Sun Shield

by | Jan 14, 2006 | Story

Commander Xylm of the Red Bastards jumped when he heard Knthens voice in his head.

“Commander, please meet me in the docking bay.” Despite his powers, Knthen usually used the intercom, and there was nervous emotion in his projected voice. The use of Xylms title, Commander, made him uneasy. The Red Bastards never stood on ceremony; rank was never mentioned when they were on their own. Something was up.

Knthen packed his things into the small storage unit of his fighter. He wasn’t wearing his flight suit; instead, he was dressed in the gold and bronze of the Sun Shields, his cape dull under the florescent lights. Xylm hadn’t seen Knthen in his Sun Shield uniform since the day he arrived, four rotations ago, as their old Sun Shield left to meditate on the side of a mountain.

Xylm crossed his arms, annoyed. “You’re leaving? Why wasn’t I notified?”

Knthen handed him a scroll, the mark of the War Council shimmering on the digital plastic. “I can’t stay. All Sun Shields have been ordered home.”

Xylm caught Knthens shoulder. “The Red Bastards have always had a Sun Shield, it’s a tradition. Why are the Sun Shields leaving us without our resident psychic?”

“The Sun Shields never promised a psychic to you.”

Xylm felt Knthens rage on the inside of his skull. “Don’t you dare put your fear on me.” He tossed the scroll on the floor. “I’m not your enemy. What in the filth is happening with the Sun Shields?”

Knthen touched the golden mark of the triple suns on his forehead, the mark that showed him to be a psychic. “Trust me Xlymn.” Knthen reached for his friend, his palms closing in on Xylms cheeks. Knthen touched Xlymns temples and closed eyes with the tips of his fingers. Xelm relaxed, and his head rested onto Knthens palms. Knthen closed his eyes.

When Knthen stepped back, Xylm shook his head, feeling fuzzy. “What was that for?”

Knthen bowed his head. “I needed to see you, I needed to know for sure.”

“By the holy dark, what is going on?”

Knthen looked away, focusing on his ship. “I think I’m going to be killed.”

“What? Who would kill you?”

“The War Council. Sun Shields have been judged dangerous to the human species, the genetic alterations have, they say, made us inhuman, dangerous. They say we have too much power. The debate is going on in the council right now, we don’t know what the outcome might be.”

“How could they do that?” Xlym shook his head. “They couldn’t. No, this will pass over.”

“Most people don’t feel like you do Xlym.”

“Don’t go then.” Xlym shook Knthens shoulders “Stay here. They will have to come through us to get to you, I know the Bastards would stand with me.”

“It wouldn’t matter.” Knthen tapped the side of his head.” “I’m rigged with a self destruct. All Sun Shields are, in case they go rogue. At least, if I go, I might be able to appeal to the council.” Xlym struggled for words. Knthen lowered his voice.

“Xylm, I need to trust you with something.”

“Anything.”

“If I am killed, the Red Bastards will still have a psychic.”

“What?”

“Xylm. I’ve suspected this for a while, the way you seem to know what someone will say before they say it, the way you calm the hotshots down when their egos get too big. I made myself believe that you were just a talented leader. I never let myself make sure, I never wanted to know. Now I have no choice. Xylm, you are a psychic.”

Xylm laughed, this had to be a joke. Knthens face was sad. Xylm felt his heart beat faster. “How is that possible? I’m not a Shield! Shields are grown sterile in a lab. My parents aren’t psychic. It’s not possible.”

“I don’t know how it happened. Maybe if two Rouge psychics conceived a child in the early days, before the sterility program.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Xylm, but you are psychic. The Sun Shields would have had you killed if they knew. You may be the last of us Xylm. There may come a time when humanity will need you, and the Sun Shields will be gone.”

Knthen climbed into his ship, and Xylm backed away, his mind still struggling with Knthens revelation. As Knthen locked the restraints in his cockpit, Xylm called out to him.

“You wait. The War Council will reverse their decision, you’ll be back in a standard round.”

