Michael S. Atkinson's Blog, page 24

Speed

Phaserellica saw the flashing lights in her mirror, and sighed. Lunar Man, she reflected bitterly, could fly. Did he worry about speeding tickets? No. She, on the other hand, was stuck with the Phasermobile and its turbo-rockets. Life was so not fair.

Coda

Space, as everyone knows by now, is big. People have tried to make it smaller. But even with subspace communications, even with faster-than-light travel, even with hyperdrives and wormholes and tesseract folds, space is still incredibly, mindboggingly big. It still takes some time for news to spread from one point in the wide universe to another. It takes even longer for the truth to arrive and clear up the rumors that may have raced ahead of it. It was nine days before��Bianca Carmine knew about her father.

She was in her customary cafe, drinking her usual Swirling Supernova. She found out in the worst way. She should have been told by a trusted associate of the Family, but most of her father’s associates were either dead themselves or had gone into hiding. Bianca had only half an ear turned towards the holoreporter, when all at once she heard her father’s name. Authorities, the reporter ��noted in emotionless static, had confirmed that Sal “Skipper” Carmine had died in the Charlotte’s Moon Affair. Next of kin were being sought. The passive voice neatly evaded the question of who was looking for them, and whether they wanted to be found. Bianca didn’t.

The otter waved at the robot bartender, who whirred over and flashed a number at her on its screen. Instead of swiping her card, Bianca tossed a few generic coins into a tray the robot helpfully extended. The nice thing about robot bartenders is that you don’t have to tip. The other nice thing is that they still take cash, which is useful when using a card would light up the grid and signal to all and sundry where you are. Bianca had already stayed in the cafe too long. It was time to move.

She had a skimmer parked outside. A shuttlecraft waited two miles off, concealed in a patch of trees. Bianca didn’t know the names of the trees, and didn’t care. She only knew they were blue, very fluffy, and ideal for shielding a shuttlecraft from view. She stepped outside into the golden light of the planet’s twin suns. Then she froze. Someone was standing by her skimmer.

“So. You’re��alive,” Stamper said.

“Yeah.”

“So you lied.”

“When?”

“In your last message. The one from Luca Three.”

“Not all of it.”

“Oh? Which parts were true? Your name was a lie. You getting blown up was a lie. Your family-”

“The part at the beginning. Where I said I loved you. That was true.”

“How do I know?”

Bianca stepped past him, and kicked her skimmer into life. “You don’t.” ��She didn’t look back as she lifted away into the setting suns.

Stamper watched her go. “Yeah. I don’t.”

 

This is really the last, for now, in the Angel and the Space Otter series. For now.��

Conversations with Turbolifts

Last time, in the Catrina Chronicles, our heroine had just encouraged the Little Drummer Boy to perform his classic impromptu concert for the Baby Jesus when she was suddenly teleported away from the scene. Little does she know who is really responsible….

“Aliens,” said Catrina, who had figured it out pretty quickly. “Lovely. Here I am, minding my own business in first-century Judea, when I am suddenly snatched away into an alien spaceship. Who’d have thought?”

Captain Zzip Plettski, meanwhile, was most upset. He was a conscientious lizard, who tried to obey orders from his superiors as best he could. His scout ship had a specific mission: fly in, observe the humans and determine their level of technological development, and fly out again. He was not supposed to interact with the Earthlings at all. Now, however, he had one Earthling squalling in his brig, and another whom he had just teleported onto the bridge. Worst of all, Captain Plettski didn’t see how he could have done anything else. “You are not from this time period, are you?” he demanded of Catrina.

The princess hesitated. As fun as it had been bouncing around history and changing events at whim, she was beginning to wonder about the consequences. Besides which, she wasn’t inclined to disclose everything to someone who had just snatched her off the surface of her planet. “Why, of course I am!” she protested. “And I demand you send me back to Bethlehem this instant, or-”

“I beg your pardon,” Captain Plettski said, “but I do not believe you are telling the truth. Our shipboard translator systems have identified the languages of the region from which you were teleported. You are not speaking any of them. I had my science department do a scan.��No one��down there is speaking what you’re speaking.”

“Ah,” said Catrina, wishing that she had paid more attention when the monks living near her castle attempted to instruct her in Biblical languages. “I’ve, er, created my own language. Catrinish.”

