Author: TallTim

I had drank too much, again. The alarm pierced my ears, shrill beeping growing in volume. Slapping the the clock on to the floor, I slowly sat upright with my head throbbing. I had been celebrating a friends birthday and didn’t leave until the early hours of the morning. At least I didn’t have to work today.

Shuffling down the foyer, ratty slippers with googly eyes glued on by my ex-girlfriend. I shook a toe, looking at the pupil swing around the comical ellipse. I guess they still amused me, or else they would have joined the boxes I stacked out by the dumpster. We had one of those mutual-but-seriously-admit-its-your-fault kind of splits, so I didn’t want anything around to remind me of her.

Except these silly slippers. They made me think of better times, trips to the beach and hiking in the woods. “Get some breakfast, googly-eyes.”, I said to no one, half-expecting her muted laugh from the kitchen. I started coffee, reheated some leftovers. Sitting on the kitchen stool, I waggled a remote at the television.

A Russian news channel was on, a product of my half-hearted attempt to learn the language. I stared at the screen, letting the foreign sounds soak into my mind. One day, I would visit Moscow. It was the polar opposite to anything I’ve done before, which was exactly why I wanted to do it.

“и в местных новостях кремль объявил, что–” the voice cut out, suit and lapel microphone hitting the floor. I blinked. Keying the rewind on my DVR, I stepped through to the last word. At the edges of the perfectly coiffed hair, small cracks formed. Hands shaking, I advanced each frame.

Small black cracks, then tendrils meeting across the face. The surface wasn’t cut, peering closer at the screen it looked like a cheap video effect – parts of the announcers face were missing. Black, perfect void. A few frames later and nothing left but two glowing dots where the eyes had been, outline in relief, then nothing.

I pressed play, and the empty suit fell to the floor again.

This had to be a prank. It couldn’t be real. The chime on the coffee maker sounded, breaking my train of thought. Coffee. Yeah, coffee would be great right about now. I stood up and grabbed a cup, walking slowly with the steaming mug to the couch, left hand gripping the remote.

I glanced at the time, it was around noon. There had to be something on about this. I flicked around some channels, surfing through commercials until I stumbled on an Emergency Alert System announcement. White text scrolled by on a deep blue background, framed in red.

“National Alert .. Emergency Action Notification .. Shelter in place, stay calm. There have been anomalous broadcasts from our partner countries with no clear cause. Emergency officials are analyzing the situation. Stay tuned for further developments. Curfew is in effect. .. Shelter in place, stay calm..”

The message repeated, in a loop. “Anomalous broadcasts”? I changed the channel, punching in the local news station. “.. so what you’re saying is that this could be an orchestrated event.”, the anchor addressed a shorter balding man, video crawl labeling him as an expert in communications.

“Yes Grant, this is obviously the product of some kind of psychological warfare, a scare tactic”, I changed the channel again, trying to find out more. Something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled with rising fear. I pushed onward, catching fragments from different channels all discussing the event.

“.. global reach, at least in countries that are overseas, we talked to ..”

“.. massive panic as rioters loot the stores behind me, police are trying ..”

“.. we now go to our reporter in Paris. Linda, what is the situation there?”, I paused, sunset painting the Eiffel Tower in orange hues. The blonde reporter had just lifted the microphone to her mouth when the edges of her face began to darken. I hastily hit record, capturing her frightened gasp as she disappeared into nothingness.

I stepped the recording a few frames back, looking at the background. People had been walking behind the shot, and as the edges became tendrils on her surprised face there was an advancing line of clothes falling to the ground – with no one in them. I sat back, staring at the world map on the wall.

It was studded with multicolored pins, places I wanted to visit. I looked at Russia, then France. Two pins defining Moscow and Paris. White-hot realization rocketing up my spine, I stood up and ran to the bedroom. Grabbing a small suitcase, I began packing. Just the essentials. Dragging the wheeled carry-on to the kitchen, filling it with staples like rice and beans. A pot and a cup, a few utensils.