“Keep safe, Xylm. Promise me, no matter what happens, you won’t hold my death against humanity. They will need you one day. Promise me.” The cockpit door descended, closing over Knthens head.

“I swear it.” said Xylm, as Knthens engines roared.

“I knew you would.” Knthens disembodied voice hung in Xylms mind, as the ship roared out into the silent black of space.

Bounty

by | Jan 13, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Skitz was running as fast as an alley rat could run in the back streets of Terris 4. Even with six legs, he was having a hard time keeping ahead of the bounty hunter. His three nostrils flared and he stopped for a moment to catch some carbon dioxide before taking a glance around.

When he heard footsteps behind him he darted up the wall, using suction-cupped fingers to tug his way onto the top of the building. Below him, in the alleyway, he heard, “Son of a bitch…”

The native of Terris was taking a moment to relax, slumping his multi-appendage body against a radiator core. He plucked a radio from his satchel and spoke into it with labored words between breaths. “Durag! Felakchy oootuhag defgty! Keep the girl safe… he’s coming for her.”

A noise came from the other end of the radio just in time for it to be smacked out of his hands as the butt of a plasma-bolted to be smashed into one of his faces. The Terrisal groaned and turned to see the bi-pedal shadow standing over him. A gruff voice intoned a threat with a vouch of seriousness in it: “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t climb walls, and I hate using the rocket-pack.”

He kneeled down next to Skitz, not bothering to aim his gun, but the human plucked him in the forehead to make sure he got his attention. “I’m looking for a human. Any human will do. Now, I know there’s at least one… So talk.”

The alien shuddered before his pair of eyes opened and glanced around for escape. The bounty hunter hit him in the head again. “Wrong answer. Look at me, freak.”

Skitz was definitely scared by now, and he was starting to wish he’d never even seen a human. “Der… vulag. Human… I see human long time ago.” The small lie caught a sigh from the hunter, and when the man stood he kicked the little guy in the side. Skitz cried out in agony, grabbing his body and whimpering.

“See, we humans have lived through ten millennia of bullshit. I’d appreciate it if we could not have us live through another.” This time, the gun was pointed at Skitz’s head. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“…It is a small girl,” the Terrian gasped

“Good. Progress. Where is she right now?”

“… She hide… below industry. Sector 9.”

The bounty hunter grumbled to himself. “Wechals? I fucking hate Wechals. I hated bugs on Earth and I really fucking hate Wechals.” He turned, and began to walk away. His direction was, of course, Sector 9.

Skitz cried out after him, “You no kill girl! You Felag!”

The hunter stopped and looked over his shoulder, glaring at the little shit. “Kill? Are you fucking stupid? We’re an endangered species. I’m just rounding us up.”

The Electric Ant

by | Jan 12, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

“Okay everyone, you know the drill.”

Alex’s partner didn’t break pace between the doorway and the register, and she swung her gun around with the precise grace of someone who had done this far too many times. Her features were hidden behind a fuzzmask, and the sharp tips of her black hair poked from the base of the thin helmet. Nis was a professional: professional thief, professional manipulator, professional drug courier, and professional counterfeiter. She was a professional at everything that skimmed beneath Federal radar. Alex was not a professional. Alex was a nineteen year old boy who’d never pulled the trigger of a pulse rifle.

Behind the counter, a teenage register kid went white.

“Alex,” Nis called without taking her eyes from the boy. “Damage control.”

Alex nodded. He continued into the back of the restaurant, rifle at chest level, listening through the hum of microwaves for hints of movement. Pulse rifles weren’t lethal, which is why they used them. Murder was a level one crime. Robbery was level three. There were two employees in the kitchen: an attractive blond girl no older than twenty five and a man no younger than fifty. At the sight of his weapon, the girl screeched something incomprehensible while the man stepped away from the burger assembly line and coolly lifted his hands to his head.

