Chris Morton's Blog, page 6

Pioneer by William Hardy

 

 

Pioneer

by William Hardy

I didn't much like the way Max – that's the guy who trained  me – fastened the broad leather straps over my body. There was a smell of nervous excitement in the air and Max's hand trembled as he fumbled with the buckles. Thinking back on it, the whole morning had been like that. Nervous and excited.

Right after breakfast, Max had given me a good bath and loaded me in the car. I always like to ride in the car and this time Max even allowed me to stick my head out the window. He doesn't usually let me do that, but I was too engrossed in the exhilarating rush of air to pay any attention to the change of routine. When we drew up in front of a large brick building a multitude of strange and peculiar odors assailed my nose, tantalizingly anonymous. Max's big hand caught me before I got halfway through the window. That disgusted me, because I wanted to investigate the funny smells, and I pouted all the way into the building. As the events of the next hour progressed I got madder and madder.

First there was the doctor, poking around in my mouth, stabbing my eyes with a blinding beam of light, and prodding and squeezing my body. It reminded me of the day I came to live with Max and I was tempted to take a hunk out of this doctor's hand like I did the other one. But Max was there and that stopped me. I didn't want to see the hurt look that would come to his eyes every time I did something wrong.

After the doctor finished Max led me into a gleaming white room where I was surrounded by a gushing mob of women dressed in white uniforms. Their "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" and "Isn't he beautiful!"--I'm not beautiful and I detest the description--put the finishing touch to what had once been a wonderful day. I flopped to the floor, trying to ignore them. Then, indignities of indignities, one of the "girls" tried to pick up my eighty pounds of blue-gray masculinity. That was the last straw!

I let out a deep-throated growl, and sprang clear of her encircling arms. Fangs bared, ears flat against my head, I must have presented a terrifying appearance to the women, because they fled to all corners of the room, squealing and bleating like a bunch of sheep.

For the fun of it, I made a short dash at the one who had tried to pick me up. With a high-pitched scream she slumped to the floor in a dead faint. I could hardly keep from laughing as I turned to search for a new victim. About this time Max came barging through the door and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, putting an end to my fun. He wasn't mad, although he pretended to be, and I could detect the humor in his voice while he scolded me.

Back in the car again, Max roared with laughter while patting me on the head and saying, "You old devil, you!" in that special way he has when amused at something I've done. When he finally got control of himself, he started the car and drove in the direction of the funny smells. As the smells got stronger, I began to get uneasy. Looking at Max, I sensed that he was uneasy too. "What was going on?" I wondered as the car dipped down a ramp and entered a dimly lit cave where the smells became overpowering.

The cave was jammed with huge tank-trucks and that was where the strange smells were coming from. I don't know what was in the trucks, but Max said something about nitric acid and hydrozine fuel when he noticed my interest in them. Leaving the car, we walked down a short passage branching off the cave, climbed a couple flights of stairs and emerged in the bright sunlight. I nearly yipped in surprise as I caught sight of the over-grown thing beside me. It looked for all the world like a giant cigar that had been cut in half and stood on end. There were still three or four trucks around the base of the thing and a kind of fear spread through my mind. The magic of the strange smells was gone and here, at close quarters, the smell was raw and uninviting.

* * * * *

Max led me to a group of men and they talked for a few minutes. I didn't pay much attention to what they said until one of them, a big man with a lot of stars on his shoulder, reached down and patted my back. "Better get him loaded," said the Starman. "Only ten minutes till blast-off."

Max led me to a kind of open-air elevator and started up the side of the gleaming monster. At the top Max put me into a padded cage inside the cigar, fastened the straps, and patted me. Then he was gone and a large door slid into place, leaving me in vile smelling, pitch darkness. I lay there quietly, but the uneasy feeling kept getting worse. A sudden hissing noise nearly scared me to death; then I remembered my training. The hissing was only air, the same as had been in the cage at home, and wouldn't hurt me. Even so, I struggled against the straps, trying to reach them with my teeth. Nothing doing and again I lay quiet –waiting.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew my cage was trembling violently and a powerful roaring dinned in my ears. This lasted only a second, then something crushed my body flat in the cage. My legs grew heavy and a racking, tearing pain ripped at my muscles. A black film blotted out the lighter blackness of my cage.

I don't know what happened in the interval, but when I came to the roar was gone and my body felt like it was floating in the air. My head felt swollen and I experienced some difficulty in swallowing. I couldn't hear a thing except the hiss of air and I was suddenly overcome by the feeling that I was a long way from home.

Slowly I became aware that my body was regaining its weight. The cage was becoming quite warm now and I licked my nose, wishing for a cold drink of water. Suddenly I was jerked against the straps and I forgot all about my other troubles. The jerks didn't hurt me as much as they scared me. I had experienced somewhat the same thing when Max hit the car brakes hard, but he wasn't here to pat me reassuringly.

The cage was getting real hot now and the jerks were coming with increasing frequency. The air had stopped too and I desperately wanted a drink. The last thing I remember before the crash was wishing that Max would open the door and let me out like he always had at home.

Max's gentle voice sounded a long way off. "Good boy!" he kept repeating. "Good boy!" I couldn't find the strength to open my eyes so I just lay quietly and listened to the talk, thankful that the smell, that had penetrated the entire day, was gone now.

"I was afraid that those parachutes wouldn't cut the speed enough to get him down alive," said the Starman who had patted my back earlier.

"No sign of radiation," said a strange voice. "His blood count is normal and he isn't hurt physically unless there are internal injuries."

"What about his weakness?" asked Max, patting me.

"You'd be weak too, if you had been through the ordeal he has," said Strange-voice. "He'll get over that soon and live to father a good many space-puppies."

Strange-voice was absolutely right in his forecast and it's with pardonable fatherly pride that I lead each new family to the great stone monument which reads: "In honor of Rex, a German Shepherd dog, who pioneered man's first flight into outer space."

This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science Fiction and Fantasy  February 1953. 

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the  U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

This story is taken from Project Gutenberg . For legal reasons the following statement must be included: ( This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).

Just A Shell

 

Just A Shell

by Chris Morton

 “Another coffee?”

The robot looked down at the middle-aged man who was still busily drawing. This time it was a large purply fruit, bumpy, like a blackberry. Or … “Boysenberry?” the robot asked.

The man looked up, frowning. “What did you say?”

“Boysenberry. A cross between a blackberry, raspberry, dewberry and loganberry.”

The robot’s voice was female. Pleasant.

“And this one?” the man asked, now showing her another of the various pictures littered across the table. There was a pause for a few seconds while the robot said nothing. Then: “Looks like the inside of a kiwi fruit. And a little like a gooseberry.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.” The man huffed. “And I suppose this one looks like a strawberry?” he said, pointing to another of the pictures.

“A cubic strawberry,” answered the robot. “But the pink coloring is most attractive. In my opinion, at least.”

The man stared at the contraption serving him. “You things have opinions now?”

The robot hesitated.

“Would sir like some more coffee?”

The robot bent her smooth white arm downwards, the coffee jug held firmly in her long metallic fingers. The jug hovered above the man’s cup but failed to pour, awaiting his orders.

“So, in your opinion,” the man asked, eyes fixed on the drawings, seemingly unaware of her action, “which of these fruits strikes you as the most original?”

“Original?”

“The most like no other fruit that exists.” He spread the drawings across the table, lining them up. “Which of these says to you: Now that’s a fruit I’ve never tried.” He looked up at her blank face. A visor over a head of shiny white. The visor glowed in a warming tint of amber-orange. “Okay, wantto try,” the man said. “I mean, you’re a robot with opinions, and I’d like to hear them.” Noticing the hovering coffee jug, he gestured for her to top him up. “Come, come,” he said. “Let me have it.”

The robot’s visor flickered.

“Well … as a robotwho is unable to eat realfruit, I would say the strawberry is the most aesthetically pleasing.”

The man huffed. “The strawberry.”

“I like the color. And the shape.”

“The square shape.”

“And the speckles. I like the speckles.”

“But it’s still a strawberry. That’s what you’re calling it.” The man took a sip of his coffee, looking again at her smooth, oval face. “If you’re already calling it a strawberry, then that’s what it is and I’ve failed already.”

“How about pink square berry?”

“Pink, square …” The man laughed. “A robot with a sense of humor, eh? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were making fun of me.”

“Just trying to cheer you up,” came the reply. Incapable of smiling, the robot just stared at the man, and in spite of himself, in spite of his tired mood and the stress of having to come up with something original by dawn, the man was beginning to warm to her.

“So what d’ya say we work with that? Give it some fancy Latin name. What’s Latin for pink and square?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Thought you robots could access the net in an instant?”

“I’m not that sort of robot.” She hesitated. “But I could do a search.”

“Not that sort of robot, she says.” The man gazed down at the picture of the square pink strawberry. “Seem to know a lot about fruit though; for a robot who never eats.”

The robot’s visor flickered again in the orange tinting. “I work in a diner. Food is my expertise.”

She watched as the man huffed, pushing the picture to one side, then gathered up the others into a neat pile which he folded together and handed to her.

“Trash,” he said. “If you please.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And get me a … what do you serve in this joint?”

She waved a robotic hand over the tabletop’s IR and a holo-image of blueberry pancakes on a large white plate spun slowly in front of them.

“You choose this?”

“It’s the most popular serving for this time of the morning.”

The man looked at his watch. “Five-fifteen a.m,” he sighed. “Two more hours.”

“You have to come up with something by seven fifteen?”

“Meeting’s at eight. But I’ll have to go home and change. Pod to my building, pod to the office. Even two hours is cutting it fine.”

Her visor flickered again. “And you have to present a drawing of a fruit?”

“That’s right,” the man said. Reaching out, he swiped away the pancakes and a menu appeared. With a series of further swipes he brought up a Key lime pie, a fat slice with cream that now spun in front of them. “It’s a winner,” the man said. “Original recipe, never bettered.”

“I see,” the robot said.

“See what?”

“I understand,” she answered. “I think I know what you’re doing. You have to design a fruit. Something unique, like an original dish.”

“Exactly, doll.” The man hit at the pie and in turn the robot beeped. Her visor turned green: “Right away, sir,” she said, and spun around, heading for the kitchen.

“Wait …”

The robot stopped in her tracks, turning back to face him. On her feet were a set of rollers; it was the way the robots here moved. They were short but not dwarf-like: the perfect height to be standing next to a table talking down to the seated customer. Their bodies were fat and round, their legs stocky.

“Yes?” the robot asked.

“It’ll be you bringing it to me, yeah?”

The man gestured around the diner, to the other booths and other robots serving.

“Of course, sir. I am yours for the night.”

...

When she returned with the pie, the man had begun on a new picture.

“Looks like a chocolate apple,” she remarked, handing him his desert.

“Goddammit.”

He screwed up the paper – watching him, the robot held out the jug of coffee. “Another top-up?”

The man sighed, tapping at his cup appreciatively. He took the pie and sliced off the nose with the dessert fork provided, shoving the morsel into his mouth, chewing.

She topped up his coffee again.

“You’d think it would be easy,” he sighed.

“To design a fruit that doesn’t exist? No,” she stated. “I would say, that wouldn’t be easy at all.”

He looked up at her flickering visor. “There you go again with the opinions.”

Bending down, she placed the coffee jug next to him. “So this task of yours is important?”

“Could say that.” The man was slicing off another portion of pie. “But only if I’m chosen.” He chewed again, hungrily. “If my design’s chosen, I’ll be getting a fat bonus. Could even end up leading the team.”

She stood straight again. “So there are others, competing for this bonus? You’d like to be the winner, I think.”

The man appeared irritated for an instant. “Doll,” he said, “in business the competition never ends.” Looking across at her blank expression however, the man’s temper began to melt. He smiled. “Look, doll,” he said, “this is kinda hush hush, but I’ll tell you anyway. What the hell?”

The robot waited.

