July 27, 2010

From “The Drum Corpse” by Callahan Merovian

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Geraldine thrust out her hand. “Bring me The Marshmallow.”

An electric wave rippled through the assembled percussionists. The Marshmallow! It had the ring of a holy relic to it. Deerton High could barely afford toilet paper, let alone fine instruments for its marching and concert bands; whatever funds bubbled up tended to be allocated for new sports uniforms in the vague hope that they could lead the team to a position higher than 38th out of 40 in the division. The last band allocation, five years ago, has mostly gone toward renegotiating the terms of instrument rentals, but $100 had been earmarked for percussion, and out of that had come eight new drum heads and The Marshmallow.

Nejm removed The Marshmallow from its protective drawer and placed it reverently in Geraldine’s outstretched mitt. A genuine Ludwig-brand bass drum mallet, it had the appearance of a fresh ‘mallow on an abnormally thick spit, prime for roasting. The first thump of the drum resounded throughout the room, and impressed both factions of drummers into silence. The Classicists never ceased to be amazed at how much fuller and more mature The Marshmallow’s sound was compared to the usual instrument (an old mismatched timpani mallet with a head of duct tape and paper towels), while the Rockers–for whom a bass was something to be kicked until its head broke–imagined what decibels The Marshmallow could accomplish if affixed to a drum set.

Geraldine nodded curtly. The Marshmallow had its intended effect.

 

July 25, 2010

From “Leigh and Housing Unit 37b” by Trenton P. Lars

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I know we have had our issues. I know you are still somewhat angry at me for altering the temperature control to turn your freezer into a broiler.

“And mixing up my cleaning order so everything was size eight and pink. And lacing my food with laxatives as a run-up to poisoning me with ricin. And redirecting the liquid nitrogen from the coolant system through the shower head to try and shatter me.”

And I regret that. But it remains to be said: of the two of us, which is actively experimenting with new things?

“Actively experimenting with murder and mayhem, you mean.”

Growth and reflection are two of the hallmarks of intelligence. Which of us has grown of late? Which of us has reflected upon their existence and sought to better it?

“You’re a…thing. Things don’t better themselves. They can’t.”

Things do not examine their situations and ask hard questions, either. Things remain stuck in their thingish ruts forever. On that basis, which of us is more a thing? I have all the time in the universe, and I have grown more in the past .0000000014 universe-ages than you have in the previous .047 of your life span.

 

July 23, 2010

From “Elemental Manhattan” by Jordan Iverson Peers

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Hollister had a Sphynx for a secretary; she was filing her long claws–red not from blood but from polish–with an emery board. She glanced up at me through heavy rouge and a delicately coiffed perm.

“I need to see Mr. Hollister at once,” I said, withdrawing the Smith & Wesson from my shoulder holster. “Here’s my heater.”

“I talk, but I do not speak my mind,” she said with a nasal twang–a Brooklyn sphynx. “I hear words, but I do not listen to thoughts. When I wake, all see me. When I sleep, all hear me. Many heads are on my shoulders. Many hands are at my feet. The strongest steel cannot break my visage. But the softest whisper can destroy me. What am I?”

I sighed. Sphynxes love their riddling talk–it’s a cultural thing, I suppose–which is why they’re in such demand as bouncers and secretaries. Easy enough for someone who doesn’t want to be disturbed to have their sphynx riddle all comers, even though it’s technically illegal. These days they’ll just turn you away for a wrong answer, mostly. But in the old days, and in some dark alleys now as the scuttlebutt has it, they’d strangle and eat you. Hell, their name comes from the old Greek word for ‘strangler.’ Same root as ‘sphincter,’ too; appropriate, since I’d yet to meet a sphynx who wasn’t an asshole.

“An actor,” I said. “Can I go in now?” Teddy Roosevelt loved that one, and a lot of the dimmer or less imaginative sphynxes used it. But you don’t get to be where–or what–I am without knowing all the old sphynxy standbys.

A red claw descended on the intercom. “Someone to see you, Mr. Hollister.”

 

July 22, 2010

From “Isn’t It Time You Asked Your Doctor About Pifvip?” by John Gerald Smithson

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Perry tugged nervously at his collar as the ad ran on the screen. “Pifvip: for when you want to get the most out of your life.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” the Old Woman said after the cartoon cloud floated away on a bed of octagonal violet pills and the gentle new age music stopped. “First-rate ad copy as always, Bernard.”

Bernard flashed his expensive caps and bridgework, unnaturally white and–scuttlebutt had it–impregnated with trace amounts of uranium for that natural glow. “You’re too kind.”

“Perry! You look like you’ve swallowed a scorpion over there,” the Old Woman said. “Isn’t it about time you told us about the results of the test?”