Quietly, almost calmly, he backed into the wall and listened to his partner’s voice fire orders like the guns he’d heard on television. “Into the back,” she finally said, and the kid appeared in the doorway with Nis’s pulse rifle motionless against his skull. He didn’t look so hot; eyes wide, skin pale, breath coming and going at a rate that couldn’t be maintained for long. His legs moved beneath him like the legs of someone who’d had too much gin, and he stumbled forward to hold his weight against the assembly line.

Despite her panic, the woman was breathing slowly, deeply. The man remained calm. Nis gestured with her head towards the cooler, then nudged the boy’s neck with her rifle. He closed his eyes. “On with it,” she said as she shoved him forward with her other hand, and he promptly dropped to his knees. Alex went to pick him up, and a second later, his world exploded into stars.

Somewhere, there was yelling and movement. His vision was dark and light at the same time, and a dizzy pain pushed its fingers forward from the back of his skull. It took him several seconds to understand that the floor was beneath him, and another second to feel the man’s weight on his chest. The man wasn’t moving. There were three still bodies on the tiled floor. Only Nis remained on her feet. “Get up!” she yelled. Alex tried, but the man’s body was heavy and his own was heavier, so Nis pulled the worker off of him and yanked him to his feet. Alex pressed his hands against the wall to maintain his upright position. “Pulses,” she said, and pushed him towards the register kid. He stumbled but somehow managed to fall only to his hands and knees, then he dug his fingers into the boy’s neck. A dull, rhythmic throbbing. “This one’s cool,” he said, but there was no reply.

“Christ,” Nis said quietly a second later. “Oh shit.”

Alex tried to get to his feet, but failed. “What?”

“She’s cold.”

“She can’t be cold.”

“Oh God. No. No fucking way.”

Alex crawled over to verify. Nis ripped away the girl’s shirt to reveal rubbery skin, perfectly formed breasts. Most importantly, a thin, black line tracing an indented rectangle across her torso.

“She’s an electric ant,” Nis said. There was a thick rope of panic drawn across her voice. “Registered. Let’s move. Right now.”

Alex looked into the girl’s open blue eyes. Polymer. Polymer and pigment. Nis’s hands dug into his shoulders and pulled him to his unsteady feet. Before him, the fleshy pile of shorted circuits lay as still as an unconscious human. Nis ran to the door, but outside, the street was already bathed in red and blue. “Christ,” she whispered.

“It’s been less than five minutes!”

Nis backed up to the register. “Get beside the door,” she ordered as she changed the battery of her pulse rifle. “And don’t let anything get through.”

Quitter

by | Jan 11, 2006 | Story

Tomorrow, Vivek Pratap will stop smoking.

He will stop smoking because it is bad for his gills, the luster of his new skin, and his sharpened teeth. The shark genes he had combined with his own were expensive; he’d hate to ruin those spent thousands with a five-dollar pack of smokes.

So tomorrow, Vivek will quit. He’s a new man, now

He also got muscle enhancements, as well as some bone-lengthening treatments. The new Vivek would tower over the old one. He had to get a new wardrobe, made of shiny, expensive materials. He’s kept a flannel shirt, though, his favorite. Used to be his favorite. But he’s different, now.

Vivek had to move, to be closer to the ocean. This meant leaving a lot of friends behind, but Vivek was glad of that. He could tell when they looked at him, who they saw. And it just wasn’t who he was anymore.

The move meant an excuse to get rid of a lot of things. Vivek tossed out all the pictures of himself as he used to look, feeling he was better off without reminders. He did keep one picture, but it’s not on display in his new home. He keeps it in a drawer.

It’s the only picture he has of Czarina; she never did like seeing herself on film. She had broken up with him after his transition. She said she didn’t like the new Vivek. It was for the best, really. Czarina is a smoker.

Vivek likes the new him. which is why he’s going to take care of it. Starting tomorrow, he’s going to quit smoking.

Tonight, he is wrapped up in a a shirt that no longer fits, staring at picture of a version of himself that is wearing it. A version of himself whose soft, pink cheek is being kissed by a girl who has her arms around his small, hunched shoulders.

