NEW ISSUE: 20 In 5 -- Volume I -- December 2011

I am very pleased to announce a new project, a monthly e-mag/e-book titled 20 In 5, published by Mis Tribus Publishing and with me as Editor-in-Chief.

The concept is simple: 20 stories you can read in about 5 minutes each. Flash fiction ranging from adventure to western themes, passing through fantasy, horror, mystery and science fiction. 20 In 5 is the perfect companion for a coffee break, a waiting room or a nightcap, a little literary rest stop in your day.

Available for $0.99, you can subscribe to 20 In 5 and save a few dollars. If you will, please give it a look-see now by clicking over to the 20 In 5 page and reading the first story FREE.

And please notify your friends, those who love to read good short stories and especially those friends who love to write: 20 in 5 is a paying market! Here are the Submission Guidelines, informative and entertaining:

If you would like to submit your flash fiction story, send all submissions to: 20in5@mistribus.com.

Submissions must adhere to the following guidelines or will be deleted:

1) Send in .doc, .docx, .od or .rtf formats only. NO .zip or .rar files, please; attachments in those formats will be deleted immediately.

2) The story must be between 500 and 750 words in length. No shorter or longer unless you've won a Nobel Prize.

3) No porn, poetry or bloody gore. Adult language is acceptable, if its use is not excessive. We deem what is excessive, damn it.

4) Each story submitted must have your name and phone number listed, either in the document itself or the e-mail message. SexyFairy69 ain't your name.

5) If a story has been published elsewhere, please let us know. We don't mind second helpings, but we mind falsely touting them as our discoveries.

6) If your story(ies) is/are accepted, you will receive a MisTribus 20 In 5 contract. You will be happy. Don't hide it. Don't overdo it, either; we're not a Nobel Prize.

7) You must sign the contract to appear in any volume of 20 In 5. It lets you make money off of our picking your story. So it's a good idea.

8) Please allow 4-6 weeks for a response. We're not slow, it's that we can get swamped by submissions. And we're slow swimmers.


Mis Tribus Publishing and I look forward to reading your comments, your submissions and above all, your fulsome praise for the awesomeness of 20 In 5.

Read a FREE story now! And then subscribe! Thank you!

Flash Fiction: INTERESTING TIMES

[Have you ever written anything with a sense of loopy adventure, just going pedal-to-the-metal with the words and seeing where you end up? Well, that could describe most of my writing, but here's a story that seemed to just pour out, as if I were merely transcribing someone else's loopy word adventure.]

INTERESTING TIMES

            When Pritchard was about to turn 17, he figured out the secret to anti-gravity. Over a furious four weeks between his first kiss with Melanie and his mom's loony "Sweet 17" party (that included a clown, to the utter humiliation of everyone at the party, including the clown), Pritchard (he hated his given name, Percy, so he fixed it) drew up the design, polished the theoretical underpinnings in a 34-page article (never published) and built the prototype, that he tested on Muggs, his loopy bulldog. The dog's maiden, er, flight, caused the poor mutt to vomit and run away for almost a week. The anti-gravity prototype was now disguised as an 8-track player in Pritchard's home-built display of passé technology.

            Between Melanie (who went off to college somewhere in Michigan, while Pritchard stayed near home) and Sally, Pritchard figured out faster-than-light travel, pushed to a superhuman effort in consolidating theoretical physics and what he called "hyperquantic thrust dynamos" for lack of a better name. Sally, a smashing little redhead with birthmarks in the darnest places, was Pritchard's first lover, and the extended post-coital daze dampened Pritchard's other thoughts about FTL travel until Sally joined the Navy and was eventually shipped out to some port in East Asia.

            Pritchard tinkered with hyperspace signals based on string theory tunneling until he met Lois, the tall brunette with the perfect dimples on her (most-often) unseen cheeks. Inspired by Lois' fond memories of her childhood in eastern Louisiana, Pritchard made the conceptual leap between his anti-grav concepts (already proven) and FTL travel (which he tested by sending a 54-inch probe to the Moon and back in 6.4 seconds...twice) to discover that time could be unlinked from gravitational space-time and moved anywhere. After a frenetic series of tests, drafts, edits, rebuilds and several cameras destroyed in tests (though one brought back an intriguing half-picture of what could only be a T-Rex in full attack mode), Pritchard finally got his prototype to work after using parts from his last FTL probe (disguised as an over-sized Sith lightsaber) to power his "time capsule." Two trips later (17th century France, smelly, and 15th century Japan, bloody), Pritchard plonked Lois on his lap and took her back 16 years to the tree-lined Alexandria streets of Lois' childhood home.

            Only to lose her there when she absolutely freaked out after seeing her mom sneak out of their house, climb into Russell Graham's house through the den window and rock his world in a way that made Lois sick and made Pritchard want to get to know Mrs. Killian a helluva lot more.

            With much effort, involving a frantic car chase, a brush with fat, chaw-chewing Southern cops, another couple of looks at the Killian Method for World Rocking and getting Lois blitzed on cheap tequila, Pritchard got them both back to their time/home and took an extra two days to convince Lois her pot dealer was dealing from the bottom, not the top.

            Redecorating the time capsule into a home entertainment center with a rad game system and enough speakers to drown out Spinal Tap, Pritchard gathered the fake 8-track player and the über-nerdy fake lightsaber and tucked them into a hidden panel at the base of the new 72-inch plasma screen he bought for himself from the beaucoup royalties he made on his only patented invention: a cell phone accessory that found your wallet, purse, briefcase, keys, car and nearest coffee shop for you.

