by Stephen R. Smith | May 5, 2014 | Story |
The first inkling I had that something was up was when Dinah’s was out of bumble-berry pie. It don’t seem like much, but nobody in Clyville eats bumble-berry pie but me, and there’s always a pie made when I come in after work.
Dinah said I’d eaten the entire thing that afternoon with a half dozen cups of coffee. Thing is, I was stacking pallets at the warehouse until seven pm without a break, so I know it weren’t me what ate the pie.
I had to settle for cherry. It was ok, I guess.
On Tuesday I went to pickup my truck from Lou’s. He’d put a new water pump in it, and said it would be ready anytime after lunch. I got there at three, and Lou says “How’s she running?” I’m a little confused, and I ask him “You tell me, is she ready to go?”
Lou just stands there, slack jawed and says “You picked it up two hours ago, aren’t you back to pay for that pump?”
Somebody picked up my truck, stole it, and had the balls to leave me to pay the bill. Lou was beside himself. He figured I was pulling his leg at first, and he got mad for a bit and then just got all quiet. I paid him. Wasn’t his fault, and he did fix the truck like he said he would.
Now I’ve got no pie, and no truck. The week’s not looking good at all.
On Thursday, I show up for work only to be sent home. I’d apparently worked eight hours on the night shift, and they’ve got safety rules that say I’ve got to sleep for eight hours before I can work again. I’m not sure what the hell’s going on by now, but at least the bastard that stole my truck’s starting to pull his own weight.
On Saturday, I wake up to the cold blade of an axe against my throat. Blinking against the morning light, there’s something familiar about the silhouette at the other end of the handle.
“You’ve got a nice life here in Clyville,” the voice rings a bell, “too bad you can’t stay and enjoy it.”
He couldn’t kill me, I understand that now. After all, he’s me.
No matter, I’ve put that behind me and I’ll stay here in Strewson for as long as I can. I expect he’ll get bored and come find me again. When he does, I’ll move on, but until then, can you cut me another slice of that bumble-berry pie? And top up my coffee? It really is delicious.
by Stephen R. Smith | May 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Tomas entered the sushi bar ten minutes before noon, ten minutes before his assignment would arrive. The restaurant was busy, not packed, and there were a few vacant tables along one side. His assignment would take the one closest to the kitchen, as he always did. Tomas left his jacket on the chair back of his own table, where the maitre’d had left him with a disinterested wave, and walked back towards the kitchen, pausing only long enough to lay a new QR code sticker over the one on his assignment’s table before continuing on into the bathroom.
He rinsed his hands, waited a few minutes and then returned to his seat to wait.
At noon his assignment walked through the door, an imposing man in an electric blue suit, double chins cleanly shaven, hair perfect.
The maitre’d showed much more interest in this man, and ushered him excitedly to his usual seat.
The man produced his phone and scanned the QR code on the table to begin his order.
Tomas heard an annoyed grunt. The menu app that would normally have launched immediately was now asking him to download an upgrade. Hungry and annoyed, he typed his passcode with fat well manicured fingers to remove this obstacle to his gluttony.
Moments later Blue Suit was ordering, and before long food was arriving. Tomas sat with his back to the man, listening to him wolf down plate after plate of sushi, sashimi and all sorts of dim sum. The sound made him nauseous, and any interest he had in eating faded quickly away, his own meal now abandoned before him.
At twenty minutes past the hour he heard the phone ring behind him, and for the next hour and forty minutes between gulps of green tea and around mouthfuls of raw fish, Blue Suit talked to nearly every politician in the city, most of the construction union leaders and several members of the local organized crime rings.
While they talked, Tomas’ modified menu app whispered from a list of NSA hot codes into the line, burying phrases under the conversations, painting targets under the noses of a very specifically targeted group of men.
Shortly after two Tomas had checked off all the names on his mental list from the conversations he had overheard. He left several bills on the table to cover his food and an allow for an unremarkable tip, and then slipped quietly out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.