The sun. Whatever was happening was linked to the sun setting. I only had under seven hours of daylight. It might be just enough time. I dashed outside, shoving the luggage into the back of my car. If this had happened close to rush hour, I wouldn’t have made it out of the city.

I revved the engine, weaving in and out of traffic.

I had to get to the airport.

If I was lucky, I could intercept a private jet. There were plenty of them at the VIP terminal, always ready to take their clients to far off places.

I patted the pocket in the luggage, holding all the cash I had on hand. It might be enough. Just enough to convince a pilot to fly towards the north. Land somewhere near the arctic circle. In summer there would be months of daylight. Just long enough to find others.

Long enough to beat the creeping shadows.

I rammed through the VIP gate, startling the snoozing security guard.

Up ahead, sleek aircraft shone brightly under the noon-day sun, white paint on slender wings.

The sky was a brilliant sapphire blue. Maxx smiled and and tucked in his arms, reducing air resistance. Slashing down at a sharp angle, vectoring in on the bright yellow jumpsuit below him. To the left and right, blossoming canopies as chutes deployed.

He had to make this, there wouldn’t be another chance.

Air pushing hard against his goggles, right hand gripping the knife. Closing in, Maxx could make out the logo on the jumpers back, “Wallace” in big white letters. Maxx plunged down, raising the knife high. Slicing arc, look of terror in the jumper’s eyes as the ruined chute streamed out of the gash.

Maxx threw the knife, letting it tumble into the air. The landscape melted, screams from the doomed jumper reverberating across infinite plains.

Killing in a dream was easy, if you had the right gear.

---

Bright lights, and the sharp smells of supercooled conductors dripping milky-white traces of mist. Maxx rubbed his eyes. That was too close, he almost didn’t have time to extract himself. Each contract was different, but getting the timing right was crucial.

Large dewar flasks lined the wall, hoses and leads winding into a single trunk suspended over an ugly headset. Protruding wires and clips, ending in small probes designed to tunnel signals right into the brain. It was a custom rig, for clients demanding exacting results.

It was just business.

Maxx had hundreds of dream-kills under his belt. The marks ended up brain dead or manifesting terminal conditions like a heart attack. Very neat and tidy. Precisely why he was paid well. When it came to eliminating the competition, silencing a witness or just exacting revenge – Maxx was there, arsenal of tools in hand.

Maxx’s watch beeped, alerting him to another target about to enter REM sleep. Lowering the headset, Maxx closed his eyes and reinserted into the liquid reality of dreamtime.

---

The auditorium was packed, full of attendees for the annual stockholders meeting. Staggered rows of velvet seats, plunging down to a small semicircle stage. A central podium in the spotlight, whispers and jeers as the mark came out completely naked.

Maxx pushed through the crowd standing in the aisles, hand gripping a large-caliber pistol. Just need to get down there and pull the trigger. Easy-peasy. He had a bit more time on this one at least.

Every person had a brochure with one name printed on the front, “Anita” in large black capitals. It was a common thing, a target using their own name on things inside dreamtime. Maxx kept pushing through, feet feeling like he was wading in deep water.

Anita stood at the podium, skin glistening in the bright lights. She began to speak, halting on every other word. Her eyes scanned the crowd, anxiety mounting.

Maxx shifted his grip on the umbrella, looking down in shock. Dammit, no.

Anita smiled, pointing at Maxx, “There he is, GET HIM!”

Dammit, she knew. Maxx started to run, feet tearing into the carpet like soft mud. Hands appeared out of each seat row, hands upon hands linked in a long chain. Fingers gripped his legs, locked around his waist, held down his arms.

Then the background shimmered, like a stone being thrown into a pond. Maxx was sitting in a wooden chair, straps around his arms and legs. A metallic band lowered on to his head. It was an electric chair, right down to the large knife-switch on the wall beside the single telephone that would ring to save a life.