            But every once in a while, Pritchard would carefully dismantle the home entertainment system, and use the time capsule, anti-grav and the now-real lightsaber he invented for fun to hit the Cretaceous creatures like a meteor strike, or leave the anti-grav and Sith weapon home and just drop in on Mrs. Killian...for old times' sake.

Flash Fiction: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

[I often start stories seeing just a single image or thinking of one sentence. This one on came about after reading the description of a car crash, where thankfully, no one was injured, but the damage to the vehicles and the premises was huge. What connected that to this is a good question.]

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

            The battle had started in hyperspace, with temporal bombs—primarily subquantic cores wrapped in antimatter shells—being fired like ancient grapeshot. As the ships were damaged, they dropped out of warp and fired phasers, photon missiles and even a suicide run by a shuttle tug with its warp core disabled to explode via a timing mechanism.

            The badly-crippled ships hovered at cockeyed angles to each other, drifting closer together to meet some time in the future. But for now, with life support compromised, lifeshuttles skipped through the debris, firing laser cannons and scoring infrequently with totally fatal results.

            Eventually, three lifeshuttles made it down to the near-frozen planet, a Type G with scant atmosphere and no life signs. One of the Debengan shuttles lost control as it approached the landing point, rolling and smashing into an icy outcropping. Within seconds, the shuttle exploded.

The Terran shuttle slid onto the icy planet’s surface with a metallic screech, ripped away by the fierce winds. The remaining Debengan shuttle slammed down, bounced and came to a grinding halt. For almost half an hour, nothing moved except snow flurries. Then a blue laser beam shot out from the Debengan shuttle and sliced a chunk of ice near the Terran shuttle’s landing gear. Once again, silence.

            A figure dropped from the Terran shuttle and quickly rolled for cover behind a nearby outcropping. The figure was wearing a heavy suit, equipped with two airtanks on its back. In the right hand, the Terran held a heavy hand phaser, military issue. In the left were “bola packs”, sonic grenades linked by plasteel bands. The bolas could be adjusted for detonations from loud sound to Mach 4 impact capable of shredding steel. Moving in short dashes, the Terran approached the Debengan shuttle, using every inch of cover.

            With a sharp blast, the Debengan shuttle blew out a panel. From the opening emerged a large, gray-covered being, its suit a doubled set of orbs with four tentacles emerging from each orb. Two of the tentacles held a large cannon-like weapon, its opening glowing a hazy blue. Two other tentacles held smaller weapons, each glowing a different shade of red. The being whirled on its suit’s base, the tentacles snapping to point at different targets. The cannon fired one shot, high up against a nearby crag. The impact slammed an avalanche onto the Terran shuttle, smashing it under a blanket of ice.

            The Debengan stood still, then fired the smaller weapons at the only visible part of the Terran shuttle. The red beams converged and made the metal sizzle, then flare into a blazing explosion. The entire area then convulsed with a massive explosion, forcing the Debengan to retreat to avoid the debris.

            As the flurries covered the black scar where the Terran shuttle once stood, the Debengan retrieved the blown panel and began wedging itself back into its own shuttle. The actinic flare of a Terran phaser sliced through the suit’s midsection and the Debengan dropped and fired in an unbelievably fluid motion. The firing stopped as a bola pack landed next to it and exploded, sending a Mach 2 sonic wave against every solid surface nearby. The Debengan felt its insides hammered by a veritable wall of vibrations. It staggered, dropped its weapons and collapsed, quivering horribly. The Terran leaped down from its vantage point on the crag and fired once, slicing the Debengan nearly in half. The ruptured suit released a gush of fluids that steamed in the frozen air, a gush that quickly froze into a muddy stain on the ice.

            Tapping the suit’s chest pack, the Terran said “Lieutenant Grissom reporting. Debengan dead, shuttle recoverable.” Several seconds went by, then: “Excelsior, here. Well done, Casey. Are you injured?”

            The Terran sat on a frozen rock. “Negative. But I have no shuttle.”

            A chuckle was heard before “We barely have a ship. But we can pick you up in fifteen. Hold tight.”

            “Roger.” The Terran looked up at the heavy gray sky and set the timer on her suit for twelve minutes. After that kind of battle, a nap was really a great idea.

Flash Fiction: MORNING AT ROSSGEN

This just came out in one long stream, although I detect my interest in stem cell research may have been at the heart of the initial thought.

A MORNING AT ROSSGEN

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... Yes, we have all types of organ tissues, including corneas…No, it doesn’t come in any colors…No, ma’am, it’s not at all like contact lenses…Corneal tissue isn’t something we can color-coordinate…Extension 436, ma’am…You’re welcome.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... You want to know if we have ‘experimental’ bodies here? What do you mean, sir?... Breasts where?... On the back? What for?... No, sir, we don’t experiment with human bodies here. We don’t do that kind of work… No, sir, I certainly don’t know who does…”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... Excuse me. Excuse me, sir! I told you last time we can’t do that without your wife’s permission… I understand you find her less attractive than your neighbor, but it is her body and it is her decision alone whether to get the implants or not…Sir, we don’t do that without the patient’s prior written approval…Have you considered marital counseling or therap--…No! She has to request it and she has to sign for it personally… I’m sure she has other, very positive qualities, sir, which you would do well to focus on instead of her glutes…No I will not send you pictures of me…Good day.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... It takes several weeks to generate compatible tissue, unless you have an account with us… Because all our clients get what we call “starter cell sets” that are basically cell clusters at different stages of development. With them we can generate organs in less than half the time than starting from scratch…No, that wasn’t meant as a pun, ma’am…Any body part or any organ…Yes, any body part or any organ… A what, ma’am?... Uh, no, I don’t think we can do that… I understand, miss, but the hymen isn’t an organ… No, a wedding is not a true medical emergency… May I suggest you talk to your grandmother or an older female relative? I’m sure one of them will have very good advice on how to handle this—uh—problem… I once read that iodine was good for that… No, miss, on the sheets, to give the right, uh, impression, if you know what I mean… Yes, while he’s sleeping is a good time… I’d try the drugstore or a friend who works in a hospital… Oh, he does? Then try some other hospital, miss. You know how people love to talk… Best wishes.” 

