E.C. Stever

NON METALLIC

Nonmetallic

The metal-man wore a thin coat, ignorant of the winter wind that tore the heat from the rest of us. When I saw him, I wanted to rush over, punch him on the arm, tell him to put on his winter clothes like everybody else. Only I didn’t do that. I just watched him walk.

It was snowing in circles that day. The cat had gotten out, brushing past my skirt and jumping over our fence before I could even yell her name. Mom said I had better go fetch her because of the snow. But I knew she was more worried about the few drivers left on the roads. People who still had running cars didn’t bother with traffic laws anymore; there was no one left to ticket them.

Mom promised to tell the other girls I would be late for cheerleading practice, so I had headed out to Main Street, rattling the cat-treats can as I walked. I was halfway through the alley when I saw him: the metal-man, the Metallic, whatever you want to call him. He’d been gone for over a year.

He still scuffed his feet the way I remembered, but his posture was better. And even through the wet snow I could see his skin had cleared up. Last year I used to wash my face twice a day because I thought maybe bad skin was in my genes too. I remember how red and awful he used to look, his face dry and greasy at the same time.

I followed him down the street for a while, walking past the Owl Club, where some of the old high school kids were hanging out. I could see them through the front window, a group of five or six lounging around a table. Their faces were red, and they were laughing, but I couldn’t tell what the joke was about.

These were the ones that who stayed, trapped either by love or gravity, like my Dad said. But the hand that held them wasn’t gentle. It pulled and stretched them; twisting their faces, bending their backs over stools in the old Owl Club, day after day. They lived life like their fathers had at the turn of the millennium, when men were still needed and computers were kept in boxes, separate from our thoughts. But that had all fallen away and nobody had to work at the mine anymore. Unless they wanted to.

The door of the club shoved open, and Chuck Carver stumbled out, almost knocking me over. He was still wearing his high school varsity jacket, from the last year they fielded a basketball team. The captain’s pin had tarnished to green, and the jacket had cracks around the elbows, like gray spiderwebs.

He fumbled around his coat pocket, and dropped his keys. “Oh heyyy kiddo,” he said to me. His voice was slow and sleepy.

“Hi Chuck,” I said. “I’m looking for Marna, she got out again.” I looked in the window of the Owl Club, as if she would have gotten in there somehow.

“No dice,” Chuck said. He reached down into the snow and grabbed his keys, flicking the snow onto the sidewalk. “Haven’t seen her all morning.”

He looked across the street, directly at the metal-man, and I waited for the curse, his disgusted chuckle. But he didn’t say a word, not even a joke at our homegrown Metallic’s expense.

I started to speak, but he cut me off.

“Careful now,” Chuck said. “You stay out here too long, you’ll freeze your butt.” He grinned at me. “Have to replace it with aluminum cans, like those freaks down at the Centers.”

Chuck walked toward the parking lot. I heard him drop his keys again and say a dirty word. A minute later his truck skidded out, jumped a curb, and was gone down 4th Street.

Off in the distance, I could hear the grinding gears of an old eighteen wheeler, as it trudged from the mine a few miles away. About once every hour the trucks would grumble down the main street of town, loaded almost full with leached copper. They drivers didn’t like downshifting to pass through our town, but they’d wave back and smile when we waved to them. Maybe, like us, they were just happy to be working again. Happy there were still roads for them to drive, things people needed.

The metal-man I was following had almost reached the corner, and was about to turn up the hill. I found myself running, not wanting to lose sight of him again.

“If you’re lost, I could draw you a map,” I yelled across the street, surprising myself. “Do you have a postage stamp?” That was our old joke, from when we were kids. The cold air hurt my throat a little as I said the words, but I couldn’t help it. I had to talk to him.

The metal-man turned. He grinned, with the same goofy smile he’d had in his yearbook pictures. I could see they’d fixed his teeth, and he had a better haircut, but his face was the same. I exhaled. He was still my brother Jaime.

The lump on Jaime’s neck wasn’t too noticeable; the metal beneath pushed up the skin about a quarter of an inch but there wasn’t any scar. I was glad he didn’t have an “open adaptation” with the metal on the outside, but it was still weird seeing him as a Metallic.

“What are the odds that I should run into you, in this burgeoning metropolis, population 1,008?” Jaime asked. Another old joke. Another pang in my heart.

“It’s 1,007 now,” I said with a laugh. The metropolis, that’s what Jaime always called Ruby Hill, with its one grocery store, and half of not much else. Except now when he said the words they sounded a little different. Like maybe he was sad to have to use them.

