September 7, 2010

From “Callisto Rising” by Clynick Rogers

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They keep to themselves, the Callistans, and not without reason. The kind of work they’re hired to do is rarely pleasant; at the very least, the person they imitate or the place of business they infiltrate is in for a cash loss, if not a rapidly spreading rusty stain on the carpet. No one’s ever come forward to claim responsibility for engineering them; the Callistans themselves hold that they’re self-created and bred into existence over generations, or so they say to the sociologists who have managed to interview them.

But it’s obvious to everybody else that they’re engineered. Back in the day, before the bleeding hearts got all righteous about it, a number of Callistans that were iced during jobs were analyzed. Over 10,000 genes from outside what you’d traditionally think of as the human genome were floating around in there, including two kinds of chromatophores for natural camouflage (from the mimic octopus and chameleon respectively), jellyfish (to combat aging and free radical accumulation), salamanders (regeneration of injured parts), and many others.

All that means they have exceptional resilience and longevity, of course, but also no natural skin tone. Those same sociologists say the Callistans assume unnatural (for humans) colors to identify themselves to one another, with each lineage having its own distinct “normal” color and pattern. No hair of any kind, either–the better to blend in using creative wigs, since hair color can’t be changed on the fly. All that’s well and good, but what people reportedly find really repulsive about them is their lack of external ears and a nose; just slits there like you’d see on a burn victim (along with a lack of fingerprints). They substitute a variety of prostheses instead, the most elaborate of which can supposedly mimic the flesh tone around them.

In other words, somebody put an awful lot of loving care into engineering the Callistans for disguise and infiltration. That they don’t take credit for their work is probably a testament to the fact that their creations have long since surpassed and destroyed them.

 

September 6, 2010

From “The Multimedia Heist” by Travis William-Rogers

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“And here we have the non-circulating collection.”

Gus examined the nondescript-looking cabinet, notable only for the heavy padlock which secured it. “What can we possibly have that’s worth putting behind a lock that beefy?” he asked Sally.

She shrugged. “Rarities, mostly. A lot of Oscar promos. One of the DVD’s is signed by Martin Scorsese. Another’s a rare blooper made from the raw workprint instead of a matted and cropped version.”

“So why keep them here?”

“Lots of reasons,” Sally sighed. “Coruthers up in Archives doesn’t think movies are art so he won’t touch ’em. Profs in Film Studies sometimes take ’em out to flash around. But most of all…” She lowered her voice. “It makes it look like we’ve got something to hide back there.”

Gus blinked. “But we do!”

“Exactly. When–not if, when–people break in, they go straight for the lockbox. A smash n’ grab could make off with a thousand dollars of DVD’s if they wanted, but every minute they spend trying to cut that beast open is one more minute we have to catch ’em.

 

August 26, 2010

From “Coffin Nails at Bearbranch High” by Sally O. Bernstein

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A cigarette flared to life between her fingers. Technically smoking wasn’t allowed anywhere on school grounds, not even on the loading dock. Then again, the rock keeping the battered door to the teachers’ lounge open wasn’t technically kosher either, and it had been placed there by the principal.

Gene lit his own coffin nail after Weatherby proffered her lighter. “Not exactly being a role model for all the kids, are we?” he said.

“You know damn well they’d smoke whether we did or not. It’s all they have to tide them over before dope and meth, after all,” Weatherby sighed.

“I can see that the beginning of a new school year has you nice and uplifted,” Gene countered.

“Seeing the new wave of children come in…all so young, all so beautiful,” said Weatherby. She coughed. “And then looking at myself–never beautiful, no longer young–frankly, I can’t think of anything so depressing. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little grumpy, Mr. Ulrich.”

Gene fiddled with his cigarette, unsure of how to respond. He’d been warned about Weatherby, but he also had to get along with her if he intended to continue smoking out back. “There’s always what you teach,” he said. “Advancing the state of knowledge ought to count for something.”

“You’re an art teacher, Mr. Ulrich,” said Weatherby. “You get to talk to the children about finding their inner voice, expressing themselves, following their dreams. I teach mathematics. I doubt even a Harvard statistician had youthful dreams of solving equations all day.”

“The kids still make mistakes, even in my class,” said Gene. He flicked his ashes into the football helmet-cum-ashtray provided by Hanretty in Phys Ed.

“When your children make mistakes, it’s cute. It may even be modern art. But when my children make mistakes, they’re just mistakes. I get to mark with red ink because no new school of mathematics was ever founded by someone who thought two plus two equals twenty-two.”

 

August 24, 2010

From “High-Caliber Children” by Van Bullock

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“It’s nice to have a drink like this and talk shop,” Sedena said. “Even at Littleton & Associates, with all the paperwork, there isn’t much time for watercooler talk.”