“What we’re working on. It’s a new idea, selling them the fruit first, before the flavor. You understand?” he asked.

The robot’s visor flickered.

“Take this pie, for instance,” the man continued, gesturing at the Key lime. “Now you can’t tell me that this is just about the taste. Got hardly nothing to do with it at all. It’s about the design, you see. What’s on the outside. The aesthetics. And the name. Key lime pie.” The man smiled. “Has a ring to it, don’t you think? Brings up an image?”

“An image.”

“Sell them the image and the taste will follow.”

“An original flavor,” she confirmed.

“Yeah, but give them a new flavor and they’ll say it tastes like sweet blueberries with a hint of lime and ginger. They’ll say it reminds ’em of mangoes, of pineapple. But sell the image first and you’re on to a winner. An original fruit. Original flavor.”

The robot said nothing again, but with a silence that seemed encouraging to the man.

He went back to his pie.

“You know apple flavoring’s nothing like real apples,” he mused. “And banana flavoring’s based on some breed that went extinct some two hundred years ago. But they associate …” the man trailed off. “Look at me here, talking like this to a robot. What would you know about flavoring anyway?”

“One can imagine.”

“Well, that’s just it.” The man huffed, sticking a fork into the last morsel of pie. He shoved it into his mouth, washing it down with a hefty gulp of coffee. “The power of association,” he said.

“A first impression, that one cannot forget.” The robot’s visor flashed green. “Another customer,” she said. “Call me if you need anything else.”

The man watched his new friend slide across the room. Taking up a fresh piece of paper, he began to draw her; at first slowly, but then feverishly. Her body was elegant, smooth and white; her joints shaded silver and her face a pleasant oval. Her visor tinted into a deep shade of amber as she addressed the new customer.

Finishing his sketch, the man placed it to one side and began a new one. An oval white fruit with checked lines of amber tinting. He drew a dissected image beside it, with pips of bright green and a warm, silver stone at the center that blended in with the white, fleshy pulp. It was basic, but the design was clean – all it needed now was a little personality; a little flavoring.

The man sat back, satisfied. Scanning the picture to his pad, he looked around for the robot to thank her. But she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

He looked at his watch.

...

“It makes no sense,” said his boss. “It’s got pips, it’s got a stone. Unnatural colors. And what are these lines for?”

The man hesitated.

“But that’s exactly why I love it,” the boss continued. “It’s subtle, it’s mysterious. And like no other, no other fruit at all.”

They were sitting in a small think tank on the seventh floor of the company building. The other designers had been dismissed – in a matter of no less than five minutes the boss had walked past each and tapping at their designs, naming the fruits that one and every image reminded him of, he’d called: “Out, out, out!”

But when it came to the checked white and amber offering, he’d stopped.

Now it was only the two of them: the man and his boss that were left in the room.

“You know what I like most about this?”

The man sat silently, holding his breath.

“It’s that it says nothing to me,” the boss continued. He began to laugh hoarsely. “I mean, it’s attractive, sure, but in an unfamiliar way. It’s incomprehensible. It’s like a …”

“A clean slate?” the man offered.

“Exactly right!” The boss patted the man on the shoulder, hitting him hard, enthusiastically.

“All it needs now is a little personality.”

The boss grinned at the man. “Personality. That’s exactly what I’m going to say to our flavoring department. “Give this shell some personality …”

...

With bonus credits now deposited, the man could have dined out well that evening. He could have afforded a grade one restaurant, and had in fact received a company voucher for himself and a plus one to do just that. But he returned instead to the diner. He wanted to thank the robot. Sure, it was just a hunk of metal with wiring and algorithms, but it’d helped him.

Besides, he wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear her voice, and tell her what had happened.

When he arrived at the diner, there were a dozen robots scuttling around the tables. He sat down and one came up to him.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Yes. I …” the man hesitated. “There was another … another of you,” he said.“And I wanted to, to thank her for something.”

The robot stood motionless. It seemed to be computing this information. “Oh, you mean Sheila,” it said suddenly. “Yes, I’ll get her for you.”

In a short time the robot was replaced by a model of the exact same appearance. Only the voice was different. Sure, it had the same synthetic twang, but there was something warmer about this one. More feminine.

“And how did it go?”

The man laughed. “You remember me?”

The robot’s blank expression seemed to smile at the man. “Coffee and Key lime pie. The fruit man. Did they like your drawing?”

“Yes, yes they did.” The man fumbled around at his pad and brought up the image of his design. “I wanted to show you. And thank you. Last night, or rather this morning, before you talked to me, I really didn’t think I could do it. But … you like it?” he asked.

“I do,” she said warmly.

“You know I based it on you. On your appearance.” The man held his hands out wide. “I guess one could say you inspired me.”

...

The next evening the man returned to the diner.

“Back again?”

Her voice was as affectionate as ever.

“Here I am,” the man replied. He ordered something or other. It didn’t matter. “So tell me,” he asked jovially, “what a robot like you does on her days off.”

“Oh, I don’t have any of those.” She paused and it seemed she was happy to linger around his table.

“You enjoy your work?”

“It’s all I’m capable of.”

“All you’re programmed to do?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” The robot’s visor turned green. “Be back in a moment.”

“Sure. I mean, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she replied. “I like our conversations.”

They began talking of what he would do next in his project. As he continued to go there regularly, he’d give her updates on how things were progressing. There was much talk of what the texture of the fruit should be like. “Although,” explained the man, “the fruit itself will not be created.”

“No?”

“No, not at all. That’s a given. It’s purely the ideaof the fruit. That’s what we’re selling. Getting that idea into the mind of the consumer. The image, but not the fruit itself.”

“A shame though,” she said. “That it won’t physically exist.”

“I guess so,” the man admitted. “But like I say, that’s not the idea.”

There was much debate at his workplace over the flavoring – whether it should be sweet, bitter, sour … and because of the importance of this, a final decision was taking its time: a decision not made easy by the flavoring department daily offering up new samples.

“So you’re waiting?”

“Mostly. But the design department are kept busy with producing visual images for possible commercials.”

“Oh, yes?” She poured him some more coffee. “They’re not overworking you, I hope.”

“No, no,” he waved away her concern. “It’s simple really. A young girl drinking juice with a picture of the fruit on the carton; a man biting into a donut with a green and white centering; a mechanic holding out a slice of pie … a cartoon grape cracking a joke to an animated lemon and then our fruit comes in with the punchline …” He laughed. “Look at me, going on.”

“They have a name for it yet?” she asked, interested, encouraging.

The man paused. Then: “Well, if it were up to me, I’d call it Sheila.” He began to blush, but then covered his blushes with a friendly wink. He looked away.

“Funny name for a fruit,” she remarked, taking in his blushes. Her visor flickered.

“But of course it’s not, not up to me at all.” The man sighed, looking back at her. “Out of my hands. Flown the nest.”

“Flown the …?”

“Yeah, you know. When you have kids and they grow up. Become independent and fly away.” The man did a little motion with his hands. “Like a baby bird going out on its own.”

“And as its parent, you have to let go.”

The man grinned. “You’re a smart one, Sheila, a smart one indeed.”

...

It was about a month later when he was called into his boss’s think tank.

“Oh, yes,” the boss coughed, waving the man in. “I wanted to pick your brain.”

The man bowed. “Of course, sir.”

“Yes, the … goddammit, can we get this music to stop?” There was an opera concerto coming from the walls, which halted as the automated response picked up on the words musicand stop.

“Thank God for that.” The boss went over to a pad in the wall, to the controls for the holo-projector.

In the center of the room an image of the fruit now displayed itself: white and speckled with subtle amber-orange checkering, it grew in size to that of a watermelon, then shrank to the size of a small lime.

“Like that,” the man said. “But slightly larger, a little. Yes, that’s right.” Suddenly he was by the holo-image, commanding it and the boss watched him, impressed.

“And the taste?” the boss asked.

The man turned to face his superior.

“The taste? You’re asking me?”

“Of course I’m asking you, man.” The boss chuckled. “Amount of snazzy ideas coming at us … tangy, fizzy … that seems to be the most popular; but I’ve gotta admit,” he said, looking at the man, “I gotta be straight in saying that I’ve no confidence in putting through any go-ahead without asking you first.” He smiled, showing the man the palms of his hands. “It’s your baby after all.”

The man bowed again, this time gratefully. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes sparkled, growing in confidence. “You know what?” he said, looking back at the holo-image. “I’d kinda imagined it sweet. Like …”

The boss watched the man circling the fruit. He watched him hesitate as he appeared to remember who he was talking to.

“Come on, man. Let me have it.”

Finally the man spoke. “As it is with love,” he said, the words falling from his lips almost accidentally.

“Love?” the boss boomed. “Love?” He was on the verge of laughing out loud.

“Yes, I mean, no, not exactly love,” the man stuttered. “Not mushy, not that kind of love. Just, warm, you know? Friendly. Companionship.” He was muddling his words. “It should be luscious, and pure,” he tried. “But something to cheer you up.”

“Sounds mushy to me.”

“No, no …” More determined in his expression, the man looked his boss in the eye. “Over time I’ve thought about it a lot. And I can’t help associating this fruit with something strong, warm, sweet, addictive. Something new and wonderful. But long-lasting. A flavor that never loses that power of the first bite.”

“You sound like an ad man.”

“Well surely that’s what we are?”

The boss walked over to the man, putting a hand on his shoulder. “As a designer I can’t fault you,” he said. “But … love, love he tells me. My man, you need to get yourself out more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You married?”

“No, sir.”

“Girlfriend?”

The man paused. “No, sir.”

“Sure, sure. A romantic.” The boss smiled. “So where you get the idea from anyway?”

“The idea, sir?”

“The fruit. The fruit, man. It’s a goddamn inspired design, I’ve gotta say.” The boss gestured to the circling holo of the fruit. “You know they’re still trying to come up with a name for it. Why I asked you … love, you say. I guess we could work with that. Amour, Eros…” the boss twirled his fingers theatrically and laughed. “What you do, base it on a girl?”

“No, not exactly. It was a robot. Downtown, there’s this diner. The robots there …” The man looked away, embarrassed. Then: “They just happened to be around me when I was working on the design.”

“A diner you say?”

“Yes.”

“Robots.”

“Yes.”

The boss chuckled. “Well, wouldn’t you know. All this time.” He stared back at the fruit. “Now you mention it, I think I even know the ones. Been to places like that myself. Some of ’em can even be quite chatty.” He smiled. “But you understand they’re not robots, right? Is that why you –”

“Not robots, sir?”

The boss looked back at the man, puzzled at the expression of perplexity he was receiving. “They’re cripples. Disables. Most of them, no not most, I think it’s all of ’em. No control over their bodies. You know the type. Motor neuron disease … out in the country hospitals, tubed up and bedridden.” The boss did a vulgar impression, screwing up his face and holding his arms out crookedly. He did an “Ahhh,” sound and laughed some more, then caught himself and attempted a more solemn expression. “But it’s a great thing, sure, enabling those unfortunates … giving them something to do. Some can only move their eyelids, you wouldn’t believe it. But the technology these days. Rigged up at their remote locations, they control the robots just fine. “Can I take your order?” the boss said in a comically robotic voice, squinting his right eye and holding his arms out rigid. He began to laugh again, amused at the man’s expression of horror. “All this time,” he said, turning back to the revolving fruit, while beside him the man shrunk slowly into the padded flooring of the think tank.

...

The man spent the rest of the day in a haze. He was unable to draw anything. He got off work early, went home and showered. Later, turning on his bed, the man said out loud that he’d never go back there, that he couldn’t …

...

At eight o’clock the city neon sparked. Through the bustle of pedestrians the man pushed his way through to the diner’s entrance, swiped his pad over the IR. Behind him the setting sun was large and a deep orange while wispy clouds moved slowly in the twilight.

The man entered the diner.

There they were, the white robots, shifting from one table to another while way out in the country, in God knows what hospitals and facilities, those patients, all but comatose.