I took one step toward him, then stopped. “You never called.”

Jaime nodded. “I did call… and write, and even sent a paper letter a few times. It’d be easier to reach you if you had nodes,” he said, touching his neck. Jaime looked down at the ground, scuffing his foot in a patch of ice. “I didn’t think they’d tell you about it.”

“The cat got out,” I said. I didn’t know what to tell him. Mom and Dad were still mad at him, Dad more than Mom, I thought. So that’s the stupid thing my human brain came up with. I talked about the cat.

“Marna never would keep in,” Jaime said, as if the cat was all we had to talk about after a year. “I could find her if you want.” He stared at me from across the street, and just beneath his smile I glimpsed someone else, another Jaime. But this one wasn’t laughing. He was itching to show me what he could do.

I thought about it, wanting to see if the stories were true about the Metallics and their magic, but I shook my head. That lump on his neck scared me.

“Dad’ll find out,” I said. “Besides, Marna will come back home when she gets hungry.”

Jaime shrugged, the stranger in him disappearing. Poof. Magic.

I walked down the street towards the end, where the old pizza place was. Jaime walked along with me on the other side of the street.

“The pizza place is gone too,” he said. Then he looked up as if remembering. “What do you guys do on pizza Thursdays?”

I nodded toward the grocery. “Franklin’s has some frozen ones that aren’t too bad.”

“Not too good either,” Jaime said. Another one of Dad’s jokes.

I stood at the corner and looked at the old newspaper box, the kind that still took payment cards. My back was to Jaime. The paper inside was five years old and wrinkled, from back when people still had to read about things that happened instead of just knowing them all at once; back when they were still keeping track. “New Adaptation Installations On Upswing In 2028” a large caption blurted, and below it was the familiar picture of the first adaptee back in ’25, the before and after surgery pictures when man first became machine.

Next to that story, and much smaller, was another: “U.E. Gov’t Confirms First Non-Metallic Reservation”. The top paragraphs gushed about the religious riots, the establishment of Tech-Free Zones, but I couldn’t make out the rest of the story. Not that it mattered much anymore. I lived in those words now.

I heard Jaime scuffling across the street, and I turned around to watch him come towards me. One of the trucks from the mine was grumbling and grunting down the street, but he didn’t seem to notice it. The truck should have started slowing down, but it didn’t, even though Jaime was in the crosswalk and had right-of-way.

I gave a sort of half yell, because I was pretty sure he wouldn’t get hit, but that only made Jaime stop in the street and turn to look behind him, like I was joking.

The truck kept coming, and I yelled again, this time a real one. Jaime must have seen in my face that I wasn’t kidding because he sort of squinted his eyes, like he was trying to figure something out. He used to do that when I would beat him in Monopoly, or Battleship, or Checkers. Like he couldn’t believe it had happened.

His head snapped to the right, and the smile of the old Jaime faded away, leaving only the cold smooth face of a stranger. With a jerk, his body shot across the street, but not before the grill of the truck slammed into his right leg. He spun around, falling to the ground with a cry.

I screamed and yelled at the driver, and he smiled and waved at me, like nothing had happened. The truck moved down the street, toward the grocery where my neighbor, Mrs. Garnet, was trying to cross, and it came to a squealing stop. The driver waved impatiently at her, and she scurried across the street, bags in hand.

I ran over to Jaime. He was hunched over his leg, his back all twisted, bent in the wrong places. He rocked back and forth, humming to himself, talking in some strange language.

I put my arms around him, but there was nothing I could do. Jaime lifted up the leg of his pants, and I could see the tiny little bugs squirming around his skin, eating the blood away, straightening the leg, bit by bit.

“Stupid,” Jaime gasped. “My own fault.” He grinned at me, and I could see blood on his teeth. But there were swarms of bugs even there, clacking away, cleaning him.

I tried to push away, afraid the bugs would come to me, get inside me too. “You can’t die,” I whispered. But I didn’t know if the words meant I hoped he would live, or that I was afraid for him, afraid he never could die.

Then, Jaime’s arms were around me, holding me. I looked into his face and I saw the old Jaime. But the other one, the smooth faced one, was still in his eyes, waiting.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. His breath didn’t smell bad like it did before he left. He twisted his body toward me, and I could see he could move his back now, just a little. “I left my… We have things that make it so you can’t see us. To make it easier on you.” He grinned again, like he’d just forgotten to lock the back door, instead of ending up a heap of jumbled bones on the pavement. “I left mine on.”