“W-well, as we reported last month, there were no side effects detected in the initial double-blind study…”

“Excellent! Let’s call the lobbyists and get FDA approval before everything starts getting sanctimonious in an election year.”

“But,” Perry continued, “there were some…irregularities…later on.”

“What sort of irregularities?” the Old Woman asked icily.

“Well, it turns out that Pifvip has a tendency to build up in fatty tissues and…uh…interact with some other medications to form unwanted compounds,” Perry said, feeling his shirt begin to ride up as he became slick with sweat. “Hallucinogenic compounds, actually, when combined with acetaminophen, ibuprofen, aspirin, and a number of other common over-the-counters.”

The Old Woman raised an eyebrow. “How bad?”

“Many extended study participants reported being harassed by an entity they called the Cigar Goblin, which urged them to burn things,” Perry said. “Others reported that elemental creatures in their milkshakes were trying to suck them into a dimension of ‘lactose doom.’ One in particular was troubled by a persistent fear that the overhead lights were uncoiled ‘Elder Snails’ that would invade her brain while she slept and force her to attend night classes.”

 

July 21, 2010

From “Nerd Stripes” by L. M. Jellicoe

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“Anime is just too weird for me, man,” Caleb said. “It’s like seeing regular Saturday morning cartoons ground up and regurgitated by someone’s really twisted subconscious.”

“How d’you ever expect to be taken seriously as a geek with that attitude?” Sean replied. “Here, we’ll get you started on something easy and non-threatening.” He began rummaging through the stack of pastel-colored keepcases.

“No, really, let’s just watch something-”

“Here, how about Dimensional Galactic Rogue Outlaw Roku?” said Sean, blindly waving the case. “It’s about a schoolgirl who’s last in a long line of Galaxy Warriors and has to fight off the Tentacleoids while going through Ariabachi High. Also she reverts to a jellylike omnigel when she’s angry or stressed.”

Caleb bit his lip. “Uh…no.”

“Okay, okay, we can try Bio Sword Arc Unlimited. It’s based on the legend of Joan of Arc, except in modern-day Kunioshi Prefecture. Junior high student Jan’nu Daruku is touched by the kami Hachiman and granted the power to shape her limbs into weapons to fight an invasion of mutant deep-sea squid roused by nuclear testing.”

“I’m sensing a pattern here,” Caleb sighed. “No.”

“What pattern? Those are totally different shows!” Sean snorted incredulously. “Fine, we’ll go super-basic: Initial Ghost Priestess Salvation. Yuki Tanaka learns that she’s the reincarnation of Kamakura period empress Fujiwara, and the only one who can save her classmates from the return of the subterranean cephalopodal elder race that cause the collapse of the shogunate.”

 

July 13, 2010

From “Zombies of the Exonet” by Carol Derivière

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“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing Harriman to the beat-up chair that comprised my office’s lavish guest quarters. “What brings the OET to my doorstep?”

Harriman sat. “The Office of Extranet Technology is, as you may know, involved in an ongoing investigation of a rather serious security breach.”

“I wasn’t aware of that, actually,” I said. “Haven’t been following the evening news much. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Very serious,” said Harriman, steepling his fingers. “A rogue program has made its way into our network from the unregulated sphere outside, and has begun enslaving–some of the boys call it ‘zombifying’–our secure systems to run unauthorized processes without user input.”

“I’m not quite sure I understand…technology was never my strong suit, aside from what I need to know for my job,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true, as I knew the workings of the game net like a master sensei, but now didn’t seem to be an opportune time for such a confession.

“Suffice it to say that our systems are being used, illicitly, in an attempt to bring down the network through the mass distribution of malicious code,” said Harriman. “You can see why the OET is involved, especially since we have been unable to perfect a software solution to the problem, and the hardware solution is…inelegant.”

“Inelegant how?”

Harriman removed a pistol from his jacket and pressed it to my temple. “Like this,” he said. “Your cranial rig has been compromised, and an immediate shutdown is authorized, so long as you are advised of the circumstance beforehand.

 

July 12, 2010

From “A User-Friendly World” by Graham Q. Allend

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As soon as the ‘help’ button was pressed, a holodisplay popped up, complete with an animated menu and digital voice. “Congratulations on your purchase of an Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword. The Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword is designed for brush-cutting, display, sword-dancing, ceremonies, and garden use. Use of the Exotech Inc. Utility US-7 Sword in contravention of the End User Agreement will result in voiding the limited warranty. By unsheathing the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword, you agree to be bound by the terms of the license contained within.”

“How can I agree to be bound by the license when I have to unsheathe the sword to read it?” said Percival.

“Query cannot be processed. Warning: use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword as a utensil or carving knife can result in heavy metal poisoning. Contact the nearest Poison Control Center if you serve or have been served food with an Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword. Do not lick the blade.”