But that call wasn’t coming.

Anita walked out into the light, holding a cigarette. Slim, brunette and wearing a simple black dress. She cackled and took a drag, exhaling slowly.

“I’ve been through worse than you.”, she smiled, baring perfect teeth.

“How… how did you know?”, Maxx strained as the bands tightened. He couldn’t move his head or limbs.

“Call it defensive training, or more accurately conditioning.”, Anita flicked the ash, exposing the ember.

“You’re going to tell me exactly where you are, for real.”, she stepped closer, the glowing tip hovering over his eye.

Maxx tried, but couldn’t speak. She had to be a lucid dreamer. No one had control like this, unless–

“You’ve been retired. Now, lead us to your little lab.”, she plunged the tip into his eye.

Maxx screamed, echoes filling infinite plains.

Sparks flew from the large coils, energized fields pulsing in the massive containment chamber. Steve cackled as the generators struggled with the load. He knew they would hold, despite the deafening whine.

“Series 3 is nearly complete!”, Steve cackled slapping the back of his assistant, Bob.

Bob had answered an ad on a local job site about a “dedicated research assistant” that had “meticulous attention to detail, able to work late hours”. He had been laid off at the appliance factory over the summer, and was looking for something new.

Bob had driven his duct-taped honda to the underground bunker and was hired on the spot. The hours were okay, but his boss was a bit eccentric. There were all of the experiments. Steve had conjured all kinds of beings, keeping them locked away in deep pits.

Bob felt sorry for them, tossing scraps of food and the occasional live rodent into the pits. They didn’t ask to be brought into this dimension. Steve had explained that his machinery was designed to tune to parallel realities, and in his words, “dangle a lure and wait for the freaky fish to bite”.

Bob didn’t like fishing so much.

The generators reached a crescendo, throbbing harmonics saturating the air. A massive discharge flashed through the ten-story chamber, casting a pall of purple and blue.

THOWK

Air rushed outward, scattering notes and clipboards from the desk nearby. Bob had already secured his goggles, tinted to allow observation of the next monstrosity through the dimensional gap. Fields collapsing, static charges forming a second skin as the monster howled.

“Release the subject!”, Steve bellowed, waving his arms.

Bob punched in the coordinates for the next city center, and pulled a large lever.

THWAP

Loud thunderclap as air rushed into the void where the horrific beast had been. Another successful run. Judging by the tentacles and multiple mouths, this one should be the best one yet. It was the third monster they had unleashed, double-crossing the politicians who had negotiated a ransom to save their cities.

The money was good, but that wasn’t the point. Steve was driven by something more than just scraps of paper. Bob could feel this. It was why he had stayed after the first one, and then the second. It was that feeling, the warm glow of making someone pay for injustices heaped upon unwilling shoulders.

Bob thought of his supervisor at the plant, wondering if one of those tentacles would snare his former employer and stuff him into a maw of churning teeth. Smiling, Bob turned to Steve and gave the thumbs up. Lights switched to green, indicating another charge cycle was starting.

“Lets retire to the observation room, shall we?”

“Yes boss.”, Bob removed his goggles and followed Steve into the wood-paneled room. On the far side was a massive screen, in front a few well-appointed seats repurposed from a defunct movie theater. Steve plopped into the seat, holding out his hand expectantly.

Bob handed him a tub of popcorn, freshly made with salt and butter. He then filled two large cups with cola, slotting them into the cup holders at the end of the arm rests. Sitting down, Bob unfolded a laptop as Steve switched on the massive projector.

A harried reporter filled the screen, background filled with flashing lights from police cars and fire trucks. A roiling column of smoke rose from a factory on the city outskirts, thrashing tentacles batting at buzzing helicopters.

“…it is yet unknown where this monster has come from, or why the previous attacks occurred. We’re live and direct bringing you this story as it develops.”, a blood-curdling screech drowned out the reporters voice as a large storage tank flew overhead, flames spewing from the torn pipes.