“Our business is built on the mantra of ‘nothing personal, just business’ after all,” replied Katalya. “Why not kick a few back? It’s ‘nothing personal’ not ‘nothing personable.’ So go on. Tell me about the rig you use.”

“Well…”

“Most ladies our age would be showing pictures of their children or talking about them,” Katalya said. “Is this so different?”

Sedena nodded. “One might say my child is active in a variety of extracirricular activities, from track to wrestling. I prefer an M21 SWS with a pistol grip and fiberglass stock. Leatherwood 3–9x adjustable ranging telescopic sight, National Match glass bedded barrel, and the selector switch from a stock M14. Very versatile; I can group shots within an inch from two city blocks away and resort to full automatic fire if trapped.”

“At the cost of destroying the finer parts of the system,” Katalya scoffed. “I can see how a rookie might want an all-in-one system, but the M21 is a jack of all trades and master of none.”

“I’ve enough completed contract forms to settle exactly what kind of jack my baby is,” said Sedena, sipping her brandy. “I suppose you think you have something better?”

“My child’s an honor student: Norinco SKS-M with McMillan composite stock, a Bausch & Lomb 10x tactical scope, and a quick-change release so I can swap out chromed and unchromed barrels on the fly. It’s rugged, can be disassembled without tools, and accepts factory AKM magazines for when I need to scrounge–try finding 7.62mm NATO rounds on the fly! And for close encounters, a Glock 18 in 9x19mm parabellum.”

 

August 21, 2010

From “Crossmen Rising” by Newton Yeager III

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Harry would have found something sinister or otherwise remarkable in what he saw; then again, Harry was the sort of man for whom a tattered Bazooka Joe comic could and often did hold a mystical status as a stegotext for a nationwide conspiracy.

From what I could see, the reality was almost painfully mundane. For all its fearsome reputation among conspiracy theorists, the Chalice and Cross society seemed little more than a secretive country club. They’d kept meticulous records, thoroughly indexed, of initiations, events, members, and dues. Three men who later became President of the United States were on the rolls, as the crazies were so quick to note, but two appeared to have dropped out shortly after initiation. A smattering of other luminaries filled the membership rolls, but most were not even members in good standing at the time of graduation–and I, for one, had grave doubts that an organization would orchestrate the appointment of a Supreme Court justice when he owed the Crossmen $250 in back membership dues!

In fact, the only thing of note was a ledger that appeared to be written in some kind of cipher. It was too brief to contain any of the things the one-world-government crazies like Harry would have expected; in fact, I was able to take a high resolution digital photograph of each page using the rig the university archivist had set up for me. Most ciphers rely on the reader not being able to decode them at their leisure; I was about to do just that.

I’d just finished taking the final shot when I heard footsteps. Not an archivist, either, but someone very keen on remaining unnoticed as they approached.

 

August 19, 2010

From “Convenient Aliases” by Joachim Müller

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The man picked himself up, and tossed aside the mangled remains of his weapon. “My name is Tobias Schiller, but to most around here I’m ‘the Kraut.'”

Vincent had never heard of anyone embracing that term with anything approaching good humor. “You don’t mind being called that?”

“What, a ‘Kraut?’ No. In fact, I’ve come to embrace it as a useful shibboleth,” Schiller said, grinning.

“A what?”

A shrug. “It means way of telling one sort of person from another. Anyone who calls me ‘the Kraut’ has exposed themselves as a little crude, a little ignorant, and certainly no friend of mine. Useful when consorting with gangsters and machine guns both, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

August 18, 2010

From “The Library Book” by Angus Sustern

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“How long has it been gone?”

Cecelia consulted her computer. “It was scanned on the twelfth. East desk, and just before closing according to the system.”

“Who would be there on Saturday night?”

“Gertrude, I think,” said Cecelia. “I can check the schedule if you’d like.”

“No, no,” Quinn rubbed his temples. “It makes sense. She’s the most junior person the library’s got, so she gets the graveyard shift on the weekend. Low stress, get your feet wet, and all that. At least that’s what they told me when I used to work it.”

“If you want to talk to her about it-”

“No,” Quinn said. “You’d have already done that, at least if you’re half as professional as I’ve come to believe.”

Cecelia flushed a little. “Well, yes. She said that it was an average-looking man with a valid library card, and nothing seemed odd.”

“Not even the fact that it was called ‘On Symbologie’ with fancy letters and fancier spelling? Not even the fact that the book was stamped “do not circulate, do not remove from building?”

“She checked the inside cover, and said there were no stamps, and the edge was gilded; it wouldn’t hold ink.”

“I suppose he could have pasted in a fake page to cover the stamp,” Quinn mused. “Easy enough, I guess; we don’t exactly search people for glue sticks.”

“What makes you think that? That he’d use a fake page?”

“It just seems to fit in with the modus operandi. Fake library card; fake barcode, fake page. If you were determined enough, you could pull a barcode off another book or the desk when no one was looking, and stick it in. Library cards can be stolen.”