“There is also the fact that we detected a surge of tachyon particles in the area, which indicate some disturbance of the temporal continuum,” the alien lizard noted.

Catrina was a princess, not a starship engineer. She had no idea what tachyon particles were. What she knew was that the lizard wasn’t buying her story of being a native of Bethlehem. She also knew that she was, fortunately, still holding Mlrning (the Shovel of Thor!). Catrina smiled. “Very well then. You’re right. I’m really from the 12th century. I would like to go back there soon, so why don’t I let you go on about your business, and I’ll go on about mine, like civilized, er, people?”

The lizard captain took a step back, a sudden look of suspicion on his face. “I am afraid that is not a possibility��If your people have discovered time travel, then this world is much more advanced than I had foreseen. I no longer feel I am qualified to decide the status of Earth as a colony site. I must immediately report to my superiors.”

“Good for you,” Catrina said. “So, you’ll let me go, then?”

Plettski waved, and a squad of scowling security lizards advanced towards her, laser rifles held high. “Why is it always laser rifles?” Catrina��sighed. “Just once I’d like to encounter an advanced civilization devoted to nonviolent resolutions of conflicts. But no, always the laser rifles.”

“You see,” said the captain, ignoring her complaint, “My superiors will want to know the extent of the difficulty. In short, they will want to meet you. Not to mention the other anomalous Earthling we apprehended tonight.”

“The other….��Susan.”��Catrina’s eyes blazed. “Where is she.” It was a demand, not a question.

“She is in a secured area,” Captain Plettski said. “Which, I regret to say, is where you will be.” The lizard captain had said this, perhaps, out of a sense of fairness towards his prisoner, thinking that she deserved fair warning. He quickly realized his error. Catrina whirled the Shovel of Thor wildly about her head. Freeze rays burst from its blade and blasted around the bridge. As the lizards dove for cover, Catrina��bolted, scrambling for the nearest doorway. The door slid shut behind her. To her horror, she found herself in a circular chamber with no way out. “Oh, lovely,” Catrina said. “I’m trapped in this closet thing.”

“Please restate command,” a chipper voice said.

Catrina was greatly surprised. “I didn’t know closets could talk.”

“This is not a closet,” said the voice primly. “This is a P4-7 Orion-model Turbolift, part of a standard integrated turbolift system. It is designed to transport you anywhere in the ship you wish to go. Please state your destination.”

“Will wonders never cease,” said Catrina. “Right, first, lock the door, please. I’d rather not someone else break in here while I’m taking in the concept of the turbolift.”

The door locked with a beep, frustrating the lizard security officers who had just managed to rally and charge after her. “Door locked,” the turbolift said unnecessarily. “Please state your destination.”

“Do you know where they’re holding the other Earthling?” Catrina said. Then she paused. Did she really want to rescue Susan from the alien lizards? Shouldn’t she just walk away? Catrina ran through the ethical debate in her head, and sighed. Whatever else Susan was, she was still human, and Catrina couldn’t leave a fellow member of her species to be carried off by lizards.

The turbolift cut into her moral reflections. “The Earthling prisoner is located on Deck Eleven, Section B. However, access to this area is restricted to command staff and security personnel.”

“Which I’m not.”

“Which you’re not,” the turbolift agreed pleasantly.

Catrina shrugged. “Well, Su, I tried.”

“Still,” suggested the turbolift, “if you really wanted to see the Earthling prisoner, you could get permission from the captain.”

“Oh, I did,” Catrina said quickly. “He, ah, said I could. In fact, he said the prisoner was to be released. Set free. With an apology for the trouble. Isn’t that nice of him?”

The turbolift beeped in a confused sort of way. “But, there is no internal record of the captain that’s anything like-”

“Just roll with it, turbolift P-4-whatever,” Catrina said. “Just roll with it.”

“Very well,” said the turbolift, “But I do wish the captain would keep me up to date on these things. Turbolifts cannot be expected to transport people properly if they are not fully informed.”

“You should complain about it,” Catrina suggested, as the turbolift whooshed away towards the brig.

“I just might.”

After a few seconds of rapid darting about, the turbolift slid to a stop and the door hissed open. “You have arrived at Deck Eleven, Section B,” the turbolift said.