Steve laughed and slapped his knee. “They have no idea, this is glorious!”

Bob grinned, slurping down some soda.

Steve wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “I think we’ll call this one… Ralph.”

Bob nodded and sent the email, securely routed and anonymized to a dozen radio and television stations.

“Despair you wretched scoundrels and quake at the monstrosity you’ve earned though your negligence. Ralph, the spawn of unholy horrors, will cleanse you of your conceit and arrogance. Weep and prepare for your end, as you will reap what you have sown.”

The email followed with attachments specifying payments and terms to prevent the next crisis. They never worked, of course, but the antics of mayors and elected officials amused Steve greatly. Bob had come to enjoy their squirming on camera, watching their careful poise collapse under the frantic demands of their citizens.

Bob reached for some popcorn as Ralph-of-horrors-unknown began tossing cars and stomping on storage tanks. Massive fireballs illuminating writhing tentacles.

They would all pay.

Every last one.

A plume of dust flared from the back of the carrier, large tires droning like bees. 112th Recon, routine patrol out of Austin, Texas. High noon sun baking cracked asphalt, nothing moving but the tumbleweeds, drifting across the faded double yellow line.

Maxx adjusted his goggles and chewed on a pep-stick, stimulants drying out the roof of his mouth. Had to stay alert, couldn’t have any slip-ups like the incident in Dallas. That was a nightmare. Maxx shook his head, as if to dislodge the screams of the damned.

Wavering thermals dancing with mercury slickness, hint of movement at an abandoned gas station.

“Hold. Have a bogie at 11 o’clock.”

The armored carrier pulled on to the side of the road, knobby tires sinking into the reddish dust. Nothing but the soft pinging of the engine block, throttle low and idling. The odd sweet smell of coolant in the overflow tank, dribbling on the compacted dirt below.

“Give me a sec, have to make a sweep.”, Maxx popped the hatch and dismounted, boots sinking into the windblown soil. The driver enabled targeting, servos slewing the .75 caliber top-mount into position. Maxx liked backup, but that wouldn’t mean jack if they were in enemy territory.

Maxx dusted off his gear, checking his automatic rifle and sidearms. Diagnostics completed, he switched on the filters to cut down the mid-day glare. Glancing back at the turret on the carrier, dark thoughts surging. Those fancy guns didn’t help the boys back in Dallas, did it.

Maxx shoved it back into his mind, scanning the area. No one should be out here, this was a restricted zone.

Unholstering his sidearm, Maxx crept up the incline towards a rusted “Last Gas” sign, twisting in the wind, shattered neon tubes dangling like bayou vines. Four rusting pumps lined up beneath a simple roof with two struts at either end. Pockmarked paint and rusted bolts, broken glass on the ground.

It reminded Maxx of the first wave, later renamed the “incursion” by miltary strategists. So tidy and safe-sounding. No problem ma’am, there’s just an incursion, our boys will take care of that. But it didn’t turn out to be so easy. Maxx recalled the chaos, stories of people being pulled into sewer grates, doorways becoming slobbering maws ringed with razor teeth.

The nightmare plague swept in from the East Coast down towards the South, until there was nothing but gleaming bones in piles at the tentacle-fringe. City outskirts circled by skulls and undigested watches and rings. The scientists were stumped. Some thought it was an alien invasion, others suspected colony-like behavior similar to insects.

But this wasn’t an insect taking over the cities. It had teeth and tentacles and who the hell knew what else. Each infection started near the center, down deep in the infrastructure. It then spread through the plumbing and conduits into buildings and houses. Taking root like weeds, except this weed could bite your head off.

The best the military could offer was containing the spread from the edges, while dark pulsing tentacles enrobed empty skyscrapers. Small tendrils would snare passing birds, opening razor petals at the tips. When it rained, questing threads would capture the water as it fell.