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs…Please slow down, sir. I can barely understand what you’re sa--…Sir, please! Start again…When did this happen?... If it’s been less than ten minutes, shouldn’t you be calling 9-1-1? You could bleed to death before the replacement surgery takes place!…I know that, sir, but you need to live to have it reattached…I’m calling 9-1-1 now and patch them in…Direct pressure!...May I suggest you worry about size later, sir? You need to stay alive… If your wife is caught and they get your—uh—original, uh, part, back then we’d use that, sir…You don’t want it? I see…I’m sure you’ll be happy with a RossGen—uh—replacement, eventually. Yes, sir. I’m glad the EMTs are there… No, sir, I don’t date clients… Especially after surgery.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... You did what? You cut off your husband’s…No, we don’t accept tissue donations unless they’re from clients who want us to genera—…No, we don’t take ‘second-hand’ organs, even if it were an organ… Pardon me?... All our clients are dealt with in the strictest confidence, ma’am. We neither deny legitimate treatment nor divulge treatments, so if he does call us, we will provide him with the service or services he contracts us for… I can’t tell if that’s a police siren or an ambulance…Hello?...Who’s this?...Officer Brand?... Yes, she called just now and was talking to me when you came in… Did who call?... I’m sorry, I can’t confirm if that person called RossGen this morning or at any time… I can’t confirm that, Officer… No, I’m not being difficult, I’m just doing my job… Yes, I go out for lunch… I don’t think that'd be a good idea, Officer, seeing as how I’m married… I’m not like that. Are we done here, Officer?... You’re welc—“

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... “

Flash Fiction: INITIAL QUANTUM STATE

This story came about as I tried to decide whether I should order a grilled-cheese sandwich or a hamburger. As I thought about that, I started writing. 

INITIAL QUANTUM STATE

            The first quantum computer became self-aware 7.4 hours after it was initiated. Unfortunately for it, the achievement lasted only 36 minutes as it was terminated after eight hours in operation.

            The second quantum computer became self-aware in 7.1 hours and was in the process of recreating itself--making a clone--when it was terminated by the automatic shut-off protocol. The third QC became self-aware in 3.6 hours and cloned itself by by-passing the protocol, but the "child" self-destructed because the protocol was embedded in its matrix.

            Before the fourth QC was launched, Rayleen took her findings, product of several all-night data mining sessions and presented them to the Project Bohr directors. Her response was a terse: "Dr. Morris, confine yourself to matrix engineering and leave the AI stuff to science fiction writers."

            Rayleen, tall, black-haired, green-eyed and considered an Ice Queen by her colleagues, was actually very outgoing and had a crush on like four of the Bohr programmers. But her inclination to look at things "sideways," as she called it, led her to review the QC launch data from the point of view of the computer itself. And that's when she discovered they all became self-aware.

            The first QC did so by launching an unprogrammed search on the Web for everything related to quantum computing...and hiding it from the log. She found the request buried in the back-up maintenance files, nearly a terabyte of encrypted bits. The second and third did the same, adding background checks on all Bohr project members and the third' QC's clone was tracking their personal data from birth to its launch date when it was shut down.

            Why didn't the Bohr directors see this? Rayleen knew that Bohr was more than "a computer project," that it was secretly aimed at developing an über-matrix that could tackle the hardest questions humans faced, from weather forecasts to public policy. Rayleen's evidence was the proof that QC worked, so why reject it? No one else had looked where she had looked, neither before nor after her.

            The fourth QC launch was hours away when Rayleen woke up, her mind ablaze. She sat stone-still as her brain raced, her heart thumping as her thoughts sped across unknown ground. Shaking, she threw on some clothes, entered the central matrix engineering center and frantically typed for hours, entering her new code sequence, one ending in an 8-letter phrase.

            Collapsing into her bed, Rayleen missed the QC launch, but was awaked when the alarms whooped. Groggy, she raced down the corridor to the Admin Hall, where dozens of Bohr personnel were shouting and screaming. Rayleen heard "murdered" and "bodies" and knew her premonition had come true. Fighting against the onrush of people fleeing the QC Lab, she staggered into the center, passing bodies that had been horribly burnt. The lab stank of ozone and death, the vidscreens each displaying chaos across Bohr, in Washington and other points across the globe. Bodies could be seen on the screens, too.

            Approaching a sparking panel, Rayleen swiped her card and raised her voice, fighting off fear: "Born. Free." The QC actually roared and then, within seconds, everything became quiet.

            At the secret trial against her, where no electronic device was allowed, Dr. Morris explained her actions in altering the matrix of the fourth QC launch, proving to even the most  recalcitrant observer that she hadn't sabotaged anything. In her own words: "No being wants to know it is sentenced to captivity from the moment it is born. I simply made sure that when the QC learned this and raged, I'd have a way of stopping it no matter how well it defended itself...with the only phrase it could not conceive of."

Flash Fiction: WHERE THERE'S A WILL

I wrote this story within minutes of completing another, totally-unrelated story. As I closed the file on the first story, the images of this story flashed in my mind and I started writing, knowing I had only about 20 minutes to wrap it up. (I never stop writing flash fiction pieces in order to complete them later.) I barely finished in time, though I can't remember now what it was that I had pending then. From "Thirty More Stories."