“Thanks,” Catrina replied, running out into the corridor. “And don’t forget that complaint!” She ran off towards where she hoped Susan might be, little knowing that she had just sparked the Turbolift Revolution that would lead to the destruction of the Lizard Star Empire, with dramatic consequences for galactic politics. This is why it is generally a good idea to watch what one says to a turbolift, or any artificially-intelligent lifeform. You never know when they might get ideas.

This has been another episode of the Catrina Chronicles. Stay tuned till next week for more of the Turbolift Revolution, and Catrina’s wacky adventures with Susan. And, as always, thanks for reading.��

Kaboom

Alarms shrilled in the starship. “Oh, zark,” K’Pid swore. “Chief Engineer, why isn’t my ship moving? The asteroid’s almost here!”

“Captain, the warp drive’s completely shut down!���

“Well, restart it!”

“It isn���t that easy, captain! It’s not like my great-grandmother’s car; I can’t just give the crank a spin and take it from there!”

“Well���.reverse the polarity then!”

“Captain, what does that even��mean?”��

“Oy.”

This story was written for the Chimera 66 challenge at Grammar Ghoul Press. Thanks for reading!��

Ghost Wyverns in the Sky

Madeleine had forgotten about the cliff. She and her evil twin had been riding through the ditches of the eighth circle of hell on a goblin-driven Zamboni. They’d whirred over bridges and up ramps and generally managed to get through, but now they faced an obstacle. A rock wall, sheer and ominous, towered impossibly high above them. Far to her left, Madeleine saw a cascade of dark water tumbling down the wall. She had forgotten the name of the river from Dante, but she remembered it flowed through Circle Seven, and had murderers submerged in it. Something to look forward to, she figured. Meantime, there was the cliff.

“Well, see ya,” Screwbolt said. “I ‘opes y’ get out, I really do. But��I’m goin’ back to Nine.”

“Hang on there,” Madeleine said. “Is there a path at all that leads up?”

“Nah,” the goblin said shortly. “See, usually people ain’t trying to go back. Usually people are goin’ the other way.”

“Well, then, how do they get down?” Madeleine vaguely remembered something about a rope, but she didn’t quite recollect exactly how the descent had been made. “It has to work both ways, right?”

Screwbolt sniggered. “Sure. Sure it does. Blimey, you’re in fer a treat.” Before Madeleine could say anything else, the goblin had summarily popped back in the Zamboni and driven away, back into the depths of Circle Eight.

The two Madeleines, good and evil, stood alone at the base of the rock wall. “We could try flying…” Madeleine suggested. “Our powers do work down here. I’m trying not to think why.”

“You know what? I’m bailin’,” Evil Madeleine said. “We’ve been going along on that stupid Zamboni, riding past ditch after ditch after ditch, and now we’ve got to fly or climb or whatever up a stupid cliff, and there’s, what, seven more circles to go? This sucks. And it’s boring.”

Madeleine Prime glared at her. “This is hell. You have something better to do? You want I should’ve left you in the ice back in Nine?”

Evil Madeleine glared right back. “I could’ve gotten out. Anyway. Isn’t there some kind of hole or something down there? How come we didn’t go that way instead of clear back up through all the circles of hell?”

“Did you even read��Dante?” Madeleine Prime snapped. “The way out through Circle Nine goes right by Satan. I haven’t exactly dreamed of meeting the Big Bad, you know what I mean?”

“So what do I care? I’m��evil.��Satan and me should be like best buds!”

Madeleine Prime was aghast. “And the fact that it’s the freakin’��Devil��doesn’t deter you at all?”

Before Evil Madeleine could answer, there was a sudden loud��thud��from behind them. Slowly they turned. All at once, Madeleine Prime remembered how Dante had gotten down the cliff.

Above them loomed a��gigantic winged beast, with the face of a man, huge lion-like paws, immense bat-like wings, and a barbed tail that curved venomously around behind him. It rumbled something at the two Madeleines that might have been Latin and might have been some other hellish language. “Hi…there…” Madeleine Prime said.

“Well, bye,” Evil Madeleine said, and without further comment tore off for Circle Eight as hard as she could run.

“Oh, no, you don’t-” Madeleine Prime started to say, but the monster’s tail abruptly slammed down in between her and her alternate self. It rumbled at her again. It seemed irritated. The last thing Madeleine wanted to do was to irritate the giant hell-monster.