On his way to the subway Tomas made one call.
“It’s done,” there would be no response he knew, “they’re all as good as dead.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 28, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jams took the offramp still pressed flat against the fuel tank, arms outspread, hands clutching the handgrips with intent. The suspension fought to press the tires into the asphalt while mass and velocity tried to launch bike and rider into the night sky. He could feel his heart beat once, twice, thrice before gravity pulled everything back under his control, and he let his muscles begin to unclench.
“Goose, ride. I’m out.”
He let his arms fall away from the grips as the bike took over control, throttling down and navigating onto the local route beneath the interstate. He lay his head on the tank, felt the steady pulse of the massive gasoline power plant beneath him radiate through his helmet and into his head.
“Goose, find fuel. Wake me when you do. Don’t engage the locals.”
Maps and scrolling lists of possible targets splayed across the inside of the bike’s armored bubble. Goose knew he didn’t need to see them, but she also knew he never stopped soaking up information.
“There’s a farm on the fringe, taken delivery of fuel two days ago, self-con.” Goose spoke in low tones right into Jams’ head.
Self-con. Self contained. Off the grid, or at least as off the grid as was corporately possible. Fuel and power regulations kept the wires in, but if they were truly offline, they might not know yet, and it was only with the unwired that Jams could stay ahead of the information. He was fast, but nothing could outrun the data; lies spread at the speed of light designed to ensnare and entrap. All the stealth tech in the world couldn’t keep them safe forever, he could elude the eyes on the highways, slip unnoticed beneath the satellites, but as soon as he pulled fuel off hours from a farmer, a light would go on somewhere and someone would turn to look. He’d have to be well on his way somewhere else by then.
If they was lucky, Goose could get them over the border and into Mexico in a few days, and if their luck held up, into South America.
At least down there he’d have no illusions that he could trust anyone, as long as he had data, there would be money and people would maintain a respectful distance.
Compared to the freedom of home, that would be paradise.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Baxter stood in the atrium of Marpo One and gazed up through the greenery, through the clear observation port above and into the blackness of space.
Three years he’d called this home, he with the sixty three other lost souls that had signed up for the one way trip to the red rock. They were a motley crew, all skilled in their fields; geologists, ecologists, survivalists, mediators, physicians, and each with nothing to lose by leaving Earth and everything behind them and living out their days as pioneers.
There had already been two births on Marpo, which wasn’t supposed to happen this early, but confine men and women together and it’s a practical inevitability.
Baxter would be happy if he’d just had a partner for some recreational non-procreational activity, but nobody wanted anything to do with him.
Something about him had changed, maybe the long sleep to get here, or the time spent in a self perpetuating cycle of loneliness. The more marginalized he felt, the more people left him alone, which made him feel even more isolated, and that made for a Baxter people really didn’t want to be around.
He kept to himself, did his job, and didn’t think twice when the voices came to him, first in his dreams, then in his waking hours.
They reaffirmed the things he already knew; Janey the Botanist was a bitch, and should be run through the organics recovery mill at the earliest possible opportunity. Markus the Manslut was jeopardizing the future of the colony, and should be flushed through an airlock in his sleep, a sleep that would be blunt force trauma induced.
Not right now, however, for right now Baxter was on route to the atmosphere chamber for what had become the de-facto nursery wing to blow it the hell up.
He bypassed the alarm and wedged the door on the atrium end of the tunnel, shouldered his welding rig and marched towards his grim obligation.
“Alright Baxter, stand down.”
The voice in his head was familiar, but the message was new.
“I’m going to do what we agreed needed to get done, this is important for the safety of the mission.” Baxter shook his head as he spoke out loud, confused at the sudden inner conflicting instructions.
“When you’re ready, lockdown corridor three, opaque and disable.”
Baxter felt a new height of anxiety; the voices were still in his head, no longer speaking to him, now clearly speaking about him. Dropping his rig he took off for the door he’d come in through. Half way there the lights went out, then the tube filled with electric blue lightning and Baxter travelled his last few feet in searing pain into a heap on the floor.