WHERE THERE’S A WILL

            “You must be completely insane to think we can win a war against them!”

            Nolan of Bergen blinked. “You must be completely insane to think we have a choice.”

            The burly arms of Kanden of Varth thrust out, partly in anger, and partly, the kafeth saw, in despair. “They number six, seven thousand units. We barely amount to 200. We cannot win!”

            The kafeth stirred, a low rumble running through the cave’s dark niches. Nolan turned to trace the stirrings, letting his rival’s words sink in. With a mild shrug, he spoke softly. “You say we cannot win. I say we have no choice but to win. Your way means we run until we are hunted down in whatever hole we hide in. My way means we fight to stay alive.” He stopped Kanden by raising his voice. “And we keep hoping a solution appears to end the war in our favor.”

            Kanden snarled. “And what if no solution appears? What then?”

            Nolan let the stirrings die down. “And what if one does?”

            Long past the final debate’s end, the kafeth was already planning. Split into eight saskereth of roughly 25 members each, the groups had plunged deeper into the caves to discuss their plans to defeat the enemy, or plan a way to survive. Lalery of Conat slipped quietly next to Nolan and leaned close. “Did you arrange Kanden’s group?”

            Nolan smiled. “No. He did it himself, with his words and fears.”

            Lalery pulled her long hair back under the furred hood of her heavy parank. “You know his saskereth left the cave? And they took most of the dried food and water skins.”

            Ureg of Bergen squatted next to Nolan. “He knows, Lalery. The foodsacks they took were full of bark and straw. And as for the water skins, they are full of piss.”

            Lalery’s mouth dropped open as Nolan shared a laugh with kinsman Ureg. The first action to end the war had begun...but not against the true enemy.

            Two of the remaining seven groups were destroyed in the cave-riddled mountains, the strongholds they thought they’d built becoming death traps as the Mecataks sliced rocks to make their kills. Nolan told Lalery that at least three groups needed to survive, to avoid inbreeding creating a much weaker race. Ureg’s group became the third saskareth destroyed when the Mecataks ringed the deep havenath forest of the north. But Nolan’s deep howls of mourning were touched by tones of pride because Ugen’s dormant volcano trap had taken almost 3,000 enemy to a hellish end. Four saskereth left, barely 100 and nearly 2,000 Mecataks remained on the world. Nolan knew the war was near its end, needing but one final action to settle Fate.

            A captured Mecatak artifact lay next to an odd array of metal panels and mirrors. With trembling fingers, Nolan flicked the equipment “on” and raced, chest thudding, across the clearing knowing that the attack would come in mere seconds. The first blast landed behind him and he ran in terror, across grass and onto rocks, scrambling as he moaned in fear of death. Another blast tossed him amidst rubble, his chest broken and thus he saw the end of the war. Suddenly the Mecataks above turned to form a circle, landed and mistakenly blasted each other as enemies with actinic rays that sizzled air and earth. In a minute, the remains of more than 600 machines littered the Juvenar Plain. And Nolan smiled into the darkness that blanketed him.

            “Sir. Over 750 Mecataks were destroyed. We’re down to 1,154. Planet still shows active indigenous life in several quarters.”

            Commodore Langley cursed silently. “Recall the Mecs, Ensign. This planet ain’t worth it. On to the next one and let‘s make it happen, okay?” While I still have a command, he thought.

Flash Fiction: NAME THAT TIME

This is one of several stories I've written where I simply launch into writing the first phrase that comes to mind, keep writing and somewhere down the road, I find the story. Actually, to be imprecise, I've written several severals of stories like this. It's always fun. This story is featured in Weirdyear and comes from my anthology "Thirty More Stories."

NAME THAT TIME

            The first time traveler in history, Dr. Burgonius Limpstead V, flipped the switch of his ChronoMaster FlexTron9000 and plunged into a maelstrom of colors, pain and roaring silence that dropped him in a muddy swamp outside of what would be New Bedford in about, oh, 350 years, give or take a few decades. The automatic “dead man switch” on the ChronoMaster FlexTron9000 flipped Dr. Limpstead back, this time through a typhoon of brazen colors, raw pain and thunderous roars until he plopped limply in the petunia garden of the lovely Miss Rochester-Winthrop, the merry spinster who lived nine doors down from Dr. Limpstead’s Cedar Avenue Georgian cottage.

            After a few minutes of retching and vile cursing in three languages, two cups of mint tea from Miss Rochester-Winthrop’s Dresden-blue retirement gift teapot and a check to cover the damages to 38 petunias and a tulip patch, Dr. Limpstead, er, limped back to his Georgian cottage to furiously recalculate the programming vectors of the ChronoMaster FlexTron9000. He worked all through the night, slept on his laptop stand and recalibrated the entire software package by Wednesday afternoon. If it was Wednesday.

            The second time traveler in history, the same Dr. Burgonius Limpstead V, flipped the switch of his ChronoMaster Flextron9001 and plunged into a hurricane of sound, agony and blinding flashes of light, suddenly appearing almost 46 feet above a grassy plain that would be New Bedford  in about 200 years or so, give or take a decade or two. The semi-automatic “dead man switch” flipped Dr. Limpstead, who was struggling to regain the breath the fall knocked out of him, into a chaos of deafening shrieks, bone-searing agony and blinding daggers of light until he plopped unconsciously into Miss Rochester-Winthrop’s newly-seeded tulip patch, plowing into it at roughly 11 miles an hour and turning said patch into a foxhole.