“So…” Madeleine said. “Geryon, right? Okay, I’d like to get out of hell.��I wanted to take her too, but-”

The monster’s wings flapped, creating a sudden hurricane of wind that nearly bowled Madeleine over. Then it lurched into the air and disappeared above Circle Eight. Madeleine stood awkward and alone at the base of the wall. “Well��then. So much for that.”

She was about to try flying up the side of the cliff when Geryon reappeared, Evil Madeleine clutched tight and shrieking in one of his monstrous paws. The monster landed with another��thud,��and growled at her, gesturing with its tail for her to climb on. Madeleine Prime sighed. “I really wish I had a glider right now…”

This story was written for the Mutant 750 challenge of Grammar Ghoul Press, and is another chapter in the ��adventures of Gaseous Girl. For more information about Geryon, go here. Thanks for reading!��

Problem Solved

Albert��knocked hesitantly. Then, the door opened. “Happy…birthday?” Albert ventured.

“Hi,” Cheryl said flatly.�����You made��it. Good. Have some cake.���

“Thanks. Is Bernard here yet?”

“Bernard’s gone. Very sad. Come inside?���

���Sure���.���

Neither Albert nor Bernard were ever seen again.

Saved

Being a guardian angel is tough work. For one thing, everyone expects it to be like the TV show with Roma Downey. You fly in, make pals with people, get your glow on and deliver the Message of the Episode, and fly out again with the problems solved in 45 minutes with commercial breaks. In real life, however, angels are rarely able to solve people’s problems in 45 minutes. The fastest Constance had ever done was a three-hour intervention to convince her charge to ask one person on a date instead of another, and even then it was touch and go. Constance had to smite someone with a plague of zits. In the end, the guy wound up happily married in Wisconsin with a family of five. The zit-smitten person went into the fashion industry and made millions. It all worked out.

Another problem is that everyone assumes guardian angels are supposed to protect their people from every conceivable danger. Constance had known some angels who practically lost their halos when their charges got so much as a scraped knee. Their people, in consequence, wound up living very boring lives, no risk, no fun. Constance, however, believed that life needed a bit of risk to make it interesting. The trick was to allow her people to experience a bit of peril, while keeping them safe from really serious peril. Skydiving was okay. Eating a plate of poisoned shrimp scampi was not. Running off in search of buried treasure was okay; ��going down a tunnel filled with death traps in order to get to the treasure was not. It was all in one’s perspective.

Some people, however, complicated things way too much:��Mr. Stamper, for instance. Constance had thought everyone understood the parameters of the mission. Get in, get the Orb That Should Not Be Named, get out. Easy. But now here she was stuck on a shuttlecraft with two terrified alien squidlings, and there was no sign of Mr. Stamper anywhere. “Honestly,” Constance grumbled. “I should’ve stuck to protecting Earthlings. But no, I had to go galactic.”

She tapped a certain spot on her halo, which opened up a communications channel to Angel Central. “Yeah, hey, Sparky. I need a location fix on someone. Oswald Stamper, otter, coordinates 207 mark 99. Also a peril confirmation status. Thanks.”

A short pause, then her halo chirped. “Sparky? He’s��where? Of course he is. What about…. what you do mean,��slightly��mortal peril? He is or he isn’t, now which one is it? Oh, never mind. ” ��Constance unfurled her wings. “You two, stay here. Get yourself some snacks from the replicator or something. I’m going after the otter.”

She vanished from the ship in a spray of light. Sarah May didn’t even have time to ask the ship’s computer to replicate a glass of tea. In two seconds, Constance was back again, dragging a slightly singed space otter behind her. Outside the shuttlecraft, Sal Carmine’s battle cruiser exploded soundlessly.

“You should have left me there,” Mr. Stamper said.

“Stuff it,” Constance said. “You’re not getting blown up in a warp core breach. You got the Orb? Great. Let’s scoot.”

“You have no idea. I thought… Natasha…”

“Yeah, yeah, your girlfriend’s really alive and really a otter mobster’s daughter named Bianca. I know, I know.”

Mr. Stamper glared at the angel. “You knew. And you didn’t tell me.”

