Tag: SciFi

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. )

Everything I own drags me down. Like ballast on a deep-sea diver, leaden weights in large bandoliers over both shoulders. My car, in the shop. Again. When I pulled in to the service bay, the mechanic looked at me with a sly grin that meant at least a thousand dollars. Probably more.

I try my best, really. I don’t abuse or miss maintenance schedules. Its just my rotten luck. I end up purchasing the faulty wrench made on Monday, inspector yawning as it whizzes past on the conveyor belt. My cup of noodles doesn’t have a flavor packet, just squiggly dried stuff sitting in a styrofoam container.

So it didn’t come as a big surprise when I found my automated vacuum cleaner bumping against the front door, over and over. Me in my bathrobe, freshly wakened and groggy with a half-warm cup of coffee in my hand. (The coffee maker is conspiring against me.) I just wanted to fetch my morning paper, provided it hadn’t landed in the bushes again.

Bump Reeeeeeeeee

Bump Reeeeeeeeee

The electric motor sounded like it was going to seize up and melt on the spot. Perfect. Well damn it all, if you want to go outside, then just do it. I opened the door, half-expecting a hasty retreat by the stubborn cylindrical machine. It backed up a moment, then sensing no obstructions, took off with skidding wheels.

Down the stairs, flipping once back on to its rubber wheels and down the sidewalk.

Oh bother.

Luckily I had pajama bottoms on, or I wouldn’t have run after it. The neighbors and I weren’t on the best of terms. Just a nod over the fence and a strained civility that I desperately tried to improve. I mostly wanted to be left alone. If the grass was too tall, I’d cut it eventually. The bushes sprouted defiant branches into the neighbors driveway, and I’d always catch disapproving looks and muttered comments when leaving the house.

Bathrobe flaring, slippers sliding off my feet I ran down the sidewalk. A pair of narrow skidmarks turned left into an alley. I rounded the corner, panting with exertion. I really have to get to the gym, my stamina was like an asthmatic patient on oxygen.

Up ahead, past cracked concrete and gravel-filled potholes, I spotted my vacuum. What on earth was it doing? The metallic finish reflected the morning sun into my face, making me blink with purple after-images floating before my eyes. This little brat is going right back to the factory.

The alley opened up into a small cul-de-sac, a rounded curb that only had one way out. Grassy plots that had older houses had been razed and graded, ready for new construction. A large yellow machine was set up near a freshly poured foundation, methodically putting down cinder blocks for the basement walls.

My vacuum was right next to it.

I stepped closer, intending to snatch it up when the long grooved arm holding the bricks shifted in my direction. I stepped back in alarm, missing the launched cinder block, whizzing by my left shoulder. Another loaded into the arm, and the diesel engine revved.

A volley of bricks flew at horrifying speeds towards me. I sidestepped and dodged, one brick clipping my lower thigh. What the hell was this, a prank? The machine cranked and whined, loading another course. I started to run back up the alley. The hell with the vacuum, it isn’t worth my life.

Running up to the front door and nearly out of breath, I frantically shoved in the key and pushed it open. Shutting and locking it, I peered out the foyer window. A car was driving by, with one of those odd sensor packs on the roof. This isn’t good. It stopped in front and seemed like it was waiting.

My house phone and cell began to ring, simultaneously.

Grabbing the cell, I lifted it to my ear. “We have an offer for you. Don’t hang up.”, the synthesized voice was smooth and disconcerting.

A bump came from the front door. Then another.

Peering out the narrow side window, I saw my vacuum robot, patiently waiting.

Not another one. Hurrying to work, I had few options to make my morning meeting. I don’t know where these “Peep” bastards came from, but they’re getting in the way. Don’t even get me started on the smell. Its horrendous. Like part compost pile, part wet dog. I wrinkled my nose as I got closer.

My life would’ve been different if I hadn’t failed out of cell biology in college. I wanted to be a marine biologist, going out to remote islands and sampling coral reefs in the deep blue sea. The last thing I expected was a boring office job with an equally frustrating commute.