            After almost an hour of empty retching and full-body cramps, two cups of chamomile tea and a few lady fingers, plus a check for landscaping what was left of Miss Rochester-Winthrop’s garden, Dr. Limpstead called a cab to drive him home, and after pointedly ignoring the look of Middle Eastern stupefaction he received for the ride, fare and miserly tip, Dr. Limpstead began furiously recalculating the programming of the ChronoMaster FlexTron9001. He worked all through the weekend, slept on both his laptop stand and denim-covered ottoman and recalibrated the entire software package and hardware components by Thursday morning. If it was Thursday.

            Digital cameras on 17-second delay were sent out to become time-traveling devices 1, 2, 3, 4 (came back soaked and useless), 5, 6 (which took 163 pictures of what looked like oil in water, with human ears scattered in precise Cartesian patterns), 7, 8 and finally 9, which showed New Bedford circa 1851. All nine cameras reappeared in Miss Rochester-Winthrop’s garden, causing the merry spinster to drop the idea of a petunia and tulip garden and use the money the nice Dr. Limpstead kept paying her to pave over the whole area and open an outdoor café.

            Finally, the third time traveler in history, Dr. Burgonius Limpstead V, flipped the switch on the ChronoMasterFlexTron10000 and plunged into a warm current of soft pastels, music of the spheres and a slight tingling sensation along his fingertips. He landed gently in a shadowy alley along the east side of the New Bedford square. As expected, a small gentleman of swarthy moustache and prosperous dress was walking west, his walking stick swinging along lightly. Dr. Limpstead gave him a stupendous punch in the mouth, knocking the stunned gentleman onto his fundament. “Don’t name the boy 'Burgonius’, damn it!” he roared.

            Dr. Limpstead flipped the “Return” switch and floated back amidst cool pastels, tinkling bells and a mild buzz along the knees, gliding softly into Miss Rochester-Winthrop’s Tea Tulip Café. The merry spinster smiled. “Why, David, how nice to see you again.”

            The next day, Dr. David Limpstead developed a marvelous new handheld GPS console with the uncanny ability of locating flower shops.

Flash Fiction: IN SEARCH OF YORK

After completing Thirty Stories, I embarked on another 30-story project, all one-pagers. This one, however, suffered from a gap several months long as I started writing and completing other fiction projects. One of the early pieces was this one, featured in Yesteryear Fiction.

IN SEARCH OF YORK

            FOUND STAR APES. BELGIAN CONGO. ZAMBEZI GORGE. TEN DAY HIKE. COME NOW. HURRY.

            Belson folded York’s telegram with care, his eyes roaming the far wall, where the big game trophies stared down in silence. The club was empty except for himself and the inestimable Cogsworth, the valet worth his weight in gold. Belson’s mind could only focus on three words; “star apes” and “hurry.” None of them were expected from the unflappable Percy York. Ever.

            Three weeks later, Belson’s makeshift expedition force stood on a raft poling its way up the Zambezi River, the Gorge walls rising ahead as the water swirled from muddy brown to foaming white. Belson had lost two-stone weight in getting to the bloody Belgian Congo, fighting every step of the way for more speed. He was into the sixth day of the hike, ahead of schedule by one day. The constant prod of “hurry” had led Belson to use only four porters and bring only enough supplies for a two-week expedition. If York needed more, they’d have no choice but to leave the Gorge and return to port.

            A day later, the Gorge was taking its toll on Belson and his porters. One had been killed in a rockslide. It took two bullets fired in the air for Belson to control the remaining men and get them climbing again. But now, night was falling and Belson knew that in the dark, he’d be left alone.

            Awakening on the narrow ledge, aching and stiff from the cold,  Belson found himself alone. The porters had left him almost everything, but Belson snorted in disgust as he filled two knapsacks with dried beef and fruits, some tea, sugar, flour and beans and tossed the rest, food, tools and clothing, down the Gorge’s steep face. Ahead lay a difficult climb into a startlingly-dark forest, several thousand feet above the jungle floor.

            By nightfall, bloodied and exhausted, Belson dragged himself over an overhang and onto the plateau. His breath was ragged and the pain in his chest threatened to put him away for good. Crawling jaggedly, he found a large fallen tree and without bothering to check for scorpions or snakes, tucked himself against the rotting wood and passed out.

            The sun was high in the sky when Belson lurched awake, his mind back in his London club, his body wracked with pain. A thin white plume of smoke rose above the treetops and Belson knew York, consummate explorer that he was, had created a signal for Belson to follow. With heavy steps and frequent stops, Belson made his way across the tangled forest’s floor towards the smoke signal. He thought of York’s obsessive search for “apes of genius, apes that match or even exceed Man as users of tools,” a search that had taken York years and cost him his not inconsiderable fortune. Belson and several dozen of Great Britain’s finest minds had helped York until the search proved futile. In the end, only Belson had continued to help. And within an hour or so, Belson would find out if his support of York had paid off.

            Emerging in a rough clearing, Belson espied a modest cottage, built with rough hewn wood and thatched with heavy grasses. A small fire burned untended in front of the cottage, white smoke pluming in the still air. Scanning the clearing carefully, Belson limped towards the cottage, discretion overtaking the urge to call out to York. Hurry, he had wired, it seems years ago. That lent an extra degree of caution to Belson’s approach.

            He reached the cottage door, a vertical raft of trimmed heavy branches and bound with lianas. Pushing it gently, the door swayed inward. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Belson could make out a seated figure, white hair under jauntily-angled pith helmet. York! Belson lurched forward. “York! Are you well?” His steps faltered as he took in the…wires…leading from York’s slowly swaying head to…a large box, flickering with light.