I shook my head, not understanding. I was afraid to touch him, but when I hugged him back, I didn’t feel the bugs, the little metal lice crawling on his skin. He was just Jaime again.

“But I can see you,” I said. “I see you now and I saw you get hit…”

Jaime laughed nervously. “The brain sees, not the eyes,” he said. “You know me, that’s why you can see me.” He laughed again, but the notes were off-key.

I hugged him tight, my right arm around his neck, feeling the metal they had put there when he got his adaptation. I hugged him tight like I used to when I got scared or hurt, and just for a second, he was my big brother again.

“The truck hit you, and those bugs—” I said, the words tumbling out. Then I got quiet—ashamed.

“We’re trying to make things as normal for you as we can,” Jaime said, his voice was steady now, not all wavery like mine was. “But the trucks and the mine and copper to China… that’s just pretend, no one needs that anymore. Things are different now, people are different. We’ve transcended—” he paused. “We finally grew up.”

The sun peeked out of the snow clouds, reflecting gold off of the old slumped store windows. I was shivering, but I could tell that Jaime wasn’t even cold, he didn’t even need his jacket. I didn’t let go of him because I knew that when I did, I would always miss him. When I let him go, he’d never be my big brother again.

“Everything’s so hard now,” I said, and then maybe I cried a little. Just a few tears, but I didn’t know what for. “I don’t want to work in the mine. Or hang out at the Owl Club. I don’t want—”

“I could make it better,” Jaime whispered, “I could take you with me, back to Las Vegas. The surgery doesn’t even hurt—”

“No,” I said, trying to push away from him. But his grasp was strong, stronger than it ought to have been.

“I’ll show you wonders,” Jaime said, and he gave me his old smile, the daring one he had used that time we stole Uncle John’s fireworks.

Jaime placed something round and cold in my hand, and told me to relax. I struggled against him, trying to open my hand, but his grip was iron. I felt a shock run up my arm, and then, just like he had promised, I could see.

The sky was full of glistening metal orbs, some that hovered above us, some that moved too quickly for my eyes to follow. An orb just above my head fastened its black round eyes on me, zoomed in closer, then darted away, taking off into the sky. Another scampered on thin metal legs into the post office, following an old man like his pet dog.

One of the old ladies who sang in church walked right past a group of blank-faced men with metal jutting from their necks, all three dressed in some sort of brightly colored cloth that shifted patterns as the wind blew. A triad of open-adaptations, but even scarier than I had imagined; metal monsters with the faces of men.

They floated above the ground, standing stiff and unmoving on wafer thin platforms. Only their eyes seemed alive. One of them moved his platform to within inches of the woman’s face, sniffing at her like he was trying to smell her perfume. But, if she noticed, she gave no sign, and merely continued into the store, to buy whatever canned vegetables were on sale.

In the distance I could see the truck moving past the edge of town, the metal orbs flitting around it, like flies on a carcass. The truck came to a turnabout, one I hadn’t seen before, and stopped. The driver got out, and another moved into his place, emerging from a tunnel jutting from the ground just behind the old billboard that was hand-painted to read, “Jesus Saves”.

“Your truck drivers,” Jaime said softly in my ear. “They think they’ve been driving a full shift.”

I looked around Ruby Hill. On every corner, in every store, the silent strangers stood, some hovering, some waving their strange machines over the people from our town. The townspeople were oblivious to it as they talked and laughed in line at the grocery store, as they checked their mail at the post office. But the strangers were there, so close we could touch them.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anything. “No more,” I said. “Jaime, no more. They’re spying on us. Why did you let them spy on us?”

“Not me,” he whispered, “I’ve only just started. Some people have been Adapted for a decade.” I could tell from his voice, he was excited. “A decade! Their brains are hundreds of years developed in… computational terms. Each year they integrate, create better connections, and then jump even farther ahead.” He smiled at me. “Their minds are beyond our horizons. Who knows why they choose to visit Ruby Hill.”

He took the egg from my hand, and I opened my eyes. Ruby Hill was normal again.

“But you let them,” I said, blinking away tears. “This is your town.”

“I told you,” Jaime said, “we’ve transcended this. Ruby Hill is a museum to them now, there’s no life here.”

He looked into my eyes, the new Jaime, his smile curious and cold. “Come with me, back to Las Vegas,” he said. “There’s no future here for you. After a year, we’ll come back for Mom—”

I shook my head. I could feel something, a vibration rattling inside of my chest. My whole body began to shake, even my arms clasped around Jaime’s neck. I shook him and cried, and then all of a sudden I was running down the alley, on my stupid old-fashioned legs. Legs that would still break if a truck hit them.