Unable to eat real fruit.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Yeah, sure. Sure,” said the man, bleary-eyed, dazed.

“The usual table?” The white robot looked at him blankly.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the man replied. “Usual table. Usual one of you. Where is she, anyway?” The man huffed, looking around. “Sheila here? She busy?”

“I am Sheila.”

The man turned back at her. He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t come. He just stood there, awkwardly.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. Her smooth white body was also motionless. Her visor flickered and for a long time neither man nor woman said anything.

Then slowly the man took her robotic hand in his own. “No, nothing at all,” he replied, the words finally coming to him, finally making sense. Her synthetic shell seemed to quiver in response as he clutched her hand tighter. “In fact,” he smiled, “I have good news. A promotion. Let’s go find a table and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.He has released two sci-fi novels,one collection of short storiesand a few other scribblings.You can find his amazon page  here. 

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For more information on Morysetta you can check out the link here

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The Christmas Man

by Chris Morton

It was Christmas in the city, a time for celebration, for gifts and family. It was twenty two thousand years since some kid had been born – a kid who’d turned out to be a hell of a good guy. In the city streets they still sang songs about it. The whole world was full of joy. Up there Saint Nick was dropping off surprises to all the little hopefuls while I sat in a bar alone, another year around the corner. I was feeling sorry for myself, contemplating life, waiting for the Scotch to do its work. I’d just finished a job and was doing my best to blank it out. I’d chased a punk through the city subway, cornered him and pulled the trigger. My boss had been grateful. Credits had been deposited and a corruption to the timeline avoided. That particular punk had been small time – only traveling back one year from the future, but his intentions had been to bet big on the laserball and win himself a small fortune. A great idea for him, but who knows what repercussions that would have for the rest of us? So that’s where I came in. Moving forward in time was impossible, but since it had been worked out how to travel back, there would always be these roaches, somehow getting access to a time machine. Bribes mostly. They’d travel back with no regard for any changes they might cause. He’d had to go and it was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.

The place I was in was heaving with positivity. Young office girls stumbling around. Men in suits and plenty of liquor. In the corner an android was at the piano, playing some jazz take on the old jingle bells theme.

A message came through to my pad.

Drop in your area. Black List. Male. Mid-sixties. Santa suit.

A ‘drop’ meant that a client had got away. He’d escaped one of our agents and the hunt was now on. All agents in the area would be getting the same message as me.

I went back to my Scotch, then caught the eyes of the barman.

“Another?” he shouted over the sound of song and laughter.

“Top me up,” I answered.

A mission was the last thing I needed. It was Christmas and I was on vacation.

“Goddamn black list,” I murmured.

A black list was a client who’d slipped through the net before, one who’d caused enough trouble to have the top guys of our agency pulling their hair out, picking at their scabs, biting their nails down to the flesh. Bringing in a black list meant a credit bonus large enough to keep Santa in business for a whole other year.

Santa, I thought. I threw back the Scotch, then from the breast pocket of my jacket I pulled out the laser pistol.

Swiveling the bar stool around, I aimed at the door then rose to a standing position, still holding the pistol out.

Some of the crowd seemed to notice, though most were too drunk to care as I strode towards the door with the professionalism of law enforcement, the eyes of a man on a mission. I wasn’t interested in any of these party-goers and the waves parted, allowing me through.

Outside it was a rush of looming scrapers and neon. Pod bikes and shuttles. Last minute shoppers.

There was a man standing next to me, dressed in red and white. He had a full beard, blue eyes, his hair was a thinning mop of gray and he looked homeless, desperate. He was tall and the suit didn’t fit. He had a pot belly and flushed cheeks.

“Mr Sun,” he said in a heavy warm voice. “Mr Sun, you will kill me now.”

I put the pistol to his head.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Oh, I know all of it,” he answered, smiling despite it all. “You see, I’m from the future.”

My finger was close to the trigger.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I sneered. “You’re a time bandit. Scum.” They were all from the future and it was my job to take care of them.

“What are you waiting for, Mr Sun?”

It was an easy kill, but I had to wait for confirmation. Was this a code red or blue?

“Red,” the man boomed, reading my mind.

I glanced down at my pad.

“I’m a wanted man, and have been for many years.” His eyes narrowed. “Well, Mr Sun, are you going to kill me or not?”

The pad flashed red and I lowered the pistol at his torso. A clean kill, no messing up the face. I pulled the trigger and he fell to the floor, his insides burning. He managed one last look at me, but who was I to care?

Turning about, I didn’t give it a second thought. Pretty soon my credits would be rolling in. I could bet big on the laserball myself.

At the bar again I ordered another Scotch.

“And a round of drinks for the house,” I said to the barman.

No one batted an eyelid. It was that sort of place.

Just a kill like any other. At least that’s what I thought.

I thought it was over.

* * *

It was Christmas again. Another year gone by and I was sat in the same bar, same android in the corner playing the same songs, the same crowd, though some of the faces were older, some newer, some of the men there were richer, some of the girls more desperate.

I was drinking the same Scotch.

“Mr Sun?”

I turned and it was him. The same man I’d killed exactly one year earlier. The same ill-fitted Santa suit, the same beard, the same sad eyes. His cheeks were still flushed and for all appearances it was as though he’d stepped from that time to this – but moving forward in time was impossible and that wasn’t the case at all.

For him last year was yet to happen.

He sat down next to me. The piano continued to play, the women continued to flirt. Laughter sounded, it was Christmas again; another chance to celebrate the myth that life was much more than a simple coffee at breakfast, whiskey at bedtime and one or two kills a month to pay the bills and pass the time.

“I take it you remember me?”

“No idea who you are,” I murmured, staring ahead at the bottles behind the bar.

“Oh, I think you do.”

I turned at him. “What do you want?”

“Just a chat, that’s all.”

I sipped at my whiskey.

“And why would I want to speak to dead man?”

He laughed.

“Oh, I’m not dead. At least not yet.” He opened his palms wide. “You think it’s strange that I wish to meet the man who’ll eventually kill me?”

“How do you know I will?”

“Oh, there’s no problem with that.” He laughed quietly. “Simple enough to set up. I take it the kill was easy?”

I said nothing. This man seemed confident, reclined to his fate. Here I was next to him, his liquidator and he couldn’t have cared less.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched him stare at my whiskey.

“Never had a taste for the stuff myself,” he said. “I’m a gin man, always have been.” He clicked his fingers, gesturing to the barman. “Spot me a Blue, will you? And on second thoughts make it two. I think you’ll like it,” he said, this time to me.

“Yeah?” I answered.

He laughed again, patting me on the shoulder in a reluctant sort of way.

“In fact I know you’ll like it.” he said, “Because a year from now, that’s exactly what you’ll be drinking.”

I stood up quickly. “What do you want from me?” My hand moved towards the pistol under my jacket. “I suggest you scram before I –”

“Before you what, Mr Sun?”

Two Blues were suddenly placed in front of us. Picking mine up, I downed it and it was good, better than I’d been expecting. Maybe I would give up the Scotch.

“Just confirm for me why you don’t take me outside and kill me again?”

I looked across at him. “Already spent the credits I got for your kill,” I murmured.

“Well done, Mr Sun. Well done indeed. You catch on fast.” He sipped at his drink. “Tell me, Mr Sun. How does a man end up in a job such as yours?”

From somewhere in the crowded bar a woman was squealing with delight. There were cheers and congratulations.

“We all have reasons,” I sneered. “And I suppose you’d like me to ask for yours. Why you’re traveling back. How you got access to a time machine …” I was still standing, holding my empty glass. A year ago I’d watched him die.

“Not your job to ask for reasons,” he sighed. “You pull the trigger and that is all.”

“My job,” I said coldly, “is to make sure you don’t interfere.”

“Sure, sure it is. Ask no questions …”

Slowly he stood up too and I was reminded of his height. A tall lanky Santa with a belly full of hops. His figure gave off awkwardness, but those eyes, they were anything but. This man knew things I didn’t.

“See you next year, Mr Sun,” he said, patting me on the shoulder again. “You’ll be waiting for me I hope.”

* * *

Why I didn’t call it in, you may ask. The truth was, he had me. Any interference with my timeline and I’d be institutionalized at the very least. There’d been enough papers written about it. I was young and scared. He’d got me because taking that risk was more than I was ready for. I was young enough to still care about myself – kill him now and how would I have been able to do so in the past? I could have contacted my boss, reported him, called for backup. But a year to the day in the past it’d all be different and I’d remember nothing.

Let him be, I thought. I’d done my part. In his timeline I’d have the last laugh. His future was written, the same as my past.

I’d pull the trigger and burn out his torso.

* * *

It was Christmas and I was at the bar again. It was becoming a tradition, except this time I was drinking Blue.

I was expecting him this time but trying my best not to show it.

He sat down.

“Been waiting long?”

“Just a year.”

“A whole year thinking of me?”

“A few times, maybe,” I admitted.

“And here I am again, the ghost of Christmas past! Oh, Mr Sun! Why so morbid! It’s Christmas!”

I guess I must have frowned. “You like Christmas?”

“Oh, but of course I do. Look around you, Mr Sun. Even in a place like this, where people come to drown out their sorrows, to forget, to let off steam. Tonight they come to celebrate! Can’t you feel the warmth in the air?”

The place of course was heaving again. The android at the piano was playing one Christmas tune after another. Not for the first time that night I felt like breaking its metal jaw.

“Outside,” I said, “it’s minus two degrees.”

He gave me a jolly laugh, the sort of laugh that fitted his attire. This year he was much more cheerful. His eyes were still big blue and sad, but this year they were crinkled with humor. “You know, Mr Sun. I’ve always enjoyed Christmas.”

“And each year I hate it more,” I quipped.

He laughed again.

“You have family, Mr Sun?”

Clicking his fingers at the barman, he ordered us both another Blue.

“Bring us a bottle of your best,” he said.

“Right you are, Santa.”

He turned back to me. “Family, Mr Sun?”

“A brother in Connecticut,” I dismissed. “Though we haven’t talked for years.”

“Ahhh,” he said. “The long lost brother.”

I didn’t rise to that one. It was none of his business.

“I myself have a little girl, you know. A wonderful little girl.”

“You have a daughter?”

“I do,” he said. “But an old man like me … you see I never appreciated her until it was too late. Always working, always busy. In the future, in your future I make quite a success of myself. Possibly you will even hear of my name. But my life … my daughter, she is grown up and no longer needs a father she doesn’t love.”

“And that’s what this is about? That’s what you’ve come back to change?”

“No, no, no, Mr Sun. I understand the laws of no interference well enough. That’s not why I’m here at all.” Receiving the bottle, he poured us each a slug. “The reasons some of us have; you never learn the reasons, do you? Just shoot to kill as ordered.”

“You know nothing about my job.”

“A man who drinks alone on Christmas Eve? Forgive me for jumping to conclusions, but I’d say you’re far from content.”

“Listen,” I said. “You wanna give me a Christmas message then hurry up and come out with it. Our timelines are sensitive, more sensitive than you could imagine. Just one change and –”

“All I’m asking for is a little understanding, Mr Sun. A favor, if you like.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip. “You know, life,” he then said, putting the glass back down. “One day your life will be over. You’ve got to grab in by the horns, make the most of it all, appreciate …”

I threw back the contents of my glass.

“He’s asking me for a favor,” I said to the barman. “Santa here’s asking mefor help!”

“So give it to him!” the barman yelled over the top of all the rabble.

“Oh, he will, he will,” said my bearded companion. “Mr Sun here is a real gentleman.”

* * *

Something was drawing me to the bar, a force that I couldn’t reckon with. Fate, determinism. I had to see this through.

My future, his past.

I poured myself another slug, my glass overflowing. It was Christmas in the city and I was about to meet a time bandit who’d slipped through the net more than once. The android was at the piano and the Christmas crowd cheered. Santa had walked in through the doors of the place, as familiar to them as he now was to me.