“Bogie on the scope.”, pulsed chirp of narrowband pulled Maxx back to the present.

Okay. Take it slow and easy.

Maxx edged around the pumps, disused nozzles fused to their receptacles under layers rust and grime.

“Bogie at your 2 o’clock.”, the driver was watching the sensors, sending updates.

“Copy that.”, Maxx turned down the volume on his earpiece, poking his head around for a quick look.

An old man with greying hair and frayed overalls shuffled around the far corner of the main building. It looked like he was carrying something, dragging it behind him in the dirt.

“Possible Civvy, cover my six”

“Roger that.”

Maxx straightened up and lowered his pistol to his side, standing clear of the pumps.

“Hey old-timer, support patrol. Need some help? Are you injured?”

The man stopped, looking at the ground.

Maxx inched closer, keeping his left free, just in case.

“Are you hurt?”

The old man’s head snapped up, eyes red and tearing. “ruuuNNNNN” he screamed.

A moment of confusion, then Maxx saw it. A long dark tube, pulsing and wriggling along the ground, attached to the wrinkled left hand. Maxx had never seen anything like that before. It was gripping his skin with four large claws, blood dripping at each puncture.

“We got something new here.”, Maxx switched to an enhanced display, highlighting the parasitic umbilical.

The old man screamed again, stumbling towards him with renewed intensity.

“Watch your six, got some signatures”, the large turret whined on its axis, acquiring new targets.

Maxx side-stepped the old man, running to the far side of the pumps. Two loops of what he thought were black hose unlatched from the nozzles, waving dark rows of teeth. A long crimson tongue snaking out, tasting the air.

Oh no. We’ve got to get out of here. The turret opened fire, dull staccatto punching Maxx’s eardrums. Dammit, if he’s laying down covering fire then that means there are more.

Maxx ran to the carrier, slamming and locking the door. “Shit man, we have got to go!”, Maxx shouted at the driver, wondering why they hadn’t started to move yet.

“Gotta… staaart”, the driver drawled his vowels, staring out into space. Maxx thought of the man outside, trying to wave him away from the infected pumps.

The driver turned, mouth parting to reveal a dark tube. It arced out and attached itself to Maxx’s hand, warm blood pattering on the seat.

“Gotta staaarGGHTSS”, the driver slumped over, bloody hole in his skull filled with dark filaments. Freshly chewed hole in the headrest, lined with razor teeth.

Maxx screamed as the tentacle pulsed, still attached to his left hand.

Smaller tendrils, coming through the floorboards and vents.

Maxx twitched, lips parted as if to smile.

“Arre you hurrrrt”.

It happened in fits and starts. Buried in tabloids, alongside articles on bat-boy and alien abductions. The man who self-combusted but didn’t burn his house down. The woman that disappeared in broad daylight, car crashing into a bus stop. Little things, like a pale moon tinted red. Wolves sighted in large cities baying at the moonlight.

Fissures in reality, home to dark spirits and glowing eyes. Someone had invoked an ancient spell, rubbed a talisman, drawn pentacles in the dirt with dripping blood of a new sacrifice. Then came the dark times. Panic and chaos, the “norms” and the “enchanted”. Depending on who was telling the story, the normals were either blessed or doomed.

In just a few years, everyone was converted. Except me.

I’m only alive because of my cunning and an industrial-strength faraday cage, enhanced with helmholtz coils at varying angles. Every necromancer and wizard had a blind spot, and it was based on field strengths and differentials. That’s how they can’t find me when I’m sleeping. The math is complex, but I can’t claim credit.

I stumbled on an advanced weapons lab in my travels, blueprints and notes next to dessicated corpses. The rumors were the spiritual plane was given ingress from inter-dimensional tampering. We may never know for sure.