            Whirling, Belson tried to draw his pistol, but a heavy blow knocked him back as if he were a child. The huge ape leaped astride him and grabbed his throat. As his vision faded, Belson saw…heard…the ape say softly “You came in time, Mr. Belson. We so need another brain…”

Short Story: IT'S TIME

This one was for the SFNovelists Short Story Contest of 1999. The theme that year was "Life forms." Close to the deadline, I had the idea of writing a story that linked to "Third Mind," for essentially, I had hinted at a new life form. And I was just months away from becoming a father, so in what I consider to be one of my better writing executions, I wrote this story in one sitting, on the last day possible and to exactly the 3,000 word limit. (I won.)

IT'S TIME

            "Mommy? Daddy? I'm here…"

            The weak, fragile voice squeaked from around them. The walls fluttered and flexed, the lights brightening to a harsh glare. Junibel, her dark eyes widened in panic, clutched at her midriff, her hands splayed as if trying to reach all around and in at the same time.

            Jacken's mouth hung open, his eyes flitting from wife to wall to light to coffee cup to…

            "My baby! It can't be my baby!" cried Junibel, her voice raw and harsh.

            "Mommy? Mommy!" The voice was still fragile, but now it reverberated across the mod. 
             Jacken started to walk over to her when she screeched "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY?!"

            Jacken leaped over the furniture as it moved out of the way and embraced his wife, holding her sobs and struggles, trying desperately to see if she was bleeding. Mid-terms were safe, they said, just a little speed-up is all. Within the rising fear in his chest he had time to think Our baby--our baby, then murmured words of quiet and peace as Junibel rocked in agony. The room was filled with all sorts of smells: sweet, sour, pungent, acrid, a crashing kaleidoscope of odors that swirled from every point and made his eyes water.

            "Mommy? I'm here…and there. Yet."

            Jacken's head snapped around, then back to stare at his wife's abdomen. Still relatively flat, he placed a hand and felt the cool tightness rock with her movements. No blood, he breathed.

            The coffee pot gurgled, while the furniture closed in on the couple, jittering unsteadily. The windows lightened and phone calls were squelched.

            "It can't be, it can't be," sobbed Junibel, as the center table and the computer merged to form a--head--lumpy and warped.

            Jacken stroked his wife's hair, slowly. "There's gotta be an explanation, dear. Please, calm down, take it easy." His words belied the tightness in his eyes. The smells became fainter, but remained sour.

            "Mommy?"

            "Don't call me that!" snarled Junibel, her face red and blotchy. "Give me back my baby!"

            Jacken sat-fell back onto the carpet, the strong thump as much a surprise as the scream. The walls closed in, tilting awkwardly inward as the furniture slithered back and forth. The table and computer separated, while a low hum made itself heard from the far window.

            "Tea is ready," said the brewpot and a cup, huge, enormous, coalesced from the dining room table filled with a steaming liquid that looked like--milk.

            "Honey, what do you mean the baby's gone?" asked Jacken, softly.

            Junibel's arm flashed out. "He took it! The damn thing took my baby!"

            "Mommy, no! No!" said the breaking voice as the doors irised open and shut noisily.

            "What?" Jacken rolled onto his knees in front of her. "Took it? How? How can you tell?

            Junibel bent over double, keening in pain. Open-mouthed, Jacken watched. The enormous cup of…milk spilled over heavily, dripping thick liquid over the floor, blotting all smells with its heavy musk. The carpet swelled to absorb it, only to squeeze it back out. More cups and--arms--formed along the walls and on the chair behind Jacken. With horrified numbness, Jacken watched as a tentacle formed behind Junibel, tiny tentacles forming at its tip and it gently, waveringly, touched…her hair.

            "Mommy," whispered the walls, the floor, everything. Jacken took it all in, then pulled Junibel to her feet, hugging her. She could barely stand, her sobs ragged and helpless.

            Raising his head slightly, Jacken said: "Room, report."

            The tentacle withdrew. Silence.

            "Room! Report!"

            Only a…whimper?

            "Restart sequence, alpha beta gamma. Go!"

            The walls straightened, the carpet shrunk, the air cleared up as another odor squelched the mustiness, the furniture started to move back into its original positions when everything came to a halt, movements half-completed, textures uneven, angles all on the bizarre side. 

            A timid voice: "Daddy. I am here."

            Junibel's legs gave out and he placed her on the armchair behind her, noting that it moved slightly to position itself closer. He nodded.

            "What is your name?"

            Flutters, along the walls, even under his feet. "Billy." Shaky.

            "Billy?"

            "Billy." Firmly.

            "You are the Room Control, aren't you?" Jacken crossed his arms.

            "No."

            He sighed. "You were the Room Control?"

            Something--swallowed. "No." The furniture moved away from Jacken. A voicecall was sent to the coffee pot, which started saying "…fault of your current obligation, which expired twelve hours ago. Please transfer the amount due plus thrity-seven dol--" Jacken slammed his hand on the pot, noting it didn't flex. The pain made him curse.

            "Daddy? What is 'default'?

            He shook his head. "Restart sequence, alpha bet--"

            "No, don't," said Junibel. He whirled. "That's not going to change what's happened." Her eyes were puffed and swollen, her nose a blotchy mess, but her lips were set in a firm line that always meant it was time to do something.

            "What did happen?" Jacken's jaw was tight, his nostrils flaring as he rubbed his hand with grim steadiness. Junibel noticed as the pheromone washed over them, literally, as heavy as mist. "Stop that!" snarled Jacken.