“How’s it you’re getting away with this?” I slurred when he came to sit down beside me. As usual no messages were coming through. Here I was with a wanted man.

Two more Blues were placed in front of us.

“They seem to recognize me here.”

“And why wouldn’t they?” I asked. “Every year, turn up in that damned suit.”

He was quiet.

I sipped at my Blue. “The suit, the suit!” I gestured. The Santa suit, it meant something and I’d had a whole three years to work out what. It was a miracle it had taken me this long. “How’s your little girl? You about to pay her a visit?”

“As a matter of fact I am,” he answered. “Though how … but of course,” he then said, peering at me with those crinkled eyes of his. “You guessed as much. Here I am, dressed like this.”

“No interference,” I agreed. “No interference and you tell me nothing. But I guessed already. Your daughter, she doesn’t know who you are. Thinks you’re the Christmas father. You get to see her grow up, visit her once a year, drop off a couple of gifts.”

He was staring at me. If anything he looked confused, perplexed.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I may be a killer but I have a brain too.”

“Quite right, sir,” he answered quickly.

And I laughed at that.

“What’s with the sir?” I said. “I’m not Mr Sunto you anymore?” I gazed at my glass, not looking at him. “You know, I’ve gotta admit I’ve been getting used to these meetings of ours. Your Christmas spirit, it’s brushing off on me. Even thinking of calling my brother.”

“Our meetings …”

“Yeah, our meetings, goddammit! How many more Christmases are you going to be around haunting me? The ghost of Christmas past,” I slurred. “You said so yourself. The man I’ll eventually kill. Yet here we are, old buddies that we are. You’re asking for a favor. Are you ready to tell me yet what that favor’s gonna be?”

A message was coming through.

Drop in your area. Black List. Male. Mid-sixties. Santa suit.

For a moment I hesitated.

Then I pulled out my gun.

“Mr Sun,” the man stuttered. “Mr Sun, that’s your name, am I right? Now don’t be too hasty here. I think there may be a connection between us.”

“Got that damned right,” I sneered, aiming at his head.

“Mr Sun …” His body was quivering. “Mr Sun, you mentioned a favor, and I’d like to ask for that now.” He swallowed hard, composing himself. “My daughter … in this time she’s already aged five. If you’d just give me more –”

“Time?” I asked cynically. “Time, is not yours to interfere with!”

“No, no, no interference.” He shook his head, still terrified, but continued as best he could. “You said so and I agree. But I’m asking you, begging you to let me finish what I started. Just a few more Christmas Eves.”

“How many?” I asked. “How many times have you visited her already?”

“Just a few, that’s all. Children, they don’t believe in the magic of Christmas for very long. But for a while, just for a short time, they do, Mr Sun. These few Christmas Eves I’ve spent with her –”

“Don’t wanna hear about it.”

My gun was still to his head and the whole bar was watching. I could’ve killed him there and then, but the dangers to my timeline …

He had me and he hardly knew it.

I hesitated. Hesitated some more. I’d said too much, probably given him the idea. Each jump he made from now on, not only would he visit his daughter but he’d visit me too. He’d already interfered and if I blipped him out now, my own timeline would be corrupted. Four of my Christmas Eves would change; even this one, the only reason I was in the bar was because of him – my memory, it was nothing short of a lobotomy.

I saw the workings of his brain come to the same conclusion.

The panic slipped away and there was the hint of a smile.

“I promise you, I’ll make it easy,” he said. “This year my daughter is five. Just a few more jumps and then I’ll let you have me. How about we make it here?”

“Here?”

This was one hell of a bluff he was playing. If I shot him now, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But he was looking around, confident. “Or maybe outside,” he said. “These people, they don’t want to be witnessing …”

“You want me to shoot you outside?” But of course I’d done that already.

My past, his future.

Putting the gun away slowly, I went back to my drink.

“Messing with time,” I scolded, “is a dangerous business.”

He was quiet. Thoughtful. And I probably was too. It was a lot to take in and we sipped at our Blues.

For a while neither of us said anything.

“Time is so static,” he finally muttered, breaking the silence. “I see that now. Traveling the way I do. Here I am moving backward, you forward, while everything else …”

“Stays exactly the way it is.”

He scratched at his beard, then pointed over into the crowd. “Take that man over there,” he continued, picking out a youth in a dark brown suit. The youth’s tie was loose, he was red in the face and happily he was raising a glass to a group of similarly young men around him. “In the time that I come from, that boy’ll be an old man; if even alive at all. And yet now, right now, at this very moment. Look at him, Mr Sun! In this moment he exists and always will. This Christmas Eve –”

“Will always be here. And that’s the way it should remain. The laws of no interference are to protect men like him. Men that could be blipped out of existence by some punk wanting to change his past. The butterfly effect of even the smallest alteration …”

But his hand was on my shoulder.

“Mr Sun, I want to thank you.”

“Get out of here,” I said. “Get out of here before I change my mind.” He was grateful and it was killing me. I’d never see him again.

“You really should call your brother,” he said. “Christmas is a time for family.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”

Topping up my drink and his, I gave my best shot at a toast. “To family!” I shouted to the whole damned bar. “To this merry holiday, and to my friend here, the Christmas man!”

It was one hell of a toast and those around us raised their glasses.

“A Merry Christmas to all!” they agreed. “May the future bring us happiness and prosperity!”

A few of them began to sing. The android struck up a fresh number on the piano while quietly the Christmas man slipped away and I let him.

The conversations continued. More drinks were thrown back. I was alone once more, staring at the remains of my Blue.

“A merry Christmas to all,” I slurred, raising my glass lazily at the barman. “A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.He has released two sci-fi novels,one collection of short storiesand a few other scribblings.You can find his amazon page  here. 

Bookspot - Daniel by Marcin Lechna

 

Danielby Marcin Lechna

An intelligent page-turner from a new author to watch out for. Very easy to get through, this is a short novel and a quick read, but leaves you with plenty to think about.

Daniel Roark is a cardiologist who finds himself imprisoned in a hall where the laws of physics and logic begin to fail. Daniel tries to uncover the truth about who trapped him there and why. The forces that sent him to this place elude human understanding, and the reasons for his imprisonment are connected to events that will affect all humankind.

“Look at the world through different eyes and discover the invisible that lusts over us. Let yourself be engrossed in a novel that you will keep thinking about!”

He’s passionate about fantastic literature, comic art, astrology and psychology. He graduated from the Wrocław University of Technology with a degree in optics. He’s a sports coach who led the Polish tennis team through the Davis Cup. He’s also been a business and sales coach for many years, training and supporting entrepreneurs from all over Poland. He’s a PSA lecturer and the owner of optical technology firms. He’s also a husband, father and avid athlete.

The first book by Marcin Lechna – DANIEL – is a captivating story about a young and ambitious cardiac surgeon from Los Angeles, who, for unknown reasons, is imprisoned in a place that defies all known laws of nature and physics.

The mystery is who imprisoned him there, for what purpose and how long he intends to keep him there. It is a fantastic novel about man, his nature and civilization changes that have a huge impact on the world around us.

Absolutely unique and very masculine item that will provide you with many strong impressions. Suspenseful, mysterious and mystical. After reading it, nothing seems to be the same as before.

Dinner with the Doge by Howard Loring

 

Dinner with the Doge

Or

Stagnation vs. Directional Change 

by Howard Loring

 “It’s time, Hal,” said the disembodied voice, seemingly uttered from nowhere. Yet it was familiar, and this was somehow comforting. Then, the formerly sleeping man opened his eyes, suddenly remembering who he was.

“Already?” he asked, still prone but now blinking a few times in vain hopes of focusing on something tangible in the dim room, which was currently lit only by a small corner fireplace and a few strategically dispersed candles.

“Look, you oaf, it’s not yet sunrise,” Hal then observed, casting a glance through the darkened window. Always grumpy after awakening, he next added, “I see no one here. Have they come to attend us, are they outside?”

“No,” calmly answered the other, while holding forth a large tankard of steaming, heavily spiced wine. “But soon enough. The uncooperative wind has finally arrived.”

This got the attention of the man in the bed. He tried to sit up a few times, but these were only hasty and futile attempts. Being quite corpulent, he extended his beefy arm, wishing assistance.

“To our advantage, or theirs?” he next inquired.

“Theirs, I’m afraid,” uttered the standing man. And then, he added, “You know what you must do, Hal. It must be done quickly, and you know this, also.”

The sitting man was busy downing his tankard while these words were being spoken. This day he would need his wits about him and the warm wine would surely help. Plus, he always loved warmed, spicy wine in the morning.

“Delightful,” he said, while wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Next, holding out the empty cup, he sighed and belched. The man before him, using a deep ladle, then dutifully refilled it from a large copper vessel hanging in the fireplace.

“I will not make peace with the French,” suddenly barked the seated man, who still disheveled was nevertheless the current King of England. “They are in my waters uninvited, and I won’t have it. I must deal with them, and will.”

The standing man, who now held the pissing pot, also sighed.

“And they call me a fool,” he said.

Once the King was well toileted and suitably attired, which took some time to accomplish, footsteps were heard approaching in the hall. It was now well past dawn. The two occupants of the starkly furnished, yet best available room in the small fortress, were now standing abreast, awaiting.

Three loud knocks on the door followed, whereupon the royal sentry stationed outside opened it to reveal half a dozen well dressed gentlemen standing in the corridor.

“My Liege,” said the Constable of Southsea Castle, bowing with great deference. The men surrounding him quickly did likewise. “I trust Your Majesty slept well even given our crude accommodations.”

The King, by chance visiting nearby Portsmouth when informed of the newly arrived French fleet, had the day before invested the diminutive outpost, one of many fortifications built to protect the large northern estuary off the Isle of Wight. The small castle’s crenulated wall would give a spectacular, unobstructed view of events and Henry, after decades of spending good money on his ever expanding navy, wanted to see the result of this royal largesse. He therefore anticipated a good show.

“My Lords,” he decreed, “I shall savor sweet sleep only when England is safe. Tell me of the wind. It now favors the enemy?”

“It does, Your Majesty,” answered the realm’s Secretary of State, William Paget, who stood beside the castle’s Constable. “The Lord High Admiral Russel, now observing from the wall above, has already dispatched some number of rowbarges, the only craft we currently possess that will advance without sail, to meet several French galleys that are currently probing our line. And yet, my Lord Admiral believes the wind may soon turn to our advantage, or so he says.”

To this declaration, the unimpressed King only grunted. Then he stepped forward, toward the men who all stepped back at his advance. But at the doorway he turned, once more looking to his Royal Jester, William Sommers.

“And what will you do today, Billy?” he asked the very tall man.

“I shall travel to Venice, Hal,” calmly answered his hardworking fool, “twenty-five years hence, to sup with the Doge.”

The men in the hallway all laughed at this response, but His Majesty did not. He knew this unique person as no one else did. King Henry was well aware that if the tall man truly wished to undertake such a sojourn he certainly could.

This seemingly simple servant, the Sovereign well understood, was in reality a time traveler.

“You still have an option,” added the determined jester, his thin face completely devoid of emotion.

Henry’s vividly dark, pinched and beady eyes met those of his devoted companion, looking deeply into them, searching but not finding any further meaning hidden there.

“You are a fool,” then answered the King, but smiling as he spoke.

The day, bright and beautiful, turned long with little real action attached, at first. The wind, ever changing was always slight, and neither side did more than maneuver at some distance from one another. The rowbarges, never coming close enough, did not engage the enemy, who lacking propulsion simply failed to arrive.

Upon the parapet, the King and his advisors spent the opportunity eating and drinking, and talking of the coming confrontation. Considering the unique nature of the still unfolding situation, the royal functionaries had been kept to a minimum but those on hand milled about ready for service, if need be. Many livered attendants were of course near by, as they were always present in abundant numbers about the King’s person.

There was much speculation by everyone as to what would occur once the fleets engaged, for the indecisive wind often increased but always departed, and this left plenty of idle interval to while away whilst discussing the subject.