After the grand convergence, those seeking power replaced elected officials, police and the military. Laws were passed to hunt down the “norms”, declaring the future belonged to those with enchantment abilities. Normals were rounded up and summarily banished to spectral planes, or turned into mindless servants.

That was the hardest part, seeing someone I had known for years shuffle by on the street, shopping basket in one hand, scrawled list in the other. They sent them on errands, vacant husks doing their masters bidding. Some were brutally executed for sport, made to walk into traffic or plunge into the ocean.

I swore I would never let that happen to me.

Embedded in my back molar was a sealed capsule. If my back was against the wall with no other options, I would bite down hard and let the poison do its work. Anything would be better than being a lobotomized errand boy. Daily life was a mixture of scavenging on the edges, and searching for others like myself.

Necromancy was as normal as hailing a cab.

Teenagers would ride multi-legged horrors like skateboards. Smartphones became digital familiars, doing the bidding of restless warlocks and witches. During the dark times, I destroyed every piece of technology I had. Wispy tendrils would emerge from screens and bind with their users. Some were given power, others were made into fleshy puppets.

Its funny how you can get used to something. I could never relax my guard, though. Even walking outside, I had to wear specially made clothes embedded with meshes and other magnetic shields. My current home was in a rusting junkyard. Miles of scrap metal and wire. I tunneled under a large heap of crushed cars, fashioning a small room where my coils and cage shielded me.

Not much of a life, I know. But I didn’t have any choice. I was going to fight back. Slowly but surely, clearing an entire block, then later an entire district. I had the materials, all I needed was time. A woven mesh here, some hand-wound coils there.

I gradually sectioned off some of the buildings on the outskirts. Lovecraftian horrors floating by in the skies, oblivious to my plans. Its the reason that I searched for people like you, to induct them into the normal army.

All you need is the will to fight.

So, how about it?

The world was never a fair place. It just needed some help. Gordon adjusted his crisp white lab coat, changing the lapel pin from a four-leaf clover to a golden horseshoe. Its the details that matter, after all. The Dimensional Probability Adjustment Bureau was created in the late two-quads as governor of all chance-based events in society.

No longer would the universe roll the dice, doling out favors to a scattered few while passing over everyone else. DPAB, or as some of the more recursively-minded called it – LAB, “Luck Adjustment Bureau” was the great equalizer. The apparatus was impressive. Two large pylons soared from the roof of the LAB building, emitting exotic quantum particles.

The founders assured the public that this was not a “Luck Bank” or “Luck Reserve”. There had been a scandal a few years back where allegations of pay-for-luck schemes had reached the highest level. All proven false, but the rumors persisted still. Gordon worked in the Luck Research Division, an isolated office set in the middle of the building, far from the executive suites.

It had something to do with the “dead spot” between the pylons, where Gordon could work on experiments in chance without having their underlying probabilities skewed. It also was the densest part of the building, which meant no phone reception. Gordon didn’t have a desk phone, relying instead on his personal assistant.

Every day, the tuning dynamics were changed to select one particular person. That person would enjoy varying degrees of luck, in the form of small events correlating and combining. Much like how shallow waves can combine into one large wave at sea. This temporary focus would imbue this person with a “lucky day”, causing tertiary ripple effects on family and friends.

It was a familiar sight on the street, recent “Lucksters” being followed by a contingent of friends and hangers-on. Sometimes the trough of the lucky wave would cause disruption in the form of extra traffic or small areas of decidedly “unlucky” events. Society put up with it though, since every day there was a chance that you could be next.

Gordon had never known anyone who had been selected. Maybe one day, he thought. He pushed through the revolving door into the lobby. On the far wall, a large display ran live feeds of the current “Luckster”, an idea from the marketing people. Drones were cheap and numerous, so why not have one follow someone around?

Gordon thought it was vulgar. No reason to rub everyone’s noses in the fact they hadn’t been selected. At least that was how he would have handled it. Maybe that was why he had a quiet career in probability research. He never wanted to play the corner-office game. Too many meetings and lunches, currying favor with the the bosses and vice presidents.