“This name, though,” Cecelia gestured at the card. “It’s not in our system. Instead of using someone else’s card, this guy made his own, and not with the sort of name I’d use if I wanted to remain inconspicuous.”

“Pierre Richat,” Quinn read. “Sounds Cajun. Should make tracking him down easy enough.”

 

August 17, 2010

From “Chance Trajectories” by C. G. Iverson

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Things had a funny way of happening in town, and this was as good an example as any you’re likely to find.

“Slim” Whitemore, a local stockyard worker, was out leaning on the local Greyhound bus building. He’d just gotten what was left of his paycheck after alimony and garnishments and was nursing a forty in a plain paper sack as local statutes demanded. Thing is, he was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans he’d bought secondhand–not unlike the outfit favored by one Davis Cunningham, especially when you throw in the John Deere cap and long afternoon shadows.

The brother of Davis’ ex-wife happened to be passing by on the other side of the street, and mistook Slim for his erstwhile brother-in-law. This led to some rather uncomplimentary remarks being exchanged. Slim, never a particularly subtle man even when sober, responded in kind. Then he pulled out the .45 revolver he kept for putting down diseased stock at the yard, and things started getting interesting.

A pistol’s not too accurate at that range in the best of circumstances, and tipsy trigger finger doesn’t do much to improve things. Despite emptying all five loaded cylinders, Slim didn’t come close to hitting his target. And if that had been all there was to tell, it might not have gotten any further than that–a story people told when they saw Slim sauntering into Carrie’s Red Dot, maybe.

But Slim and Davis’ ex-brother-in-law weren’t the only people on the square that day.

 

August 11, 2010

From “Blood on the Sand” by Jean-Yves Chauchat

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“Henri said that the tribesmen captured everything from the convoy. The Hotchkiss and its manual. A frontal assault would be suicide, mon capitan!”

“Then you may remain behind,” said Captain Richat. “Your cowardice will be noted in my official report.”

Claude’s eyes widened at the tribunal and bullet-pockmarked wall the captain’s words implied, and shouldered his rifle. “V-very well, mon capitan. I will lead the assault as you have requested.”

“Excellent. Carry out your orders then, corporal.”

Claude led his men over the crest of the dune, whooping and running. The distinct rumble of a machine gun soon followed; Richat kept himself low and quietly counted the bullets fired by tens.

“Ten, twenty, thirty…”

Screams from over the dune, and rifle fire.

“Seven-ten, seven-twenty, seven-thirty…”

The firing stopped just after Richat’s count made it to one thousand one hundred. He casually surmounted the dune and strolled toward the tribesmen’s position. They were violently arguing over the Hotchkiss, and clearly exposed. The captain’s Lebel cracked eight times, one for each of the raiders. His pace didn’t slacken as they fell; he tossed the rifle aside, its magazine empty, and withdrew his revolver from its well-oiled holster.

Several Bedouin were still alive; a quick report from the pistol put and end to that. Richat found Claude, breathing shallowly and weeping blood from multiple wounds, just before the Hotchkiss.

“You see, corporal,” he said, “the Hotchkiss tends to overheat and become useless after about a thousand rounds have been fired in quick succession. The tribesmen lack the discipline to perform a barrel change; all that was needed was an assault to soak up their fire until that point.”

Claude tried to speak, but red foam was all he could push out.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Richat. “I will be sure to mention your brave, foolish, and totally unauthorized charge in my report. You may even qualify for a posthumous promotion.”

 

July 24, 2010

From “Strange and Hostile Streets” by Caanan Milton

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Suddenly there were armed men all around, machine pistols emerging from nondescript coats and from beneath rain slickers.

A van pulled up and the door slid open. “Get in!” one of the men said, leveling the business end of his heater at May. “Now!”

She glanced at me; my saucer-like eyes and blank expression probably weren’t all that reassuring. A moment later, I was being shoved out of the way as she was bundled into the waiting van.

Seeing her in that situation, I felt my hands close into fists. I’d been talking about making a change, becoming more assertive, taking risks. Hell, I’d been thinking about jumping off a bridge or at least threatening to do it.

Here was my chance to do both at once.

I leapt into the van and took a seat next to her. “Hey, asshole, we don’t want you!” the person in the passenger seat said. “Get out!”

“Make me,” I growled.

Suddenly a jet-black Glock was pressed to my forehead. “I said out!”

I folded my arms.

“If he wants to come, let him come!” the driver shouted. “All the same to me. Just get that door closed!”

The door slammed shut. Acceleration forced everyone back in their seats, and the passenger pulled off his ski mask. It was Austin, the man from the embassy. “No room for sightseers on this trip, buddy. Now that you’re playing, you’re playing for keeps.

I could feel May’s hand tighten around my wrist. Whatever horrible fate was in store for her, at least she wouldn’t have to go alone.

 

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