“Tomorrow,” Vivek promises himself. “I’ll change.”

Dissolve

by | Jan 10, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

The bottles should have lined her shelf, all shapes of the pastel rainbow, a tally of her pasts. Their numbers would be such that they overwhelmed the tiny space, and even by resorting to clever stacking methods and ingenious pyramids she would never quite be able to fit them all. The shelf was clear, of course.

The latest brand of moisturizer was not on Miko’s shelf, but in her purse. She slipped it out without thinking, squirting the oily mixture onto her hands, rubbing it in like a prayer. Away with the rough edges, the lines, the pockmarks of use. Smoothness was unity, and as she achieved it the clenched fist in her breast relaxed. She could breathe again.

Miko sat down before the perfectly neat desk on the perfectly placed chair and ran her finger over the perfectly smooth mahogany. So beautiful, the dark wood against the white walls, especially in the dim evening light. Her hand against the surface made it all the more beautiful, the perfect skin and perfect nails of perfect length. Her life fit together like an intricate puzzle forming a detailed, perfect picture.

When she was little, she never bit her nails. The girls who did, pudgy-faced and red-cheeked, were her inferiors; they knew nothing of grace, and were too stupid to think in the long-term. She despised them, and used to make snide comments behind their backs, just loud enough so that they could hear. She held nothing but contempt for them.

The desk was polished to a precise and even shine: not to the point of pure reflection, for that would detract from its own merits, but certainly enough to catch the scant light of the setting sun. Her fingers pressed against four invisible spots on the right-hand corner, impossible to find unless one knew where they were. In response, the center of the desk faded away, revealing the matte black of a computer console that emerged from within the structure. Her fingers danced over the keys, too fast to follow and dizzying in their grace.

“Wow, sixty-five words per minute. Impressive.”

“Who told you how fast I type?”

“Nobody. I heard you, just now.”

When she was very, very young–no more than three years, though of course she couldn’t place her exact age, not knowing her birthdate–some old hag on the sidewalk had seen Miko sucking her thumb. “Stop that,” the creature had croaked, “You’ll get buck teeth.” The tiny, dark-haired child had cried all night long for fear she had irreparably damaged her perfect teeth.

Miko could feel an errant flake of skin, rough and offensive, on her knuckle. This would not do. Out came the bottle once again. The thick scent lifted her prayer to the god she didn’t believe in, to the ancestors she never knew. The half-empty bottles, scattered in forgotten dumpsters and office wastebaskets, were the beads on her rosary.

“Did you design the mechanism?”

“For what?”

“The concealed chamber in the desk.”

“What the hell are you talking about? There’s nothing in the desk.”

“Yes there is. Right there, the four indentations, thirty-six centimeters from the right.”

Miko slammed the laptop shut, then breathed deeply and carefully smoothed her hair. Temper, temper. That wouldn’t do at all.

She’d hated his scar, and made no secret of it. It was vulgar, she’d told him, even lewd. How could he deface his body like that? Worse yet, how could he leave the evidence intact? She painted it as a crime against nature, and berated him for it whenever the opportunity arose. The day he’d removed the scar out of necessity had been a veritable triumph, and she’d known the instant he slunk in, meek and overthrown. She was right, of course, as always.

A clear plastic bag was arranged precisely in the sleek metal wastebasket. She had never changed the bag; there had never been a need.

“…Switch?”

“Yeah?”

“How many scratches are in my desk? The one in my apartment?”

“Eighty-seven. Twenty-three on the top, sixty-three on the combined sides, and one underneath where you hit it with your chair last Sunday.”

Seven seconds of silence meant nothing more to her than a pause. Eight would have been precisely the same.

“…Why do you ask?”

She took everything with her–every pen, every note, every disk. Hardly a mote of dust was left; if anything, the lack thereof was the only sign that the desk had ever been used. The last rays of the setting sun made the almost-full bottle, tossed in the wastebasket, seem to glow.