Gordon had seen the CEO once, as he was exiting a conference room on his floor. He walked right by in his expensive suit without registering Gordon was there. It was a disconcerting feeling, being actively ignored. He frowned, palming his security pass and swiping it at the gleaming turnstile.

A triple-tone played, with the sound of coins cascading down. An ancient reference to luck, though no one went to the desert anymore, not after the canals dried up and there was nothing left to hold on to. The skeletons of Vegas were still there, swaddled in dunes and rusted steel.

Gordon had an old-style slot machine in his office, an homage to a time where people would actually travel somewhere to possibly be lucky. How quaint and outdated. Walking down the hallway to his office, he passed the framed news articles documenting past selectees. “Big Win – Luckster Finds Missing Hard Drive Filled With Crypto Coins”, “What’s Better Than One Baby – Twins!”, “Man Survives Fall From Skyscraper” and so on.

Today was going to be tough, it was the first round of personnel evaluations – Lucksters excluded. Gordon worked through lunch, assembling reports and various planning documents for the bigwigs upstairs. Before he knew it, the clock on the wall displayed 7 pm.

He pushed on. Upstairs loved detailed reporting, but it came at a cost. Gordon had been stalling as long as he could, but the looming deadline had piled it all at his feet. No matter, he downed a lukewarm cup of coffee and kept on typing. The words and numbers flew from his fingers, thought becoming paragraphs and charts with seemingly little effort.

It was almost enjoyable. He finished the final page and hit “print”, the bulky Documax churned to life. Just my luck, Gordon tapped his fingers against the plastic tray. One more set and he could drop off these forms and go home. Final drop of the still-warm copies completed, Gordon pressed the elevator button to the lobby.

A metallic glint caught his eye. Near his foot was a golden coin. Picking it up, he flipped it in the air, guessing heads.

The coin came up heads.

Gordon flipped it again, guessing tails.

The coin came up tails.

He flipped it several more times, each outcome matching what he desired.

No, it couldn’t be. A chime sounded, the doors opening to the main lobby. Gordon walked out, glancing back at the large display. “Luckster Finally Emerges – From The LAB Itself!”, the crawl on the bottom of the screen had a countdown to midnight, when the next person was selected.

It was 11:59:59.

Gordon looked out into the street. People had been camping out, media trucks and cameras pointed at the revolving doors. Gordon flipped the coin again, guessing heads.

Tails.

Sighing deeply, Gordon pushed out into the street. Drops pattered on his head, wet and cold. He had forgotten his umbrella.

Just his luck.

Rayatoo Boh tapped on the navigation console, swiping through system clusters and stars looking for the familiar diamond logo of a StarStop. He needed rest, and refueling. Smuggling was a tough business with even tougher customers, but Rayatoo or “Ray” to his friends, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ray had been to the outback of Dezhra and the shining cities of Epsilon Indi, running rare antiquities and assorted contraband. What one being wanted, another banned or paid substantial sums to have it delivered under cover of the local sunset. Ray had lost count of the number of hasty dust-offs, back-room deals and shadowy figures unloading dinged containers from his cargo hold.

Ray’s ship, “Veloxitus”, looked worse for the wear. It was intentional, at her core a swirling torus of fusing atoms kept everything ready to go at a moments notice. Thick cables wound from the core to the particle thrusters, dumping Terajoules of power through chilled superconductors. It was one of the fastest ships in the local group, but Ray preferred to keep it a trade secret. The worn and pitted exterior made the ship look like a sub-light hauler, which was exactly what Ray wanted.

He couldn’t count the number of times he had been hailed and stopped in local space by the bored constabulary. When a bribe couldn’t get him traction, his drives did the talking. Zero to light-speed in mere seconds, dumping heat from the intertial compensators through glowing fins on the backside. Bat out of hell, winking out into a receding dot before the cops had time to engage their weapons.