The King’s still nascent navy was tiny, much smaller than the mighty French fleet, but being from an island nation his seamen, unlike hers, were real sailors. Other major European powers such as France or Spain used their fleets mainly for transporting troops and equipment to fight on land, but England’s ships fought at sea, and well understood its advantages. And, the navy’s two principal warships were now present in the Solent, the expansive waterway betwixt the Isle of Wight and England’s southern coast.

Portsea Island stood midway in the vast estuary, and Southsea Castle was located at its point. The sweeping vantage presented between the fort’s crenels was indeed panoramic. By noon, the stagnated wind again picked up.

“How many French ships?” demanded the King, sensing at last a change in the stalemated status quo. He stood leaning at the wall, squinting in the distance. “More than me, that’s easy to see,” he added, in a regal but sour tone.

“At least two hundred, Your Majesty,” answered Henry’s Lord High Admiral, who was standing nearby at the nearest break in the masonry. “We have but eighty or so. Several of yours, however, are more massive,” he quickly added.

This statement referred to England’s two largest ocean-going craft, both of them interesting ships, and for several reasons.

First, they were designed and constructed specifically for warfare at sea, a unique circumstance given the times. Other ships of war, in England and elsewhere were always converted merchantmen, or were built by altering the well-established designs of ocean-going commercial vessels. Yet, by intention these two were far superior craft, being not merely transporters of men and arms, but huge, coordinated and highly mobile, total weapon systems in themselves.

Second, after seeing long years of heavy action in two separate and brutal wars against two different but equally stubborn French kings, both ships had been successfully and painstakingly retrofitted with the latest technological innovations. These included sealing gunports amid multiple decks that employed bronze and iron cannon and demi-cannon of various sizes. Most heavy guns were now also breech-loaded, and this inventive time saving advancement granted much inherent strategic advantage.

These novel arrangements currently permitted for the first time in nautical history the use of the broadside, a practice whereby all arms a ship possessed, port or starboard, or even both if need be, could be fired simultaneously.

This new, striking development would quite alter standard naval tactics, by setting in place unfolding changes in maritime strategy becoming preeminent for hundreds of years.

The larger of the two great ships, the Mary Rose, was literally bristling with guns, for a new complement of cannon had been installed amidships upon an added tier between the castles, which were the higher decks on either end of the carrack-style vessel. These opposing rows of artillery naturally made the gigantic boat much heavier and so increased her displacement, which meant that she sat lower in the sea. In fact, now fully manned and abundantly provisioned, her first line of gunports rode only three feet above the waterline, a detail of some importance.

“What’s happening?” barked the impatient King.

His chief functionaries, who were scattered about the edge of the parapet, had no suitable response to this royal inquiry. None of them knew. Still, the King could not be kept waiting, so the Lord Admiral was soon compelled to answer.

“It appears, Your Majesty,” he admitted, “the unimpressive winds have once more ceased to blow.”

“Blast it,” screamed Henry, “blast it to Hades.”

He turned to retake his appointed seat, a heavy chair in the near distance placed under a colorful canopy, beside an equally heavy table that bore much food and libation, but midway there the now overly agitated King changed his mind.

Exercising the royal prerogative, he instead stomped off, gruffly announcing over his shoulder, “My Lords, I’m to my accommodations to rest my infernal leg. Send word once something definite occurs. Until then, I’m not to be disturbed.”

“Majesty,” and “Sire,” and such were uttered by all present. Each of them bowed toward the retreating regal presence. Two gentlemen, the Constable and his Lieutenant, followed the King in order to assure his safe transit.

The hard working fool was dutifully waiting to tend his Sovereign’s acute affliction, something he’d done many times before. The King of England had a large, pungent ulcer on his upper thigh, which for years, despite constant attempts, had stubbornly refused to mend. The ever-oozing wound was washed and redressed several times daily, a protocol of long standing that thus far had failed to achieve any suitable, permanent solution.

“Well, Billy boy, how was your visit?” asked the Monarch, once his enormous leg, newly exposed, was propped across a crude wooden stool. “Have a good dinner out of your excursion, did you? Something tasty I trust, for all of your trouble.”

“It was a dismal failure,” the jester replied flatly, “the Doge is as hardheaded as you, I fear. But, I’ve another invitation a week hence that will, from my point of view, take place later today, just after we’re done here. Of course, from your reference, this won’t happen for another twenty-five years.”

He was dabbing thick green pus from Henry’s thigh as he spoke. This ministration, as those that would follow was deliberate, yet slowly and gently delivered. Still, the time traveler knew such action was useless in the long term.

The royal lesion would never heal.

“What do you wish from him?” inquired the King, referring to the Doge. After all, international intrigue was Henry’s life’s blood. He was highly interested, for His Majesty always relished political machinations and stratagem of any kind.

“He has to stop warring with the Sultan,” answered the nursing man, “as you must with the French. The time is ripe, and Europe should now turn its eyes westward, as I’ve told you. Your beautiful sailing ships, and those of other European powers will permit this occurrence, but only when peace comes.”

“Why grant accommodation when I can win?” asked the King.

“But will you win?” countered the fool. “The French are more numerous, and the uncooperative weather remains fickle. Yet, you still have time to alter things.”

“How so?” inquired Henry.

The patient jester then began to wash the King’s open wound, a gaping and most grisly one. The unforgiving ulcer was deeply buried within the noble but flabby flesh. Periodically, the upper layer of skin did mostly recover but, in each instance, it was only a matter of time before the gash once more violently erupted, and ever with a nasty, highly odiferous, pus dripping vengeance.

“My Lord Brandon, as we speak, is being rowed ashore,” explained his fool. “He’s been conferring with Admiral Dudley aboard his flagship, the Great Harry. The finalized order of attack has now been dispersed to the fleet, but the languid wind still gives you leave to countermand this proposed action.”

Charles Brandon, the first Duke of Suffolk, was Henry’s oldest friend, his closest advisor, and his former brother-in-law. Years ago, he had married the King’s now dead sister, Mary Tudor. The great Mary Rose was named for her.

John Dudley, currently Viscount Lisle, was in command of the fleet. One day in the not too distant future, Lord Dudley would be invested the first Duke of Northumberland. On another day further still, Henry’s oldest daughter, who was also named Mary, would execute him, after he’d tried but failed to install as Queen his son’s docile young wife, the very plain and overly pitiful Lady Jane Grey.

Without hesitation Henry firmly decreed, “No, I will see this through, my dear Billy. I’ve no other course open to me. I cannot make peace at such a disadvantage.”

The nurse began to rewrap the wound but Henry waved him off. Again His Majesty was most agitated. True, this was his normal demeanor, but now more so.

“Leave it,” he mumbled in a distracted fashion, and then in a louder voice he commanded, “Let it breathe for a while.”

The jester then leaned back and sat on the floor before the King. For a moment neither man spoke. Then Henry, always wishing answers, continued his scrutiny.

“Tell me of the Doge,” he requested. “Why does he not comply with your wishes? What stops him from making peace?”

The tall man rearranged himself, by wrapping his long arms around his longer legs, after pulling his knees up under his chin.

“Venice will lose Cyprus in the treaty, her last Mediterranean island, a heavy price for such a proud people,” answered the sitting man. “Yet the Doge must accept this difficult condition, and will. As you do, he just needs persuading.”

The King of England laughed aloud at this proclamation. No one ever told him what to do, or lasted long after such a brazen affront. No one but his fool, that is.

“And how will you change him?” then asked Henry.

“I shall take a different dinner guest with me,” was the answer. “The one I took this morning was unimpressive, as I’ve said. Still, given that the groundwork is now sufficiently laid, my new companion should nicely do the trick.”

Henry, adjusting his great bulk in the chair, then grunted.

“Whom did you take?” he wondered.

“I thought the Doge needed a framework,” was the reply, “a tangible yet palatable argument for making peace with the dreaded Turk, the horrid infidel. For this reason, I took the much revered fourth century Bishop of Hippo, for he has swayed millions having such concerns. Yet, the Doge was unmoved.”

“What’s that you say?” demanded the now startled King, with his earlier malaise quite vanished. “Are you telling me that you personally conveyed Saint Augustine to dinner with the Doge of Venice? You accompanied Saint Augustine himself?”

“The very same,” was the response, “as the good bishop was expert at supplying cogent rationale for unlikely circumstance.”

Henry had a great belly laugh at this, cackling, “What a rogue you are, Billy. You never cease to amaze me. Tell me everything.”

The jester stood, now understanding this would take some time. He fetched the King a flagon of wine and a hard roll, handing them over. Then, again, he sat.

“You must know the context,” he lectured. “Augustine was more than a mere theologian. The principles he espoused have since framed your society, establishing the basic rules of civilization for the last twelve hundred years.”

At this, the King grunted once more, for usually he didn’t like theologians of any stripe. English ones were bad enough, and the current Pope was in league with his sworn enemy, the French. The Spanish, while also loathing them were Catholic, so an alliance with Spain was not a viable option.

“Bishop Augustine lived,” the lecture continued, “while Rome’s imperial power crumbled, the set decrees falling away. By this time, the growing population was Christian but barely so, and any fresh rules were yet to be firmly recognized. But now, in every locale new Christian princes wished to war with other Christian princes, a troubling obstacle if you’re a diligent churchman busy building a religion based on peace and love.”

“I see it,” announced the marveling King. “You speak of the Doctrine of Just War, the moral reasoning behind why Christians may fight. Honor, and so forth.”

“Yes, but even more,” countered the fool. “Having such new stipulations gave Europe the time it needed to coalesce, to rebuild intuitions, to set things in place. Now, after more than a thousand years this has slowly happened, and the time has come to move on, as I’ve explained to you before, Hal.”

“I am no Doge,” snapped Henry, disliking the implication. “I’m a King, not some mere functionary of a committee of state. I am my country, Billy, I am England.”

This pompous pronouncement caused the fool to laugh aloud.

“You?” he replied. “Why Hal, you’re just a single link in the long chain of history, and a very lengthy procession that is, too. You may control this petty kingdom but not events in general, that’s quite beyond your allotted purview.”

“What’s that?” screamed the King, instantly livid. “You push your limits, man. This line is not humorous in the least, and you overstep your bounds at your own peril.”

The jester, leaning back, didn’t answer this outburst. He knew the raging tempest would soon pass. He knew this stubborn man very well, much better than did even the first Duke of Suffolk, the King’s oldest friend, Charles Brandon.

“See the bigger picture, Hal,” he finally said. “There have been Doges in Venice for over eight hundred years, with many more yet to come. Your esteemed family, ever-glorious now, has ruled England for barely two generations.”

After this stiff truism, Henry threw his roll to the floor, but then he thought the better of it. Tantrums solved nothing. He knew this to be factual, for he employed them often and they never worked.

And also, he was hungry again.

“My point,” emphasized the fool, “is the rigid framework set by Augustine is now no longer sufficient. Another direction is needed, a new way of looking at things, for knowledge has been sanctioned, only dictated from above. But, no more.”

“What does that mean?” grumbled Henry, not following.

“Twelve hundred years ago,” said the jester, “Augustine stated knowledge of any kind was a thing given only by God. Ergo, to know anything at all was a gift from God. Knowledge gained without God’s grace then became heretical.”

This comment made His Majesty smile. Generally, the King favored a good heretic. After all, he was the biggest one yet.

“This long accepted arrangement, while providing local stability had its limits,” added his fool, “for people are ever curious and naturally inquisitive, and any such restriction is always stifling. So, to ease these well-placed concerns, three hundred years ago the enlightened Thomas Aquinas decreed that God-given knowledge really comes in two forms. These are understandings which you can discover on your own, by God’s grace, and that which is known only to Him, granted through divine revelation.”

“Yes,” declared Henry, “and what’s wrong with that? It makes good sense. The Darker Ages are long in the past, and we have much current knowledge now, as my fearsome ships will soon demonstrate to the invading French fleet.”