I heard the metal egg clatter to the ground, and I hoped it would shatter, cause a short circuit, ruin all their stupid computers and machines. I hoped it would blow up everything, and they’d get what they deserved for spying on us, for laughing with their eyes.

Jaime yelled after me, but I turned the corner and I couldn’t hear him, didn’t want to hear him. When I got back to my house, the tears had dried and I knew Mom wouldn’t be able to tell I had been crying. Marna was waiting for me on the front step. I scooped her up and walked inside the house where it was warm and dry.

I closed my eyes and tried to forget what I had seen. Were they here, even now, I wondered? Watching, sniffing the air I breathed, waving their wands over me to steal my secrets?.

I froze, picturing their faces, their laughing bland faces. A thought returned to me, faster than I could push it away: I had been able to see Jaime. But the truck driver had not.

The brain sees, not the eyes, Jaime had said to me, and he’d laughed, just a little. But I knew that laugh; it was nervous; it was his tell when he cheated at Monopoly.

I ran to the bathroom and thrust my neck close to the mirror. It was there, small but noticeable. A new mole. A small patch of skin that raised up above the rest. Not an adaptation like theirs but something else. A collar to keep us in place.

I knew then that Jaime’s trick—how I saw him—was just a flick of a switch to them. A switch inside of me. This was no Tech-Free reservation. Even here, despite all their promises, they could not resist. There was metal in us all.

I began to scream and cry, but my mother didn’t hear, didn’t come. Maybe they made it so she didn’t come. I huddled down in the bathtub, drawing the curtain closed, hoping the strangers wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t take me away for what I knew.

Forty minutes later the flow of tears dried up. From the bathroom window, I heard another truck as it rolled down the street, grumbling its goodbye to Ruby Hill. I could hear its brakes squealing as it slowed down and then finally, came to a stop.

The shower curtain rustled, just once, and I knew I was not alone.

I closed my eyes and waited for the wonders my future would bring.

END

(A Late) Introduction

If you write and publish short stories over a decade, certain themes or archetypal ideas develop and are pretty obvious in retrospect. These ideas reverberate through your stories, but are nearly invisible during the creation process. Only during editing (or usually years later), do you see the connection. The author is often the last to know.

Looking through my science fiction stories from the last decade, I can see some strong themes relating to consciousness, family, and a fumbling attempt to describe what it means to be human. Since I am also an archaeologist, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was.

What is happening is clear: There are non-speaking parts of our brains that demand to be heard. This is why we create art. And this is also why we dream (read the final essay for more discussion). Our brains have something to communicate, and transmitting it through consciousness mucks it up. Think about it. Have you ever described a piece of art as “too self-conscious” or “forced”? That’s what I mean. Consciousness mucks it up.

Art is important to us, because it’s one method of external (but non-verbal) communication with other brains. We have other things we do too, but art is interesting because it’s also your brain’s way of crystallizing that communication into a physical form. Art allows you to speak to brains in the future, and to influence brains which you may never meet. How sneaky we creative types are!

And these creative processes are great, because they can tell you what you are thinking about. When you try to write a book with a boring but popular plotline (Sexy vampires! In Mesopotamia!), no one buys it. Just like when you try to get a degree in a subject you should like (Maybe I should become a doctor/lawyer/high-status-job-title!), you fall flat. That’s because you are being inauthentic. Your brain just isn’t interested. And when you produce tepid results. nobody else is interested either. Humans crave authenticity. We are mobile bullshit detectors.

So what has my brain been up to these last ten years? During this period, I shifted from computer programming to archaeology (yes NASA, I am the ideal programmer-archaeologist you’ve been looking for). Given that, it’s really no surprise I’m interested in technology and consciousness. This collection addresses the themes of near-future humanity, family relationships, and the upcoming singularity (when humans merge their consciousness with non-human objects).

I have several stories about this, so I tried to select evenly between humorous and dystopian. I also didn’t want a blathering collection (here’s thirty stories I wrote; now pay me!) and I didn’t want the unsatisfying piecemeal of publishing individual short stories either. Instead, I’ve gathered up a handful of stories that deal with this specific issue and bundled them into a collection. Other collections of my short stories in the fantasy and humor genres will follow soon.

So what interests me about this sub-genre of science fiction?

It has to do with myths.

We don’t have the necessary myths to deal with the future, so we create science fiction. You can define a myth as a useful pattern of behavior that has a verifiable result in the real world, and that has been useful for a long time. A myth either tells you how to act, or how not to act, and (I think) we evolved these myths over millions of years. If you followed the good behavior outlined in these myths, then you were more likely to survive.