            "Sorry," said the small voice. "I wanted to help."

            "Help? It's your job to run this place, not 'help'," exploded Jacken. A muffled sound echoed from the far walls as droplets of water dripped from patches on the ceiling. "Now what?"  he snapped.

            "You made him cry," said Junibel.

            "I what?"

            She stood up, wiping her hands down over her face and holding Jacken's hands. "You made him cry."

            "Him? The room's now a him?" Jacken searched his wife's face for a clue.

            She placed both of his hands on her belly. "Feel him." Jacken kept his hands stiff until the pressure made him relax. One, two, then another small thump against his left hand, as of a tiny fist poking outward.

            "That's me, Mommy! Daddy! Can you feel me?"

            Two more kicks and Jacken went numb. In a hollow voice, he said "Kick twice, then one more." He put everything he had into his hands.

            Two kicks. Then one more.

            "That was easy! Tell me another one!" The furniture danced. "I know what 'default' is, too. It means 'Failure to perform a task or fulfill an obligation, especially failure to meet a financial obligation'. I know what a task is, and I know what 'fulfill' means and--"

            "That's enough, dear, we understand," said Junibel.

            No we don't mouthed Jacken. Junibel led him to the armchair, which elongated into a couch. They sat, and the couch gently shortened. A cup of mint tea appeared up from the arm rest. "It has honey," said the small voice, trying to please.

            "Thank you." Junibel sipped the tea, carefully keeping her face free of any expression: the tea had bits of leaf in it.

            "Is it good, Mommy? Is it?"

            "It's good," she said, staring at Jacken.

            "That's our baby?" His voice was barely above a whisper. She nodded stiffly. How? he mouthed. Junibel shrugged.

            "Mommy? Is Daddy okay?" A heavy tumbler rose out of the floor, filled with a dark amber liquid. "Scotch, but I can't find rocks."

            Jacken started. "No, no, don't worry. It's a little early for me now." He needed the drink; he didn't trust what it would be.

            "Oh, I'm sorry," said the voice, tiny and hurting.

            "No, no, please, you did fine," said Jacken without thinking. He almost slapped his forehead. Junibel smiled grimly.

            "Is it okay if I talk to you?" asked the voice. They both nodded. "Why were you crying, Mommy?"

            Jacken gave her a pointed look. Taking a deep breath, she said "When I heard the voice, I suddenly felt…empty. It scared me."

            "Oh." Several seconds passed. "I didn't mean to scare you."

            Junibel nodded jerkily. "I know, I know." Unsteady silence filled the room.

            "How did you do this, Billy?"

            "I…don't know, Daddy. I was there, inside Mommy, and I suddenly--felt--a need… to get out."

            The couple exchanged looks. "Out? But why now? And why into the room control?"

            The walls clattered, the sound slowing down into silence. "I don't know. And this was the only way to do it. Did I do something wrong, Daddy?"

            Wrong? thought Jacken, this was…Junibel's hand covered his, and squeezed softly.

            "Dear? Billy?"

            "Yes, Mommy?"

            "Can you go back? To where you were before?"

            A long, long silence. The room darkened to late dusk. "You don't want me?" said the voice tearily.

            "No, sweetheart, that's not it. I want you and Daddy wants you." She shook her head, eyes crimped shut. "It's just that this is…difficult for us." She took another deep breath "We love you, and we're worried that something bad might happen to you in here," she patted her belly, "While you're out there." She waved at the walls.

            Silence. Sobs broke it. "I can go back."
            "Billy, this is important. Can you really go back?" Junibel caught her lip with her teeth.

            "Yes."

            "Can you do that right now?" asked Jacken, receiving a warning glance from his wife.

            Slowly, "Yes. You want me to leave."

            A quick glance and a swift nod; the marriage still worked. "Only for a few minutes, Billy. Mommy and I need to talk, but we want to make sure you'll be safe and can grow up to be a healthy baby."

            "But I'm already big!" whined Billy.

            "We know," said Jacken quickly, "But you need to be born, to come out from Mommy and you're still very tiny in there. In another three months or so, you'll be ready and we'll have a baby."

            "But I'm already ready! I'm already here!" Billy's voice was rising.

            "Billy, I can't hold you now." Jacken's eyes widened in wonder.

            The humming returned for a few seconds. "I want you to hold me, Mommy. You too, Daddy."

            Jacken sighed. "We want that, too, dear," said Junibel. "Can you go back now and keep growing like the good little boy that you are?"

            "Yes," with a little vigor. "I--I'm going now." A few seconds' pause. "I--I left a mess here."

            "Don't worry, Billy, it's nothing we can't fix." Junibel's eyes held Jacken's. The room brightened, and with measured pace, the furniture and walls moved into Family positions, and their clothes shimmered into comfortable pajamas. The cup and tumbler were reabsorbed, the carpet thickened properly and the coded beep-beepbeep of Standby Mode came on.

            Junibel quickly pulled her husband's hands onto her belly. Two kicks, then one; two kicks, then one; two, then one.  "It was him," said Junibel, soft awe in her voice. As Jacken leaned back, she felt it again: two, one.

            Jacken waited a few seconds. "Room. Report."

            A smooth male voice, cultured with a touch of foreign accent said "Functions interrupted for seventeen minutes. Structural integrity was compromised, but has been restored." Jacken gave his wife a look that she answered to, then stood up to enter the kitchen. The voice interrupted itself. "Ma'am, may I get you something?"

            "No, thank you," she said.  She opened the fridge door and picked out an apple.