“But are they truly over?” asked the jester, trying once more to make the elusive connection. “How, when knowledge still remains tangible in itself, a real thing at which you may chisel away as some sculptor would, slowly dribbling off random pieces, as it were? No, Hal, adherence to such a stilted outlook has inherent disadvantages that are no longer acceptable.”

“But what other way is there?” asked the baffled ruler.

The patient time traveler began to rewrap Henry’s leg.

“Make peace with the French,” was his answer, “and find out.”

It was now late afternoon, and the wind came up in earnest. The Sovereign was duly informed. Presently he was upon the rampart.

“What news, My Lords?” the King, now wearing clean leggings, asked of his retinue, after making his slow but regal transition to the wall above the broad estuary.

“The wind is up, Henry,” answered the newly arrived Duke of Suffolk, who then affectionately embraced his oldest friend. This particular personage solely possessed such a uniquely granted privilege, and so he often shunned the standard convention of great deference to the royal station and regularly addressed the King by name. “Soon, Vice Admiral Carew will advance with his flagship, the Mary Rose,” the nobleman added, thinking of his long dead wife, the King’s once beautiful sister.

“She moves, Your Majesty,” announced Lord Admiral Russel, who was, as his title indicated, head of the entire English navy.

“Magnificent,” declared the Constable of Southsea Castle.

Everyone looked to the huge ship floating gracefully in the near distance, her sails already fully deployed and gently filling with air.

“And what will happen now?” asked the eager Monarch.

“She will soon turn and lead the line of attack,” answered Suffolk, as if it were only a foregone conclusion, which it was.

Aboard the Mary Rose, the very command was being given.

“Prepare to bring her about,” the Vice Admiral calmly said to an aide, and quickly the order was shouted to runners who would disperse it throughout the crew. “Close all starboard gunports,” he added next. This most critical instruction was passed on as well, yet it somehow failed to reach the two lowest decks, and that salient fact had both immediate and dire consequences.

Soon the giant ship began to slowly turn. Next, a robust gust of wind swept across the vessel, snapping taunt her full complement of sail. Then the impressive Mary Rose, the very pinnacle of current nautical innovation and design, was herself broadsided.

Already riding deeply in the water, she soon listed just enough for the sea to rush in through the still open gunports along her lower tier of starboard artillery. This swiftly pulled her further down, which naturally shifted everything stowed aboard towards the rapidly increasing tilt of the ship. The lashing ropes that bound the heavy guns stationed opposite soon gave way under the tremendous strain and ripped apart, sending the cannon, and their great weight crashing across the distance and into the now flooding compartments above the great vessel’s main hold.

This cavity was vast, the deepest section of the Mary Rose, an immense storage chamber, now breeched and filling with water.

The second tier of open gunports was swamped in less than a minute, and the same unabated process then repeated, sharply increasing the ever-growing angle of list.

Onboard was complete chaos. The massive ship was quickly, totally overwhelmed and sucked under. Because the enemy still used the older tactics of boarding a vessel for hand-to-hand combat, heavy webbing had been strung across all decks to repel such an onslaught, and the hapless sailors and soldiers stationed on these levels were all trapped within the substantial ropes, like fish in a net.

“My God,” gasped the Lord High Admiral. It was all that needed to be said. Everyone else was too stunned to speak.

Henry simply stood with his royal mouth hanging open.

Soon, all that could be seen of the once impressive ship was her topmost sails, tilted at a sixty-degree angle for, hitting bottom, the doomed vessel had settled into the deep mud, hidden but just awaiting beneath the murky water. All manner of items were now floating about, somehow escaping the netting. Only the men clinging to the upper rigging survived the calamity, less than forty of well over four hundred total aboard.

Most of the casualties occurred below. Many died there before the boat sank, crushed by items loosened in the dramatic shifting involved, but to a man, the others were swallowed alive. Those on the upper decks, all ensnared by the nets, each drowned while viewing the elusive surface in the near distance above them.

Then the feckless wind, the last of the waning day also died, bringing to an end the so-called Battle of the Solent. The French, thinking better of the entire campaign, soon withdrew their fleet. Needless to say, the engagement was inconclusive.

Henry also withdrew, and without comment to anyone moved to his room where the fool was awaiting him. No one present spoke as the King exited, being prompted by a quickly raised hand of the Duke of Suffolk, an action that silenced them. But they all deeply bowed as His Majesty slowly made his passage.

“Well, Billy boy, you’ve taught me an unkind lesson today,” hissed the proud but now outmaneuvered Monarch. “Yes, you’ve done me harshly this time. Why?”

King Henry stood defiantly before the taller man, jutting his noble jaw and holding his much-recognized stiffened stance, portrayed so well in many an official portrait.

“The choice was yours,” calmly countered the fool, “I caused no change. You failed to alter something, and that had consequences. Now you must carry on, Hal.”

Henry could not speak. He tried, but he only sputtered, his usual pale completion currently a flaming red. At last, giving up the effort, he resolutely turned and sat.

For a moment, nothing happened. The fool waited, as he always did. The King brooded, as he often did.

Henry was defeated, and he knew it. He also knew he didn’t like being beaten. But Billy was right, of course, he always was.

The King of England would have to move on.

“Yes,” he said at last, “you did warn me, that is true enough.”

The jester next offered food and wine, but Henry, still most distracted, didn’t notice the effort.

“Well,” he finally said, almost spitting the words, “at least tell me of your trip to the Doge. Were you successful? Has he now also agreed to do your damn bidding?”

“He has, Hal,” was the answer, given while ignoring the royal sarcasm. “My latest dinner guest convinced him, as I’d hoped he would. Now, at long last a new enlightenment will begin, a totally different way of looking at things.”

Henry grunted. Given the day’s drastic action, His Majesty would see to it that certain things were soon looked into, that’s for sure. Yes, change was coming, and in more ways that one.

He began to formulate a plan, but almost immediately gave it up. He had people for that. He’d wait and rule on what they suggested, employing his standard procedure.

“Tell me of your newest encounter with the Doge,” he instead demanded, wishing to speak of other matters. “Who did you convey this time? Why was he effective?”

“I took an Englishman, actually,” the time traveler replied. “He won’t be born for another sixteen years, but he was middle aged when we arrived. A most interesting gentleman, for his bold ideas indeed changed everything.”

“I see,” stated Henry, “but how so?”

“It’s all a matter of perception,” the fool calmly explained. “How does anyone judge what truly is? Must they blindly follow what’s come before, believing something only because others previous have, or do they instead think in another way, a better way, with new eyes that can see new things?”

“Speak plainly,” advised the weary King, “what do you mean?”

“In the old scheme of things, all truth was known but hidden,” he related. “That will now change. Soon, nothing will be taken for granted, and all knowledge will thus be built only by what is shown to be factual, a great distinction.”

“I don’t follow,” said Henry, “what matters this distinction?”

The jester again offered food and drink, and this time Henry, now much calmer, accepted.

“Again, it’s perception,” the fool continued. “Knowledge is not a given thing that’s dispersed, but an unknown thing that’s discovered. And this new outlook, this simple difference in view will lead to all kinds of changes in the future.”

Here he paused, to give the King time to absorb this input.

“An Englishman, you say?” asked Henry, after his absorption was completed. “Who is he, or rather, who shall he be? Is he a philosopher of some description?”

“Not exactly,” was the answer, “he’s a lawyer, or will be one.”

“Oh dear,” mused the King. He despised all lawyers. In his regal opinion, they were as bad as churchmen, maybe worse.

“His friends will be the philosophers, natural philosophers they will soon label themselves,” informed the fool. “Yet these thinkers will have no firm foundation, no standard set of rules agreed to by all. He changes this, by supplying them a method of inquiry, a universally acceptable system to be known as Science.”

“This Science,” reasoned the King, “this system of simple distinction, is so important? Why? What exactly will it do?”

“Humans now have ocean-going craft,” the other man pointed out, “and the world will soon be cracked open by them. This widely opened world will also have Science, as well. Great change is therefore inevitable, Hal, but it’s only possible now because the time is right and the proper conditions are finally present.”

After a moment, having made the connection, Henry said, “I understand now,” then quickly he asked, “Who is this Englishman that changes everything so?”

“His name is Bacon,” was the answer, “Francis Bacon.”

Henry roared at this, his bilious body jiggling with laughter.

“Wonderful,” he cried, “I’ve always loved pork.”

“You’ve always loved everything, Hal, that’s your problem,” countered the jester, as he refilled Henry’s cup of wine.

“So tell me,” urged the King, “what will happen hence?”

“Europe will turn now westward, as I’ve said, begetting worldwide influence,” the all-knowing man revealed. “In a hundred years, an Irishman named Boyle will decipher mysteries from the very air we breathe, and in two hundred a man from the new world named Franklin will pull power from lightning. A hundred years after that, a Frenchman named Pasteur will prove beyond all doubt that things too small to be seen can affect life itself, a tremendous discovery leading to much change.”

“And what of England?” next asked Henry.

“Because of you,” said Billy, “England will be strong. Her navy will become preeminent. It shall rule the waves for hundreds of years.”

This pleasant news pleased Henry greatly, but only because he’d at last made the bigger connection involved. The future was his to command. He wouldn’t let it down.

He stood and crossed to the door, then jerked it open.

The crowded hallway was full of his startled functionaries and favorites. Some men were standing, while others were sitting on heavy benches against either wall. No matter their placement, all were awaiting the King’s pleasure.

“Charles,” he barked, and the Duke of Suffolk dutifully stood. “I shall have peace with France,” Henry announced. Suffolk only nodded, and then sat as before.

“Your Majesty,” interjected Lord Paget, who’d jumped up at the King’s sudden appearance. As England’s Secretary of State, this lofty bureaucrat would have to negotiate any treaty with the French invaders, and he didn’t relish doing so under the current tactical conditions. Yet Henry was unconcerned with that aspect.

“I will have my peace with France,” screamed the monarch, and Paget also nodded and sat.

Then Henry, ever intent on hasty retreat, began to turn from the room’s threshold, but instead exercising his royal prerogative, he first commanded, “And, bring pork for dinner.”

Then he slammed the door.

His fool now held the washbasin, a towel draped over his arm.

Sleep came late that night for the eighth English King crowned Henry. He was abed, but thinking. His Majesty was leaving on the morrow, to continue his recent, interrupted progress through the south of his realm, but he was troubled and his active mind refused to cease its unrelenting rambling.

“Billy,” he called out softly.

“Yes, Hal,” came the answer from the darkness, “I’m here.”

“When the world is new,” began the royal pondering, “will they know what I did? Will anyone care that I made peace with the French? Will they even remember me at all?”

This whispered inquiry caused the jester to laugh aloud.

“And they call me a fool,” the time traveler said.

HOWARD LORING creates EPIC FABLES on the ELASTIC LIMIT of TIME.

These exciting time travel books encompass universal human themes,

often employing real history.

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Atoms

 

Atoms

by Chris Morton

On the heavy door was a computerized pad and the man wiped at the surface, smoothing away the snow. He scratched at the newly formed layer of thin ice.

“Heat!” he said over the high-pitched sound of wind. “Heat, goddammit.” He breathed at the pad, condensing the ice. The man hit at the contraption and finally it lit up. “Heat,” he said, and the pad flickered and buzzed in response.

The man stood back, waiting, clapping his hands together. Shuffling from one foot to the other, his boots crunching in the snow, he seemed unimpressed by the beauty of the landscape surrounding him. In the background the snowy mountains glared down at this patch of whiteness: at the square, shallow cabin and the tiny figure beside it, alone and cursing.

The man was wearing fingerless gloves, an anorak, thick trousers and snow boots. Over his shoulder was a satchel.

He tried the door again and this time was successful – the wheel to the right of the pad was a locking mechanism that required three turns to the right and one to the left. Whereas before it had been completely frozen up, the wheel now moved easily with a series of satisfying clicks.