Ocean creatures still fascinated me. Moving like hovering angels, chromatophores winking into new configurations and colors at a whim. It was like watching a digital artist click on the “fill” tool, with each fold and wrinkle saturating instantly to a new hue.

An octopus was more interesting than these damn things.

It had only been a year since they blinked into existence high above the atmosphere, broadcasting on all languages a general non-helpful question, “Be YOUSE? Be YOUSE?”. No one knew what it meant. “Be us?”, “Be ours?”, what kind of civilization travels the vast gulf of space to ask random nonsense?

Drawing closer, I could see the Peep playing with a discarded childrens toy. They loved rooting in the garbage. Who knew what they were looking for. Some draped themselves in plastic bags like mad kings of the landfill. Others tried to set up small shantytowns near garbage dumps.

This one was turning a primary-colored cube over and over, making that annoying cooing sound. Flat grey flesh pressed against the plexiglass partition, stubby legs planted firmly on the concrete sidewalk.

I skirted around the bus stop, holding my nose. I’d better go to the next one up the street.

A large delivery truck rumbled by, open side doors blasting a morning talk show. The topic of course, was the damn Peeps. I couldn’t escape it. Every magazine had a special coverage article, every newspaper and TV program had a dedicated crawl at the bottom with Peep trivia.

“Did you know the Peep ships are larger than Central Park in New York City?”

“Peeps on parade! Watch as a few playful fellows tumble down the New Jersey municipal landfill!”

Oh lord, their ships. Take a bunch of random shapes, glue them together and spray paint it earthen brown. That’s what their ships looked like. No chrome widgets, no large hull sections sprinkled with mysterious antenna and sensor pods. Just a huge lump of misshapen things stuck together.

It was like the universe wanted to play a practical joke on humankind. We wanted to know if we were alone, and the only one that showed up on our galactic doorstep was the slow cousin from the Ozarks.

Most people recoiled at the thought of integrating with the Peeps. The smell, their burbling speech, the way they fixated on weird garbage and sat for hours at at time in public places. One politician tried to pass a “Peep Protection Act” that paradoxically would have rounded them all up and put them into camps, but it failed soundly.

Someone liked them, but it sure wasn’t me.

Rain started to spit down, turning my walk into a hurried run. Dashing across the street, I ducked into the corner bus stop shaking off my coat. I should’ve worn a hat, but it was too late for that now. The rain intensified, droplets splashing into a fine mist that hung near the surface.

I heard a cooing sound.

Damn it all, a Peep.

It poked its snout-like face into the rain, extending a long grey tongue to taste the drops.

Good lord, it made my skin crawl. Nearby, the stoplight turned green, allowing the city bus to pull up to the stop. A wash of diesel fumes, sharp pneumatic hiss as the door folded open. I stepped into the warm confines, glad to be out of the weather.

“You don’t let Peeps ride, do you?”, I gestured with a thumb back at the stubby alien, still licking the air for rain.

“No, they can’t pay anyway. Can’t take trash.”, the driver adjusted his cap and pushed the button for the door to close.

Taking a seat, I looked down at the bus stop. The Peep was still there, poking through the waste bin attached to the bus stop sign.

Poor bastards. At least Peeps don’t have to go to work. The bus shook and rumbled, exhaust belching black fumes.

Maybe next time we could be visited by angels.

Anything but this.

It was expensive, but so worth it. Sliding back in the drivers seat, I brushed my fingertips over the central console menu, looking for something entertaining.

Not many people drove themselves, not in the old-time 2k-er sense. It was a hobby reserved for those that were rich enough for the insurance and the extensive permits needed outside the bustling urban center. Not that you would stand a chance in any of the high-volume corridors inside the city.

That required machine precision and nanosecond timing to navigate the city network. The intersections themselves didn’t have a single stop light, there was no need. Rivers of traffic interwove themselves like bustling bees in a hive, with clearances measured in centimeters. Completely out of the range of human senses and reaction times.

Not that I would have to worry about that. Not today.