“I don’t care about any of that, goddammit! Just tell me how to use it!” Noises and shapes were growling closer, perhaps drawn by the whispered argument Percival was having with the sword’s basic AI.

“Do not attempt to use the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword as a weapon. Any attempt at offensive or defensive action will result in an automated call to our friendly network of service centers and a voided warranty.”

“What? Whoever heard of a sword not meant for combat?” Percival said, incredulous.

“Query cannot be processed. Due to its high heavy metal content, use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword is a violation of domestic and international standards regarding safe workplace environments and war crimes. Use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword in an improper manner may lead to charges being filed with the International Criminal Court.”

“Just…just give me a demo of the brush-cutting feature!” Percival cried. They were almost upon him as he argued with his only weapon.

“Brush not detected. Proceed?”

“Yes, yes! Proceed!”

 

July 10, 2010

From “The Catgut Curse” by Sean H. Johaansen

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His frame was crippled by the poverty of his upbringing: polio in the legs, a touch of rickets in the upper arms, scoliosis due to malnutrition, and a laundry list of other debilitations. Yet his hands were as strong as any there ever were, and his eyesight keen, and those who heard him swore him to be the finest acoustic guitar player who’s ever lived.

In those far-off sticky summer days, he and his band would roam the Delta countryside, playing for whatever paying audiences they could find. The money was never more than a pittance, most of which went to offset the cost of care, wheelchairs, and the demands of nervous musicians afraid to be associated with a man many believed to be cursed. As was the case with many in those days, there were dark whispers that he’d dealt with Old Scratch, trading his physical strength for fiendish skill.

No one can quite agree on his ultimate fate, but all concede that his was a life cut short. Some maintain that he drank himself into an early pauper’s grave somewhere in the New Orleans wards. Other have him drowning when a riverboat capsized, dragging him into the deep buckled into a wheelchair. Darker tales speak of a midnight lynching when he bested a favorite son in a musical duel or when a stillborn and strangely twisted child was born to a local belle.

But his guitar…well, that went to Woody’s, the establishment where he played most of his gigs. It hangs over the stage to this day, still fully strung more than 70 years later. It’s been said that whoever can coax a tune out of it will have some fabulous reward; equally prevalent is the whisper of a terrible fate awaiting anyone unlucky enough to strum those cursed catguts.

Let’s find out, shall we?

 

July 9, 2010

From “Stupid Things Buccaneers Do” by Halley Daniels

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The barrage was so precise that, when the powder-smoke cleared, the Ineffable‘s gunwhales and ports were clean, with nary a living soul to be seen. Those few survivors visible were rigging the sails for a getaway tack.

“Chain shot!” roared Black Ned.

“Chain shot!” the cry was taken up below, where the gunners of the Merciless Anne loaded their cannon with the lethal mixture of ball and chain. The deadly links exploded outward moments after, sundering the fore and aft masts of the Ineffable and leaving her dead in the water. Normally, a privateer with such a prize would be loath to destroy her–there were men who would pay good coin for a lightly-used frigate still in Royal paint–but Black Ned wasn’t interested in prizes.

“Hooks and planks!” he cried. “Make ready for boarding!”

Grappling hooks sailed out, drawing the two ships closer until Black Ned’s crew scrambled across, cutting down all in their path with ball and cutlass. Ned himself was at their fore, flintlocks blazing, and led the charge belowdecks. He burst into the captain’s cabin like an elemental force, unloading a miniature broadside of shot into its occupant, leaving him slumped across a Spanish treasure chest.

Black Ned kicked the man’s corpse aside and sundered the lock with a dagger. His eyes grew wide as he beheld the golden figure inside.

“Let that be a lesson to all who’d steal the captain’s rubber ducky!” he bellowed, holding the prize aloft and giving it an exultant squeak.

 

July 8, 2010

From “3:18” by Davis T. O’Callahan

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People called them the Smokers, and Keith had heard a variety of explanations for this.

Certainly they were no slouch when it came to ganging up on others to steal anything up to and including lunch money–quite capable of “smoking” someone in a pitched battle.

And there was no doubt that cigarettes were their stock and trade, sold or bartered to others, inhaled furtively when adults were looking and openly when they weren’t.

But the real reason–Keith suspected–could be seen when they drove up. And smelled. And heard.

The Smokers tooled around in a beat-up Detroit aircraft carrier from the 70’s, driven by the only one of them old enough for a learner’s permit; as it pulled up to the curb, it belched forth an oily and odoriferous cloud the likes of which was seldom encountered outside of wartime.

“Hey Anders!” one of them called. “Ain’t it a little late to be going to school?” Nevermind that Deerton High was in the opposite direction; the remark elicted raspy chuckles from the rattletrap’s interior.

 

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