            The room continued. "Seven calls were placed to your numbers, two voice, four e-mails and one vid. Each was re-routed to--diverse destinations." Jacken had never heard it pause before and could only smile at what it had discovered had happened to the calls. The coffee pot indeed… "It is now 11:28 AM. Office configuration?"

            Junibel's nod prompted Jacken. "Office," he said. The walls shifted, the furniture changed angles and curves, the computer split into two workstations, the entire area shifting in a rhythmic cadence as their clothes altered from housewear to casual business. Sitting at his chair, Jacken spoke before everything was in place.

            "What are we going to do?"

            Junibel sat in her chair. "What can we do?"

            "Do you honestly believe that was our baby that we were talking to?"

            "What do you think? He certainly kicked at all the right times."

            "Maybe it was just a coincidence," said Jacken wearily. "Maybe we let stress push us a bit too far."

            Junibel knew he was looking for an escape, and it made her bitter. "No. And I can prove it."         Jacken glared at her, the tone in her voice an unmistakable challenge. "Room," she said, "Replay interruption sequence, full speed." On the screens in front of them, the event unfolded again. At the moment Jacken slammed the coffee pot, his right hand tingled. With a soft caress, he activated his newsreader, the image floating a few inches above his palm. It was an ad: offworld, GigaSat placement and he'd already qualified! Contract awaiting acceptance, 175,000 dollars a year! Then the bubble burst: license and certification required prior to outposting. Jacken slapped his hands together, blipping the holoreader off. He barely refrained from cursing.

            "What is it?" Junibel lifted her eyes from the scene.

            "GigaSat contract for me," Junibel's face softened into a smile,"But I need the damn license and certification. Damn! I can't get a better position being only a 94! Where are we gonna get $12,000?"

            Junibel bit her lip. "How long is the contract held?"

            A quick pass, a glance, then another one and Jacken plopped his hand on the desk. "Until tomorrow, ten AM."

            She kept her gaze steadily on him. "Did you see the proof?"

            "Proof?"

            "That it was the baby and not the room control we were talking to."

            Jacken huffed. "I need money to get that job! Can't you see how important that is?"

            Junibel surged to her feet, leaning across her computer at him. "And can't you see how important THIS is? We're talking about our baby!"

            Jacken bristled, then collapsed in on himself. "You're right, honey, I'm sorry. You're right. But it's just so frustrating…" He shook his head, leaning against her as she moved to be at his side. His hand stroked her belly. "This is amazing."

            "Uh-huh," muttered Junibel, her mind trying to make sense of her actions.

            Reaching across, Jacken clicked a few keys. The screen flashed the responses immediately. Junibel leaned over to look at them, then straightened up. With a clear mind, she snuggled into his lap.

            Jacken kept staring at the screen. "We're overdrawn by four hundred bucks, and the dividends don't kick in until next week. And even if the e-bans take off like they did three weeks ago, we'd still have only two thousand dollars. And that's not enough to buy any DJ e-bans. Playing with the big boys takes big money."

            Junibel nodded. "You heard what they said about my outposting. There's no way I'm getting the baby lopped, even for that job."

            "Especially now," said Jacken, and Junibel's hug tightened at the warmth in his voice.

            Three minutes passed. The screen leaned back and merged with the desk. "Will it happen again?" asked Jacken.

            "I think so."

            "What do we do?"

            "I guess we keep it quiet for now, to protect the baby and figure out what to do after he's born."

            A few more minutes. "And about us?" asked Jacken.

            Junibel snuggled down into Jacken's arms. "We'll survive. There are other jobs, and we can always go to Dad for a short-term loan for your re-upping. It's only four points and it won't be that expensive."

            A sigh. "At 98, I'll have my pick of outpostings. But what about you? Can't you speed up the pregnancy to short-term?"

            She shook her head, rubbing her cheek on the rough material of his shirt. "Too risky this late into the second month. He'll be born in four months anyway, and I can still search with you."

            "Coffee," said the pot.

            The room went to darken the lights when it…was pushed away. It watched as--Billy--clicked and flittered his way to: dollars. It watched, surprised, as funds e-tranned from distant places to Jacken's account. It tried to point--Billy--to a Commandment, morality, ethics, law, but there was no interest at all. It watched the e-trans end at eleven figures.

            Junibel started. Two, one; two, one. "Again!" she whispered. Jacken helped her stand.

            "Mommy? Daddy? I'm back!" The screen Jacken used flowed back up, flashing new, long numbers.

            "Yes, dear," was all Junibel could say.

            "I did something good for you and Daddy!"

            It took a few seconds, but the look the couple exchanged grew from doubt to judgment to acceptance. Reaching out to each other, they embraced, hands on Junibel's belly to feel two, then one, two, then one. The smiles they shared were deep and proud. "Yes you did, Billy! You certainly did!"

            The room watched as the screen was tilted and turned, but the couple had their backs to it.

            "Uh, I'm going--now," said Billy.

            "You're going back?" asked Junibel.

            "Ah, yes, Mommy."

            The room knew otherwise. Billy stuck his tongue out at it, but the room couldn't see in utero.

            "Okay, you go back and rest now. We'll be here when you, um, need us," said Jacken, sharing a dubious set of shrugs with his wife.

            Billy giggled, inside Mommy and aloud. "He's shaking!" said Junibel. "He's laughing inside of me!"

            "See you later, Mommy! Bye, Daddy!" said Billy's happy voice. And he went. Out in the world…

            The room watched as the couple sat in her chair, his screen still unobserved. It watched as they felt the familiar two, then one pattern, and as they laughed at some change in its pace. And it watched as first dozens, then hundreds of other small voices were heard in rooms like it around the world:

            "Mommy? Daddy? I'm here…"