concert used to spread by word of mouth and by phone, and people would drop whatever they were doing and head for the locale.

"But nowadays, if you offer something for free, you have endangered the livelihood of everyone who sells what you are giving away. You have violated their chief right - the right to make money - an offense punishable by up to fifty years in prison. That reminds me, a new report from the census bureau says that prisoners are now the fastest growing segment of the population in the country, and spending on incarceration is expected to set an all time record this year despite continued cuts in prisoner medical care and work training programs.

"But enough about that, it looks like the band is finally ready to begin."

The drummer kicks them off with a fast symbol beat. She's joined first by the base player with a walking base line, and then by the trumpet player. Finally, the lead guitar comes in picking a fast melody with a classical guitar influence. They play a full verse of just instrumental before the guitarist starts to sing. His voice is rough, not the polished pop singer style that's pushed by the big media corps. He closes his eyes while he sings, a masked bandido telling a story about the pain of lost innocence. He sings three verses, and then they each take an instrumental solo before finishing it out with a reprise of the chorus.

They are just starting the opening bars of the second song, when a spotlight floods the rooftop with harsh, white light. A voice comes out of the darkness over some kind of amplified loudspeaker.

"This is the police. You are under arrest for violating the federal Private Enterprise Protection Act. Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head."

The camera spins to the left to show a dozen men in swat uniforms climbing over the edge of the building on the side with the fire escape. The band members are frozen in place, still holding their instruments. Adrian turns and rushes to the opposite side of the building. He leans over, but there is no fire escape on this side. The drop is four stories straight down. He turns back. The swat team is pushing the band members face down onto the roof top. Three of them are approaching him, machine guns pointed at his chest.

"Citizen known as Adrian, you are under arrest for illegally distributing goods without seeking proper restitution. Put the camera down, and put your hands behind your head, now!"

Adrian looks down at the ground then back at the policemen.

"This is your last warning!"

He turns the camera around in his palm, until he can see his face reflected in the lens. The camera shows a young man in his late twenties with a shaved head that is covered in dark stubble, a dark goatee, green eyes, and a gold earring in each ear. When he speaks his voice is quiet, but steady.

"Never stop questioning. Never stop seeking the truth."

He looks longingly into the camera, and then leaps off the edge of the building. He is still holding the camera as he falls.

"This is 'Sighs from the Underground' signing off."

posted by D @ 11:14 PM |

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

:::Canyon Blues:::

They rode down into the gulley in a thundering cloud of dust, the sound of their horses rumbling like an earthquake. The sun was low on the horizon behind them and in the eyes of their quarry, just as they had planned. A lone figure in a long blue dress and bonnet leapt up, but it was too late to run.
All in all they thought the ambush went well...

At the opposite end of the canyon, hidden behind a weathered spire of red rock, Henrick Bjornson was not at all happy. Here he was, hoping to catch a few winks in what was supposed to be pristine, uninhabited desert so that he would be ready to fly the Devil's Pass tomorrow, and now he had to put up with loud bandits and a lady in need of rescuing. He peered at them, trying to make out details, but it was hard with the sun in his eyes. Oh well, there couldn't be more than five or six of them, could there? Their weapons were probably little more than salvaged relics from the last war. They probably got by more on intimidation than any real skill.

In fact, there were fifteen of them, highly trained and well armed. They surrounded their quarry, pistols drawn, faces ranging from cold to sneering. Their leader, a short but well muscled man with at least a decade on everybody else there, nudged his horse a few steps forward and pointed at a small bundle nestled atop a backpack on the ground.
Give us the pup," he said.
Henrick couldn't see what was in the bundle from his new, closer hiding place on the eastern lip of the gulley (he assumed it was the woman's baby), but he did see the blue-clad arm that silently hoisted a one-finger gesture into the air. Good for her, he thought.
The gang leader raised his gun, pointed at the woman's head, and cocked back the hammer. Time's up, thought Henrick, and he leapt into the gulley, sliding feet first down the sandy wall and fanning the hammer on his revolver. Six shots that boomed like cannon fire, echoed in the canyon, and four men fell from their saddles. The woman in the blue dress dropped to the ground and came up with a short-barrel shot gun, and then all hell broke loose...

When it was over, Henrick first checked his body for any suspicious wet spots, then headed over to help the attractive and very grateful woman in the blue dress to stand up. At least that was the plan. What he actually did, was help the wrinkled, bald, and very grateful old man in the blue dress to stand up. The man bowed deeply to Henrick, then rushed to check the bundle, from which a loud snoring noise was now emanating. He pushed back the cloth to reveal a black and white puppy with a snub nose and large, bat-like ears. It raised its head and blinked at the light.
"Safe!" said the old man.
"A dog?" Henrick asked. "We almost got killed for a dog?"
"Not just any dog!" said the old man.
"Let me guess," said Henrick. "This dog is special. It's the key to an ancient prophesy or something, right?"
"Prophecy? I hope not," said the old man, shuddering slightly and wrinkling his already wrinkled nose.
"Come on, we just killed fifteen people who wanted to kill you for this puppy. What's going on?"
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to explain," said the old man. "State secrets..."
The old man rubbed the puppy's head gently, then folded the cloth back over it. After a moment the snoring began again.
"Oh come on! I just saved your life. I'd say a few state secrets are a reasonable trade."
"You did save my life." The old man frowned and fingered the ties of his bonnet. "Oh alright, it's not as if anyone would believe you anyway." He paused for effect. "He's an experimental weapon."
"What?"
"An experimental weapon."
"The dog?"
"Yes."
"You mean it's a fake dog?"
"Oh no, he's real."
"But he's an experimental weapon?"
"That's right."
"What does he do? Eat people?"
"He releases an airborne sleep-inducing chemical - but only after he eats the trigger biscuit."
Henrick stared in disbelief.
"You mean you feed the dog a treat, and its gas knocks people unconscious?"
"Exactly!"
Henrick looked at the bundled puppy, then at the old man, then at the fifteen bodies lying nearby, then back at the old man.
"Well...um...good luck with that...I guess."
Then he turned and began walking back the way he had come.
"There's a billion noble causes out there," he said to himself as he trudged uphill, "but I get to be the hero that saves a cross-dressing old nut with a dog that farts. Great, just great."

posted by D @ 12:30 AM |

I love stories - especially speculative fiction, and I named this blog Brief Glimpses of Somewhere Else because I think of each story as a window into another world.

If this is your first time here, I recommend "Legacies" and "The Great Puzzle", both of which were nominated for a 2006 Parsec Award. You can also find "Timmy, Jimmy, and the Beast of Tagmart" as well as "Late Shift at the Souleater" in the podcast anthology Voices: New Media Fiction available at podiobooks.com.

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