The door sprang open.

“Lights!” the man said. The inside of the cabin was large and spacious. There were no divisions, it was one long room. The left of the cabin included a bed and comfortable armchair, there was a workout area with mat and bicycle, a kitchen area, an open toilet and bathroom. To the right was a workstation: a large flashing monitor sat on a desk, a 3D printer beside it, and beside that was a flat console with a number of cartridges inserted. The desk was littered with empty food packs and in the far corner of the room was an area under UV light where from a table of soil a dozen seedlings were sprouting.

The man slipped off his jacket and snow boots. He went over to the desk and from the drawer took out a packet of cigarettes.

“Yeah, well, if anyone’s watching, there’s a blizzard outside,” said the man, shaking a cigarette out the pack and lighting up. He breathed in the smoke, which hovered around his rather tired looking face. He was young but seemed to bear the stress of many days without sleep. It was one of those youthfully rugged sort of faces; stubble, unkempt hair and a blemish of red spots which ran in a line along his right cheek. The man’s lips were bright red from the sudden change in temperature, his eyes were bloodshot.

Bending over at the monitor, the man swiped the flashing screen. A series of messages came up, each in blocks that would come to the foreground, then drop back, allowing another to take its place. One of these messages the man clicked on and it paused. The message was from a Doctor Chang and read I can reschedule our appointment. Let me know when you get back.

The man clicked on the box and it flashed green.

“Okay, then, Doc. Let’s see what bright ideas you have for me this time.”

The man rose from his position in front of the monitor and walked over to the toilet area, smoking and cursing. From behind him the monitor’s messages continued to circulate.

The man took a shower and changed into a t-shirt and shorts. He went over to his satchel which had been resting on the desk and took out a large silver camera. Opening the back, he ejected a heavy cartridge which he took over to the flat console, plugging it into one of the sockets. He then went back to the computer monitor and brought up another of the messages.

“Here you go, then,” the man said. He went back to the console and swiped in a set of commands. He punched in a code, then went back to the monitor again.

A series of images were now brought up in quick succession. They were the photographs the man had taken, close-ups of snow, rocks and ice mostly; it was hard in fact to distinguish one from another, although a few of the pictures were of a dull green moss growing on a rocky surface, and at the beginning of the feed had been images of the sprouting seedlings from the corner of the cabin’s interior.

When all of the photographs had flashed through, a message came up saying: Samples accepted.

“Another day, then,” huffed the man. He walked over to the kitchen area and from a cupboard produced a pint-sized bottle of whiskey. “Another day,” the man repeated, unscrewing the top.

From the monitor came the sound of a ring-tone – a happy jingle that danced around the room, almost laughing, almost poking fun at the man. Bottle still in hand, he went over to the computer. “Crap,” he said, but then: “Okay, Doc, let’s give it another try.”

The man accepted the incoming call and a face appeared on the monitor’s screen – an Asian man who by all appearances was in his mid-fifties.

“Doctor Chang.” The young man coughed, stubbing out his cigarette. “To what do I have the pleasure?”

The doctor smiled. “Always a pleasure to see you, Stephenson.” He had a loud, jolly voice that bore confidence and a commanding nature.

“Sure it is, sure it is. You say that to all your patients?”

“Just the ones I like.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You’re drinking again, I see.”

The man looked down at his bottle of whiskey. “Not much else to do out here.”

“And how’s the cat?”

“It died,” replied the man. “But that was a few months ago. Seems you forgot about me, Doc.”

From inside the viewscreen, the doctor was swiping at his own monitor, thick fingers brushing against the surface. “Yes, yes, of course,” he boomed. “Apologies, apologies. Hypothermia. Your systems were down.”

“Either that or I killed it, Doc.” The man took another swig from the bottle.

“Shall we get you another one? How about a dog? Although I see here you requested –”

“Forget it, Doc. Quite happy out here all alone.”

“Yes, yes, I see.” The doctor was still reading from his side of the screen, frowning, his eyes flicking to and fro. “A priority eight I’ve got you as.”

“And what’s priority one? Insanity?”

“Now, now, Stephenson, no need for that. As it happens,” said the doctor, suddenly looking straight and smiling, “we have a new device. And I see from your file that you’re a perfect match.” He smiled again.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the doctor. His eyes moved slightly away once more. “Says here you’re in complete fitness. No family records of mental health problems. No tragedies. You’ve been stationed there for eight months as I remember?”

“And you’re giving me a ticket home?”

The doctor laughed loudly. “According to my records you’re doing just fine,” he said. “They’re happy with your work.”

The man tapped at the desk, fingers dancing around the base of the whiskey bottle. “Sure, I get it, Doc. I’m indispensable.”

The doctor gave a broad smile. “Some questions, though, first. Just a formality, you understand? You know the routine.”

The man leaned back in his chair.

“Right, then, so … How about we begin with your name?”

“Stephenson,” the man coughed. “Hal Stephenson.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“And your occupation?”

“You mean out here?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Doc. What can I say? I’m a smut. A pleb. I take photographs and send ’em back to the labs. Anyone could do it.”

“Qualifications?”

The man raised his fingers, folding each one down in turn.

“Pilot’s license, survival training, crash course in botany, another crash course in using the 6D camera …”

“And you studied photography, I see. At NCU.”

“Not much in the way of photography out here. Seen one rock formation, seen ’em all. Bleak,” the man murmured. “Snow, white, nothing.” Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the whiskey bottle. “Exploration, they told me. Adventure. And there was I, thinking what a bang-up time of it I’d have.”

“I see, I see.” The doctor clicked at the screen. “And family? You have a sister, she’s a teacher in the Vancouver school of art. And your parents –”

“What is this, Doc? You gonna read me my biography?”

“Not at all, not at all. Just assessing your awareness.” The doctor looked forward, eyes so close to the man. “And what is the purpose of your posting may I ask?”

“Purpose?”

“Yes, purpose. Your function?”

“Make me sound like a robot.”

“Come now, Stephenson. You know you’re depended upon.”

Leaning forward, the man spoke slowly, enunciating his words. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the whiskey had brought more color to his face. His cheeks had flushed and the line of spots bore more distinction. The redness of his lips though had dulled somewhat. “I take the pictures,” he said. “And I send ’em to the labs. No need for a scientist. The 6D camera records all that they want. Visual, atomic makeup, even the smell, so I’m told.”

“And it’s your job to pass that information along?”

“It’s why they sent me. Give it to Stephenson, it’s all he’s good for.”

The doctor smiled reassuringly. “Perfectly normal for you to feel the way you do.”

“And how’s that, Doc? Either fly over a box of pills or get me the hell out of here.”

“No, no, not pills,” the doctor answered. Confidently he picked something up from his side of the screen. It looked like a simple headset – along the headband were was a line of small blue lights, pulsing away, and the earpieces were made of some kind of crystal. “This,” he smiled, “is a zero energy neurostimulater. And quite safe, I assure you. This is no electroshock gadget.” He blinked. “The latest technology. Quite safe …”

The man furrowed his brow.

“What’s it do, play music?”

“No, no. It’s a simple neurostimulator. But not a drug. It’s all quite natural.”

The man leaned forward, gazing at the device. “Zero energy neurostimulator …” He laughed dryly. “Z-E-N,” he spoke, and laughed again. “So what, Doc? This thing gonna turn me into a Taoist?”

Ignoring the man’s comment, the doctor continued: “The device works by stimulating within you a positive, mindful awareness; brings you to the here and now by focusing on a specific area around the frontal cortex using a magnetic field …” Taking in the man’s expression, the doctor changed tact. “Okay,” he said, “Let me put it this way. It works the same as a drug, but it’s a hundred percent safe. No side effects …”

“And it’s been tested?”

“Stephenson, you’re a very lucky individual. This is up to the minute design. The very latest.” The doctor turned over the device in his hand. “And the beauty of it is that it won’t have to be flown over at all. Totally synthetic. Your 3D printer –”

“New technology, you say?”

“Quite. Absolutely. Of course I’ll need your official consent …”

The man shifted in his chair. Huffing and hesitant, he appeared torn.

“Okay, you got me, Doc.”

Leaning forward, the man pressed a forefinger to the monitor. As his fingerprint was scanned, he took in the doctor’s appreciation.

“You won’t regret this.”

“Sure, sure. Here I am, the guinea pig.” The man huffed again. “Zen,” he sighed. “Give it some time and I’ll be painting this cabin floral.”

/

In the kitchen area the man was sat on the floor eating processed meat from a vacuum pack. The whiskey bottle was beside him, almost empty, and he was mumbling to himself, intoxicated.

“The here and now …” Eyes unfocused, the man shoved more of the meat into his mouth. “What the hell around here is there to appreciate?”

Rising unsteadily the man walked over to the 3D printer and picking up the new device, he looked at it briefly before carrying it over to his satchel and shoving it into the inside pocket.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he slurred as he went back into the kitchen area. Retrieving the whiskey bottle from the floor, he drained the remaining contents before throwing that and the empty sachet into a disposer. Opening the cupboard, he took out another bottle and walked over to the monitor. “Goddamn reality, last thing I need.”

The screen flashed to life and there was the collection of pulsing red boxes. Swiping away the first few, the man settle on a box that read GFAPP.

The man looked up at the ceiling.

“A little privacy here?”

He took another swig at the bottle then pressed at the screen.

The face of a woman appeared. She had pure white skin and large purple eyes. Her hair was long and florescent. “Why hello there,” she spoke in a synthetic twang. She was not quite real, almost cartoon-like, though her smile bore warmth and her stare showed understanding. “And how was your day?” she asked.

“The best,” replied the man, his tone of voice thick with cynicism.

The woman pursed her lips and frowned theatrically. Florescent hair danced around pale bare shoulders. “My poor baby. Do you require cheering up?”

The man took another hit from the bottle.

“Obviously.”

The woman clapped her hands in appreciation.

“Okay then, baby. Your wish is my command.”

/

Outside, the man wiped at the camera. He was shaking with cold, the blizzard had gotten worse, but, “Orders are orders,” he was muttering. “More from section twenty-two beta.” He raised the camera and began taking pictures of the rock he was set against, clearing away the snow surrounding the dull green moss.

“Find this interesting?”

The man clicked again at the camera.

“More samples? I’ll give you a bloody thousand.”

Rolling back against the rock, the man gazed up at the distant sun. He pulled back the left sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch.

“Every twenty minutes for the next eight hours … like anything ever changes round here.”

The man looked back at the moss, then again at his watch. He sniffed heavily, then spat at the snowy ground. Mists of snowflakes blew angrily around him and the wind continued to howl.

Closing his eyes, the man began to hum a tune, a soft melody that juxtaposed with the raging torrent. He seemed to be thinking of another time, another place: thinking of home, of what had come before; anything but this devastating present.

The man looked down at his satchel.

“What the hell. May as well give this thing a try.”

Pulling out the headset-like device, the man mumbled something about Zen, laughing to himself, shivering. He pulled off his snow hat and attached the device firmly, pressing the ear-pieces to his lobes.

/

The man blinked, unable at first to fully accept the sheer whooshof comprehension. The blizzard and snow and he within it, a part of it. The snow – he’d never noticed how beautiful it was. How beautifully formed.Slowly he reached for his camera and began taking photographs.

/

The man had a glass of steaming hot water beside him. Taking a sip, he looked at the doctor, meeting his expression with that of knowing sympathy.

“At first it was simply eye-opening. A total awareness and appreciation.” The man itched at the spots on his face. “But then it became so much more.”

“Go on,” murmured the doctor.

“Yes, yes.” The man leaned forward. “Because right next to me was the camera. The 6D. And I began tounderstand.”

The doctor frowned.

“Understand what exactly?”

“Atoms.” The man itched at his spots again. “The smallest units of ordinary matter, bonded together, associating … you see, Doc, atoms is all we are; all we’ve ever been.”

“Atoms.”