Drifting in local space, Ray shifted in his seat as he browsed the local system map. As he slowly moved his index finger, stars and local points of interest faded into view. There, just a few thousand light-seconds away was a StarStop. Ray’s mouth began to water, as he pictured a full plate of Borqon meat with Tariq sauce, a local delicacy. Good enough. Ray punched in a route solution, and leaned back, feet up on the console.

This baby could fly itself, but Ray liked to keep things manual in local systems. The ship’s guidance control was decent, but it was more suited to longer-haul routes, not puttering around at sub-light. Ray knew to keep his hands on the wheel if sightseeing, or if he was about to get dinner.

Ray twitched the throttle lightly, just enough for minor course corrections. Not much out here, just wandering asteroids and the occasional stray cargo container, tumbling in zero gravity. The sensor array sent out regular pings, displaying reflected objects and data on the console screen.

ping, ping, PING, ping.

Ray sat up, twisting the stick to orient on the faint signal. It was too small to be ship, and not large enough to be one of the asteroids mapped on previous runs. What the hell was it?

Checking the guages, Ray increased speed. He had just enough fuel to make his stop, with a bit left over. Wouldn’t hurt to check the ping out, it might be something interesting. Besides, it was on the way. Ray adjusted the goggles hanging around his neck, fingers resting on a keepsake he wore under his shirt, suspended from a silver chain.

Getting close. The scope read out distance in smaller numbers, clicking in defined increments. One kilometer, then half, then a hundred meters. Ray zeroed the throttle, locking it on the all-stop register. Before him, there was a round island floating in space.

It looked like it had been scooped up, lower surfaces were rounded to geometric perfection. An old road with a single stop light, flashing red. Sidewalk, mailbox, even the frontage of an old store. Ray had seen this before, memory tugging at his mind.

Shaking his head, Ray nudged the ship down to the dotted yellow line, landing gear extended. Powering down to idle, Ray slotted his helmet and walked through the side hatch, feet crunching on the gravel. It made no sense he could hear this, wasn’t he in pure vacuum?

“Welcome, need some gas?”, an old man walked out of the store, wiping his hands on a oily rag. His straw hat was worn and frayed at the edges.

Ray blinked. Not wanting to be rude, he played along.

“Yeah, sure. But I don’t think you have what I need.”

“Sure I do. Got a Apexi unit in there, right?”, he rapped on the outer hull like he was checking for leaks.

“Right. Need some more reaction masss for the injectors.”, Ray couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

The old man went back into the store, emerging with a fueling nozzle attached to a long hose. He expertly opened the fuel port, and fitted the nozzle in. Setting the trigger to auto-stop, he stepped back on the sidewalk.

“How is this real? Where am I? My name is Rayatoo – er, Ray.”

“I know. It isn’t every day I get to see my son.”, the old man removed his hat, running fingers through his graying hair.

Ray looked carefully at the old man’s face. The eyes, the thin nose. Oh merciful starlight, it was true. Ray clutched at the keepsake under his suit, whispering oaths of protection.

“I see you still have it. Let me see.”, Ray’s father extended a hand.

Ray cracked his helmet, sniffing the air. Atmosphere. Well, why not, nothing else here made sense. Ray fished out the metal shard, unhooking the chain. He hadn’t taken it off in years. Ray felt naked and exposed.

Ray’s father turned the shard over in his fingers, catching the red glow of the stop light.

“You know why I gave this to you?”

“Yes, you told me as you were dying that I should never forget.”, Ray’s cheeks slicked with tears, voice wavering. He remembered the explosion, the fire. How he desperately tried to stop the bleeding.

“Yes son. Now, we need to go.”, He offered his hand out to Ray.

Ray grasped it, blinking back tears.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

A white fissure opened before them, swirling with energy. Stepping through, they both faded into the light.

(This is dedicated to my dad, who passed away this year. )