Semi-opaque poly films still coated the inside, to be removed by the dealer before delivery. I insisted at the dealer they remain so I could peel them off personally, internally disrobing the interior to smells of clinical adhesives and gleaming surfaces. It was almost like foreplay, taking off layers and revealing the hidden treasure beneath.

But I had always been a collector, and this vehicle, a Burov 243, was the finest in all of my garage. I had been checking the forecasts for a week straight, cajoling AI’s and creating personal rulesets for when it would be perfect to take my baby out into the countryside.

The roads were rough, only patched every other month by a fleet of aging automated pavers, scrawled with the angst of bored teenagers and political dissidents. They lumbered by my property on time, laying down fresh material designed to grip older tires. I had moved out here on purpose, just because of this road. There were so few left in service, after the large near-vacuum tubes had been bored under the earth connecting cities.

Pushing a button, the Burov roared to life, another artifact of ancient engineering. If I had neighbors they’d be entering environmental zoning complaints, tagging every errant molecule of monoxide as it wafted skyward. Out here, surrounded by green fields and hills, the only eyes on me and mine were the birds, soaring in the sapphire blue sky.

Powering down to a smooth idle, I let the gear engage and smoothly accelerated forward, the front gates closing behind me as I glided past, wind catching at my scarf.

I must’ve looked a sight, driving down that road with my scarf fluttering and a wild grin on my face.

Not that the truck convoy cared. It came over the hills behind me, hauling multi-segmented trailers like a mechanical centipede. It belonged to one of those econo-shipper outfits. They couldn’t afford the rapid loop tubes between the cities, so they went with a lo-fi version instead.

Large, yellow and pockmarked with grime and insects, they hurled over the landscape with programmed instructions to not stop until their destination. They were pretty old, I could see the ratty mudflaps waving behind the large knobby all-terrain tires.

Sensing trouble, the Burov intoned in its best announcer voice, “Incursion detected, please allow automatic control.”

What? On my day off? Ridiculous.

I ignored the warning and the subsequent red triangle on the heads-up display, batting it away with a motion of my hand. There was no way I was going to let a robot convoy ruin my day out.

The stubby front end of the convoy loomed in my rear view, nearly filling the screen with its grimy geometry. I snorted, and pushed down on the accelerator.

“Warning, exceeding safe limits for current conditions”

Damn it, this Burov was turning into a backseat driver, hollering instructions. Leave me alone, I want to drive.

The chime kept pinging as I increased my speed. I was beyond the rated highway speed, and in trying to best the convoy, I saw to my horror that they were keeping right up. Oh you bastards. They must have been the very cheapest trucking firm, because no one would get that close unless they were trying to take advantage of my low-pressure wake.

I was being waked by a damn autobot trucker. That just does it, I thought.

Multiple warnings were pulsing, minimized in the lower margins of my windshield, like sullen insects staring with uncaring compound eyes.

My foot was all the way down, but the linkage to the old engine wasn’t direct — I wasn’t that rich — so there was some automated regulation involved. Sensing my unrelenting need to get ahead of the convoy, the Burov had decided to forego economy and kick in the full four barrels of the open-aspirated engine.

There I was, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, leaned into the motion of the car like someone possessed, when I heard a “click”. Oh no, I had leaned too far in, and my right knee had touched a button. A physical button, only found on certain models at the insistence of their finicky customers.

I recalled the pitch from the SalesBot:

“The Burov not only ambulates you with ease, it also entertains! Observe! An entire platter of snacks and sundries! Just a small offering of the complete luxury this Burov conveyance provides.”

The platter extended into my gut, retracted, then extended again. I should be reclined, in position to pluck morsels from the selection provided. Not hunched over and intent on beating an automated adversary. Irritated, I took both hands off the wheel and shoved the platter back in.

Then I realized – I had dismissed automatic control.

I careened off the road, clipping an expensive length of siderail before being covered in a sticky mass of collision gel. The gelatinous cloud solidified around me, opaque but permeable. I wouldn’t suffocate, just stew in my own juices until help arrived.