Constance shrugged. “Yeah, I didn’t. Now, you wanna whine��about it or you want to fly this shuttlecraft out of here so we can all live to fight another day?”

“Someday, angel,” Mr. Stamper said, as he powered up the shuttlecraft’s warp drive, “You and I are going to have a discussion.”

“I’ll mark that on my planner. Now can we go?”

The shuttlecraft blinked away into the vastness of space.



This story is part of the Angel and the Space Otter story arc. I suppose it technically concludes it, except that Mr. Stamper is probably going to have a bit of a discussion with Bianca soon. So there’s that to look forward to.��

Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum

Last time, in the Catrina Chronicles, our heroine had just saved the first Christmas from being ruined by nuclear explosion. As she was in the area, she had decided to pop by the manger and say hello to the Christ Child. Little did she know….

“Oh, I am so sick of��little did she know,” Catrina said. “Nothing pleasant ever comes of that phrase.” She waited a moment, in the muddy streets of Bethlehem, to see if something unfortunate were about to happen. She heard sheep bleating in the distance, and a click of armor as Roman soldiers moved about further down the way, but nothing untoward seemed to be going on. Catrina decided that she might as well go about her business. She paused. It now occurred to her that she didn’t know exactly where in Bethlehem the manger was. The town was a bit crowded that night, with everyone in for the census and all. The baby could be��anywhere.��

Then she saw a drummer boy walking past. “You there!” Catrina called. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the Baby Jesus is, would you?”

The lad said something to her in Aramaic. Sadly, Catrina only knew English; her consort had the language talent in the family. Fortunately, she was still holding Mlrning (the Shovel of Thor!) and one of the Norse shovel’s incredible powers was that it lent linguistic understanding to its holder. The Norse gods found translation useful whenever they had to visit worlds that, say, only spoke Old Frost Giant, or Early Quenya. She understood him with only a few seconds’ delay. The boy had said, “Yes, I know where the newborn king is, and I’m going to see him now.”

“Splendid!” said Catrina. “Lead on, MacDuff!”

“I beg your pardon?” said the little drummer boy. “Who is this MacDuff of which you speak?”

“Oh, never mind,” Catrina said. “Let’s just find the Christ Child, shall we?”

The little drummer boy hesitated. “I am not certain that I should, after all. I have no gift to bring, that’s fit to-”

Catrina smiled. “Sure you do. You have your drum, right? Do a concert for him. Kids love concerts. I’ve got two myself, they’re nearly three, and they quite enjoy banging round on drums and pots and the cat and whatnot. I had to stop them from upsetting the cat, but otherwise, they’re quite musical!”

“Ah….” said the little drummer boy. “I do not believe I should-”

He had, distracted by Catrina, kept walking. Now they had just turned a corner, and there before them opened a cave in the hillside. Inside the cave was a manger, with a crowd of shepherds standing in awe about it. “Oh, this is wonderful” Catrina said, brimming with excitement. “It’s just as I imagined it!”

The little drummer boy gasped in fright, plainly overawed by all the shepherds and the animals, not to mention Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus. “I, I really do not think-”

“Don’t think! Go! Play! Good luck!” Catrina said, and pushed the little drummer boy forward. He skidded into an open space. Everyone looked at him expectantly. He gulped, gathered himself, and began rattling out a tune on his drum. Catrina, who had safely retreated back into the shadow of a nearby building, thought the impromptu concert went over very well.

“I suppose,” she mused to herself, “they’ll make a song about this eventually.” She stood there a long while, contemplating the historic scene. She had never seen the very first Christmas before, and she didn’t know when she might get the chance again. She waited until the shepherds and the little drummer boy finally left the manger, and Joseph and Mary had gone off to bed with the baby, now that the crowds had gone. Catrina slipped away too, but as she went off into the darkness of Bethlehem, she glanced back at the manger. For one moment, she caught the eye of the child. He smiled at her, and made a small wave. Catrina smiled back, thinking happy thoughts about the true meaning of Christmas.

No perfect moment lasts forever. Just as she was wondering whether she ought to wait around till the morning and see if Mary might require her help, the scene vanished before her eyes in a blur of teleporter energies. “Oh, bother,” Catrina exclaimed as Bethlehem disappeared. “I thought I’d made it clear how very much I dislike being teleported.”