“Yes, atoms!” said the man. He took another sip of water. “The snow, us, the door. My God, the door!” he laughed.

“What door? What are you talking about?”

“The door to this cabin. I tell you, Doc, it always freezes up and I’ve hated that door ever since … but you know what? That door and I, we’re one and the same.”

“Stephenson …”

“Atoms,” continued the man, again with hushed simplicity. His eyes were wide, crinkled and smiling. “One and the same.”

“Yes, yes, atoms! You said that before.” The doctor was looking more and more troubled. “But what does that have to do with –”

“How could I have not …? How can you –”

“Stephenson!” The doctor spoke tensely, lowering his voice. “Stephenson, I want you to listen to me carefully here. Take off the stimulator. You’re having a bad reaction. Something unforeseeable.”

“I realized, you see, that for all these months. Taking those photographs. You know this is one hell of a device, Doc.”

The doctor looked across firmly.

“The neurostimulator?”

“No, not the … not the Zen. The camera! The 6D!” Reaching to his right, the man took up the bulky camera. He held it to the screen. “This, my good doctor –”

“Stephenson, you need to get a hold of yourself!”

“Because on the surface,” the man continued, ignoring the doctor’s protests, “on the surface they’re just pictures. Two dimensional. But the detail can be accessed right down to the atomic level. Atomic level! Records it all!” The man smiled as though remembering an old joke. He held up a hand to his face. “For so long it was right in front of me. All this time …”

“Stephenson! Listen to me!” The doctor was now on the verge of a full blown panic. “Look at me, Stephenson! Look at me and for a goddamn minute try to appreciate what I’m saying! It is vitally important that you remove the ZEN! Take it off right now!”

/

The blizzard had finally stopped and as far as the eye could see there was a calming panorama of white. Wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, the tiny figure of a man was wandering about in the snow.

“It’s all connected!”

Across the man’s scalp, the ZEN continued to pulse steadily.

The man lay down on the ground and began moving his legs and arms apart; together, then apart again. He was making snow angels.

“We’re going to live forever!”

Shouting up at the sky, the man’s voice had become strained. His face was turning blue.

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.He has released two sci-fi novels,one collection of short storiesand a few other scribblings.You can find his amazon page  here. 

Interview with D. R. Schoel

Interview with Dana Schoel (D. R. Schoel)

And Xstersiisterpeeze 

Q . So tell us about The Galactic Culinary Society . So far, you’ve released three in the series, and all this year.

DRS: I actually started the first story about three years ago, just for fun, for myself. My day job’s in film and TV (as a screenwriter and editor) … and when the pandemic hit and production was temporarily halted on the show I was working on, I decided to more seriously pursue publishing the Galactic Culinary Society stories. I held back on publishing until I had a few stories ready, so the wait between them wouldn’t be too long.

Xstersi, the alien (who looks like a little squid): Hiya, mind if I join? Anyhow, I’m here. What’s going on? Mmm, uh-huh (reading above) … just three stories so far? What a slow poke! That’s like… uh … three divided by three… uh… one a year? Have you checked what REAL writers are doing on Amazon?! You should have like twenty by now!

DRS: Well, I still have my regular job.

Xstersi: Uh huh. Sure. If you say so.

Q . Okay, then. (And welcome to the interview Xstersi. You can stay as long as you behave!) So, Dana, where did the idea come from? Do you cook yourself, or are you more of an enthusiastic food critic?

DRS: I’ve long wanted to write something about food in space: it seemed like a fun idea with potential. Food’s always been important in my family – something we talk about. I cook myself, but I’m nothing like a pro. That would be my brother, who owned a gourmet restaurant in Texas, and he also does some catering jobs on the side. He’s the Master Chef. I’m more into exploring the ‘culture’ of food. I travel a lot, having been to China many times (my wife is Chinese) and through my documentary TV shows, I’ve travelled to the Arctic and worked with Inuit. I learn a lot about other people when we eat together, plus I like to try new things. What we eat is the basis for our very survival, on a daily basis, though we don’t think much about it. So, I found it could be an interesting way to explore different topics, in the tradition of Sci-Fi that examines social issues and ideas –

Xstersi: Oh, what a load of hogwash! Don’t put me to sleep! The truth is, he gets the stories from me! But then he changes it, so instead of it being all about me who saves the day, there’s this annoying Jeane Oberon female person. What the heck?!

Q . Ha, ha. So Dana, I think I’m right in saying that this is your first sci-fi project, although you’ve been a fan of the genre for a long time?

DRS: That’s right. I grew up on Asimov and Heinlein. Working in film and TV, I’ve never had the budget to do something proper in science fiction. Writing these stories has been very liberating. Plus, I don’t have to worry about production costs.

Xstersi: Yeah, ’cause ideas are cheap. You expect someone to give you a hundred million bucks to make a movie about space food?

Q . Well, you never know! So in the trilogy so far there are a lot of different aliens, planets, worlds and cultures. Have you mapped it all out in note form, or do you simply create as you write?

DRS: The sci fi universe I use for my setting is something I first started when I was 13; that’s over thirty years ago. So, I have lots of notes and things.

Xstersi: What’re you yammering about? It’s all real!

Q . Mmm … Of all the aliens you’ve created, do you have a favourite?

Xstersi: That would be me! Me, me! Right? It’s me? It’s me, isn’t it? … Is it me?

DRS: No comment.

Q . There is an element of comedy in the series. Do you try things out on people first, test the humour?

DRS: Some of the characters just seem to take over and have a life of their own –

Xstersi: Like now?

DRS: – and my process is that if I laugh and then, when I read it back later, I laugh again, it’ll stay in.

Xstersi: So, you’re gonna cut this?

DRS: I also have readers who review the story, including my brother, but so far no one’s commented on removing a joke.

Xstersi: I’d remove this bit.

Q . The three books so far are all of novelette length and I wanted to ask, do you think there’s a future in this type of book? (I know from the last time I was in Japan that over there, books are often divided into bite-sized chunks for reading on the commute, etc.)

DRS: When I first started, I was thinking of publishing in magazines, but the stories kept getting longer than a typical magazine short story.

Xstersi: Translation: he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

DRS: As of now, the stories are available only as ebooks. It’s a good way to get feedback directly from readers. When a complete stranger says they like it, that’s encouraging. My plan is to collect them into a print book later on.

Xstersi: When will that be?

DRS: So far, there are the three novellas. I’ve ideas for a few more stories I’d like to include… wait, who’s asking the questions here?

Q . No problem, no problem. What can you tell us about 3 rd Wheel Press?

DRS: It’s an offshoot of my production company, 3RdWheel Films. I run it with my wife. We publish some other books, including a book of Chinese poetry we’re working on now.

Xstersi: Zzzz

Q . The covers were all created by the artist Josh Newton . Did you work together on the designs?

DRS: I had a pretty firm idea of how I wanted the covers to look. I scoured the internet for someone who’s aesthetic seemed to embody that (on websites like ArtStation). Josh used to work for Disney. Fortunately, he got my vision and was really into it. We worked closely on the designs. He’d send me mock-ups and illustrations that I’d comment on. I think his art is just fantastic.

Q . Agreed. So as well as being the author of these books, you’re a filmmaker too and quite a successful one. How do the creative processes differ?

Xstersi: Successful? As in making money, that kind of successful? Has the interviewer done any research?

DRS: Film is obviously a collaborative process, a team effort, where producers and other people contribute –

Xstersi: – you mean, interfere, muddle with, and totally wreck whatever pathetic idea you’re working on?

DRS: With film writing, I’ll often get well paid for something that never gets produced, and only a few people will have read it, at the end of the day. Even if I earn less from my Sci-Fi, it’s great when it actually reaches people.

Xstersi: People read your stuff? Uh huh. At least the ebooks don’t waste paper.

Q . Okay, Xstersi. Be nice! So Dana, I’m interested in your work with documenting Inuit culture. However, since this is a sci-fi blog, maybe I should stay on topic – but now the question suddenly arises: In Inuit culture are there any science fiction type myths or legends?

DRS: There was this Czech guy, Jan Welzl, who lived among the Inuit in the 1920s and wrote fabulous stories about Inuit coming from Mars. I’d like to write about him someday. More to the point, I’ve worked with Inuit for over twenty years and the next Galactic Culinary Society story, which I’m working on now, is heavily influenced by those experiences… in particular, their hunting culture. So, Jeane Oberon’s next mission will involve that.

Xstersi: Spoiler alert!

DRS: I’m also creating another Chef Hunter who Jeane will have to compete with, a sort of Kahn to her Captain Kirk. Someone who’s her equal, or even more so. I feel she hasn’t had a proper opponent -

Xstersi: Wha-? What about me?

DRS: - someone who can really defeat her. Someone, who’s her equal in intelligence.

Xstersi: Ok, now you’re just getting insulting. I’m outta here.

Q . Okay, and as a final question, do you have any more sci-fi projects to come? Can we expect more adventures from Jeane Oberon in her work for the Galactic Culinary Society? And how about for Xstersi?

DRS: I have three more stories planned, at least for the first book or print collection: the one I mentioned above, then a final story involving Xstersi’s kidnapping (he’s not here anymore, is he? I wouldn’t want him to hear about that), as well as a prequel story which will establish Jeane’s background a little more. I’ve really enjoyed writing about the Galactic Culinary Society, so we’ll see where it goes from there.

Thanks very much for the interview, Dana (and Xstersi!)

Check out more from The Galactic Culinary Society here

Dana's facebook page is here

You can c onnect with him on twitter here

And on Goodreads here

Art - Jim Burns

Art - Jim Burns 

Pelquin's Comet

Save Our Souls

Ten Minutes on Mars

The Mars Quartet

Transmission

For an interview with Jim Burns click here

You can check out his website here

And his wikipedia page here

Review - Barbarians of the Beyond by Matthew Hughes

Review - Barbarians of the Beyond by Matthew Hughes

Twenty years ago, five master criminals known as the Demon Princes raided Mount Pleasant to enslave thousands of inhabitants in the lawless Beyond. Now Morwen Sabine, a daughter of captives, has escaped her cruel master and returns to Mount Pleasant to recover the hidden treasure she hopes will buy her parents’ freedom.

But Mount Pleasant has changed. Morwen must cope with mystic cultists, murderous drug-smugglers, undercover “weasels” of the Interplanetary Police Coordinating Company, and the henchmen of the vicious pirate lord who owns her parents and wants Morwen returned. So he can kill her slowly…

If you are a fan of Jack Vance you will find plenty here to recognise as Hughes cleverly uses the stories of the Demon Princes saga to create a brand new addition to Vance’s world. However, if you are not familiar with those books, then do not be put off because this tidy little novel works just as well as a stand alone.

Our hero is the escaped slave, Morwen Sabine, once under the thumb of the notorious master criminal and space pirate Hacheem Belloch. The book begins with her re-entering a planet she has not set foot on since childhood, and we see it all through her eyes as the world of Jack Vance begins to form in a fresh perspective mirrored by her own.

Some years have passed since Morwen and her parents were taken from Mount Pleasant. Place names have changed, there are new laws and politics. Morwen arrives as a stranger in a strange land, unfamiliar to the locals and possibly in danger because Mount Pleasant has become a town where strangers are not taken kindly to. But Morwen has her own agenda, one that requires patience. First she needs to re-familiarise herself with Mount Pleasant and gain the people’s trust – and in this biding of her time there is a clever balance between tension and homely comfort as the reader follows her through the paces, living alongside her in this sci-fi world of space politics and local laws.

This book may not push quite so many buttons in terms of excitement and action – it is all there, but in each case things tend to get resolved rather quickly – but the tightly written prose is very commendable, there is no dwelling on backstory and the pace is fairly fast.

If you are after something light and easy to read, then this could be just the thing for you. It is suitable for all ages and you do not have to be familiar with Jack Vance to enjoy it – if you are a fan of Vance however, and have finished the Demon Prince series, then look no further for a highly respectable sequel.