It was then I remembered, had I subscribed to TowCare?

Oh bugger…

There are procedures for this kind of thing, you know. Well, not exactly this kind of thing, but other events close to it I guess. I filed a ERE-3821 (Emergency Reportable Event) as soon as I found out, but I must’ve missed one of the checkboxes, because it thudded back in my in-tray shortly after 9am, stamped at the top – “CLOSED”.

Well bother, that’s a kick in the rear. I was all set to attend the calibration seminar luncheon and I had other work to do. I pulled up the directory, dialed the Central Facilities Emergency Coordinator, but it only rang twice before it rolled into a full voicemail box.

Exasperated, I called the junior assistant to the CFEC, who promptly told me to send it in an email with any relevant attachments. So there I was, stomach grumbling and pecking away at the keyboard, selecting drop-down choices on a poorly designed Emergency Report when my computer crashed.

Damn it all, I had told the IT guys I thought the power supply was dodgy. Rebooting was going to take a while, so I decided to use an older machine that all the secretaries called “The Demon”. It used to be an emergency terminal, one dedicated to high-priority events – hence the red plastic, and it had just enough computing power to relay messages to central facilities.

I plopped down on the well worn chair, and started making a horrible racket on the mechanical keyboard.

ERE-3821 SUPPLEMENTAL

BE ADVISED – LARGE EVENT DUE, PROBABILITY HIGH.

RECOMMEND EVAC EMER/PROC 14-FGW-#8311 PER REGS

And grandly hit the large “Send” key in triumph, thinking everything was taken care of. It was nearly 1pm when I sent it, which meant plenty of time for the other offices to get approval and start their emergency procedures. Satisfied, I turned off the console and went to a late lunch with the guys.

Things stretched out a bit longer than I thought they would, so I didn’t make it back to the office until 3pm. Guess what I saw as I sat down at my desk? A damned blinking red light on my phone, telling me I had a message. Picking up the reciever, I dialed my voicemail.

“… Hi, Chuck calling from Central Facilities, we got a garbled message from the old alert console in your office. How many times do we have to tell you guys to stop using that thing? Its using old twisted-pair copper lines to send and it never worked reliably. Just give me a call or page me at my emergency contact number. Thanks”

Damn it all, now I had to chase this guy down. I glanced at my watch, 3:25pm. Great, now I’m not even sure if I could get to safe minimum distance at this rate. Sighing in frustration, I slammed down the receiver, put the forms in my briefcase and headed out the door with my coat on.

I’ll take it to him if I damn well have to, I thought, trying to dial him on the way – but of course, the line was busy. I was just a block away when a low rumbling echoed off the skyscrapers, towers swaying in an invisible breeze.

Great.

This just wasn’t my day at all, was it.

Goddamn meddlers.

It was bad enough, fighting the vertigo and the unavoidable mind-splitting migraine from being hurled back in time 500 years. And now, so close to the objective, and one of these damn natives [Future Event Redacted].

It was in a bar, where I had to make sure [Target Redacted] was going to meet her future boyfriend so he’d go on to [Implied Future Redacted]. I was taking it easy, sitting there minding my own business, when this neanderthal stumbles up and asks me for a cigarette. I didn’t have any dried dirty weeds on me, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to touch one because of the [Future Known Fact Redacted] they had on the human body, just through contact alone.

Anyway, this guy doesn’t understand “no”, and he keeps pressing the issue. I get fed up – Yes, I know, I really should’ve been taking some stabilizers to avoid that – but I get to the point where its going to take some gentle force to get the situation resolved. I was near the 15 minute window until [Target Redacted] was supposed to show, and I couldn’t tolerate any interference.

So I guided him out to the front, and around the corner into the alley.

“Here’s your cigarette.”, and promptly shot him full of some protein decouplers. Yeah, I know, messy as hell – but I didn’t have time for being mister nice guy, whole [Future Timeline Redacted] were at stake here.

As he slumped to the ground, slowly dissolving from the inside, all I heard was “But I have a date….”

Oh godammn shi–

[Timeline Terminated]