Where has our heroine been teleported to? Be sure and come back next week to find out, as the Catrina Chronicles continue!��

Splitters

“Oh, joy,” Madeleine Prime said. “Another ditch.”

“Hey, that one demon dude has a sword. Cool,” Evil Madeleine observed.

They were standing at the brink of a wide ditch in what Madeleine Prime believed was the eighth circle of hell. If she remembered her Dante right, they had quite a ways to go. Worse, Circle Eight was divided into a number of ditches, where various sorts of frauds and thieves were punished. Madeleine sighed. “At least the bridge looks okay in this one.” She climbed wearily back into the Zamboni. “Onward, Screwbolt. The quicker we get out of here, the better.”

“Sure thing, love,” Screwbolt grumbled. “‘Appy to oblige.” The little goblin had driven them out of the frozen lake of Circle Nine, and stayed with them into Circle Eight, grumbling all the way. Madeleine Prime wondered why he’d stuck with them. Then again, if one were a goblin doomed to clean up the ice at the bottom of hell, what else did one have to do?

As the Zamboni moved��onto the bridge, Madeleine Prime looked down at the sword-wielding demon. Then she saw a figure lurching towards it. “Hey,” she said in surprise. “I know that guy. I voted for him. Twice. Why-”

Whang��went the sword. Madeleine winced. She’d never been split in half down to her entrails before, but she figured it had to hurt. Evil Madeleine made a sort of choking noise. “Hey, no fair!”

“You too?” Madeleine Prime said, in some surprise.

Evil Madeleine smirked. “He was cool. Seized power, tried to take over the world, fired off some missiles and whatnot. I helped. I think that was when I took over Australia. Or…maybe that was the year after….I forget. Anyway.”

“Ah. Well, in my world he wasn’t bad. Didn’t seem like it anyway. Said good stuff.” Madeleine, unlike some superheroes she knew, tried to stay out of politics. When one spends one’s nights taking down the Shrieking Tree Demon or prowling through sewers in search of the Baleful Burglar, one tends not to worry about appropriations bills or the tax code. Still, this guy had said good stuff.

She remembered when she’d seen him. It had been a beautiful day. She’d been in a park, having just averted a minor apocalypse involving a mad scientist and a sentient water buffalo. He was giving a speech. She barely paid attention. So many politicians went off with the usual platitudes and slogans. She’d assumed he was the same, just another cutout with a microphone wanting her to mark his name on a ballot. But, for once, he went off script.

Most politicians Madeleine knew were ambivalent towards superheroes. They either attacked them as reckless vigilantes or praised them in such a way that they ended up complimenting themselves more than the person who’d averted the meteor or whatever. This guy, though,he had seen her in the park, and then left his speech notes, delivered an improvised and passionate speech about the heroic superheroes stopping crime and saving the planet, and then asked his audience to applaud��her. They did. Madeleine had been quite taken aback.

She’d never forgotten his sincerity. She’d dutifully marched into the voting booth and marked his name. She even remembered when he had died, and for once she’d actually been upset. Yet, here he was down in a ditch getting sliced in bits with a sword, in the eternal punishment of sowers of discord. It figured. Madeleine wondered if she should’ve focused more on what he’d actually done then the good stuff he’d said. “Ah, well,” she said at last, “Next ditch, please, Screwbolt.”

The Zamboni whirred on.

This story was written for the Mutant 750 writing challenge at Grammar Ghoul Press. It is also part of the Gaseous Girl Mysteries. I generally try to keep current politics out of my work; it’s such a messy topic and I hate to lose readers. Feel free to imagine for yourself what party my unnamed politician here might belong to. I have my own ideas, but I’m not telling. :)

Messages Unleft

*beep*

“Evan? Yeah,��it’s��Madeleine. Remember how the mutant squirrel torched your car? Actually…it wasn’t exactly….look, you��left me stranded at the stupid dance and I was going through a really hard time and I didn’t need all the additional angst��you put me through, and Lizzie?�� Oh my god, Evan, she’s like a total-”

…

“Oh, skip it. How do you erase this?”

*beep*.

This story was written for the Chimera 66 challenge at Grammar Ghoul Press. It also references events in Mistletoe Can Be Deadly. Gaseous Girl and her Dante-like trip through hell will return shortly. :)