“It’s always the isolated male that cracks. We need more women with lower expectations.”
Behind him, a section of the observatory ceiling opened, and a pair of black suited figures dropped into the hallway.
“Do we bring him out?” One of the figures looked up through the opening, awaiting instructions.
“No, everyone thinks he’s on Mars, so we can’t really have him walking around here, and the rest of Marpo Nine thinks they’re a hundred million kilometers from home, so we can’t really have him just disappear, can we?” The voice was clinical, matter of fact. “Load his welding rig up, open the gas and light him up when you’re clear. Un-wedge the door so the fire seal holds, he’s not using hot enough fuel to breach.”
The figures worked quickly, stripping the bypass and closing the atrium hatch, then dragging Baxter back to the middle of the tunnel before strapping him into his welding rig. One of them pressed a nicotube into Baxter’s mouth to moisten it, then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He waiting until his partner had climbed the rope ladder back through the ceiling before pressing the igniter and tossing the tube down the hallway. He opened Baxter’s tanks wide and then pulled himself clear and sealed the hatch behind him.
Baxter came to on his back with the stars flickering overhead.
He used to find peace in the stars, as a boy, then as a pioneer before the voices came.
The voices were gone now, and Baxter felt a old familiar calm.
In a flash, both were gone.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 25, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Captain Lewis gripped the hand-strap inside the copter’s airframe tightly, the wind whipping spray up from the dark ocean below as the pilot tried to maneuver in the gale.
“Your ride is below – when we get close enough, drop into the boat,” the pilot screamed back through the cabin, “but try not to miss.”
Lewis had been cursed with an unnatural aversion to open water for as long as he could remember. Never swam, never took baths, only ever showered. Bouncing along in a helicopter in this extreme weather didn’t concern him at all, but the water below unsettled him severely. He swallowed hard and reset his grip on the strap.
From the bridge of the nearby warship, Admiral Danes watched the scene unfold through binoculars.
“Somebody tell that helo driver to offload my cargo; we don’t have all night.”
The instruction was relayed to the copter pilot, who turned again in the cockpit to address Lewis, screaming once more over the combined wind, wave and rotor noise.
“Sir, you need to transfer to the boat now!”
Lewis stared at the bobbing black craft below him. He was Army, battle tested, better than this. There was no way an irrational fear of water should be locking him up.
In a single movement Captain Lewis released his grip on the airframe and stepped out into the darkness.
In the same instant a gust of wind buffeted the helicopter sideways. Lewis missed the Zodiac by inches and splashed down in the icy water beside, then sank like a stone.
Admiral Danes barked at the crew on the bridge.
“What the hell just happened? Where’s my asset? Somebody fish that soldier out of the water and get him onboard ASAP!” There was a flurry of activity on the bridge, tense radio chatter with the pickup crew on the smaller boat and the helicopter pilot, followed by a hesitant voice from one of the instrument operators.
“Sir,” he began, “Admiral?”
The Admiral turned on him and barked. “Speak up man!”
“Sir, the Captain’s sinking fast, and all his on-boards are out. Those Army units aren’t watertight at depth sir, and they don’t float. They’re intended for dry-land combat, they’re water resistant, even partially waterproof to a limit, but…”
“Are you telling me that our Army Intel unit just deep-sixed itself into the god-damned ocean, and it can’t swim?”
The radar operator flinched. “And we’re right over the trench sir, it’s going to be practically impossible to get down there to get it back.”
The admiral slowly balled both fists and leaned into the console, the room getting very quiet around him.
“Get comms to Langley, have them bake me a new unit, load-in our intel and send it out here in a god-damned Ziploc bag. We’ll turn it on when it’s safely on board and I’ll personally deal with any disorientation.”
The operator sat very quiet and still.
“NOW!”
The bridge burst back into action, as beneath the waves below Captain Lewis went completely dark, his armored combat frame dropping him into the deepest, final sleep.