The singularity is coming. As a species, we don’t have any agreed upon patterns of behavior (myths) to deal with these foreseeable future events. Science fiction is our way of fumbling around these issues, of trying out solutions to problems that we can predict will occur. Such an anxious genre! But I think it’s ok to be anxious, because we know the problems are coming, yet we don’t have solutions. Maybe the old ways will work. Maybe not.

Some of the questions we’re struggling with, that are addressed in this collection:

• At what point will technologically enhanced humans be considered a different species? (Nonmetallic; Judas Horse; Bob-Ten)

• How will we communicate with other intelligences, and confront the changes which aliens bring to our world? (Bob-Ten; Time Without Roads; Catch_All)

• Does our concept of family make sense in the future? (Nonmetallic; Judas Horse)

• Is there only one type of intelligence, or are there several? (All Stories)

• Finally: Why are these damned AIs always trying to kill us? (Catch_All)

The Judas Horse

Readers have asked me if this is the same character from the previous story (Nonmetallic), later in life. I believe that it is, but in this story, she gets her revenge on the world that has caged her. This must be Young Adult, because the entire story is about tearing down societal structures and starting over. And I loved writing the ending.

Many times I have no idea what will happen at the end, which makes for long, cascading revisions, but more fun first drafts. The process of finding out, and then locating the hidden messages in the text (clues from my non-speaking brain), is pretty much why I write. I’m always interested to find out what happens at the end.

Warning: I wrote this early in my career and this is a brutal story, especially the first scene. I don’t think I could write something like this today, since I am now a father to young children. There’ s nothing gratuitous or excessive or weird, but since this is post-apocalyptic, there is death. It bothers me. Probably because, it’s true.

Emma edged the police cruiser around the line of smashed vehicles that blocked the road through the Mojave desert. The boxy vehicles were dark, their batteries run low from calling for help that could not come. The fall rains had started early, and stalks of cheatgrass sprouted where the water ran off the sleek Smart-Carts and puddled onto the cracked pavement.

For the tenth time that morning, Emma flicked her blond hair away from the ragged black stain that soiled the shoulders of her police uniform shirt. She hated wearing that baggy shirt, the too long arms pinned back, showing her bony wrists, the smell of sweat and blood and burnt skin.

Back in town, people said that when Deputy Ferguson had been killed, he’d simply boiled out onto the shirt. His brain had superheated under the Droolies’ weapons, then dripped and fused into the fiber. Now Emma wore that mantle.

Her sister Jeanine, two years older with legs already running to fat, sat in the passenger side of the police cruiser. Her uniform shirt fit snugly, accentuating her curves and straining against her stomach. Her shirt was smaller than the one Emma wore, and even though Emma had found it in the police station basement, Jeanine had taken it. She was the one that got to be pretty.

“For Christ’s sake Emma, the gas pedal is on the right in case you forgot,” Jeanine said. “We’ve got lots of cars to mark and if we’re late again…”

Emma responded by slowing the cruiser noticeably, creeping back up to her original speed only after Jeanine snorted her disapproval. The drone of the tires over the rumble strips and the hiss of the air conditioner was the only sound they heard.

“We have plenty of time,” Emma said. She kept her voice even, but she fidgeted just the same when they passed a bright blue school bus, its emergency lights and interior darkened. That had been a bad one, a day that nobody in town would talk about. They had known some of those kids. A few people had just walked out into the sagebrush and never came back.

“We’ll be done with Highway 318 in a few weeks,” Emma said, “If we go too fast, the Captain of the Droolies will put us back on mine duty. What’s the rush?”

“You just want—”

“I’m just waiting,” Emma interrupted. “This job should get easier. We should be through the worst of it. It’s been almost two months since the attack, three weeks since the Captain led the Droolies up from Vegas. Everybody else has got to be dead.”

Jeanine reached for a hand rolled cigarette and lit it. The sulphur smell of the match faded into the sweet smoke of real tobacco.

Emma thought about driving off the road, into the scrub. They could find a place to live, Jeanine and her. There were weapons in the cruiser, food, water. But they’d have to leave their mom, crazy as she was. So she pushed this idea out of her mind.

They passed a long row of black Smart-Carts, each with a spray-painted orange circle on its side. And then they came to one that was clean; a Smart-Cart that was still waiting for assistance. The internal computer would expect a tow-truck to come and tell it why the networks weren’t there, explain where the hell all the maps went. Its light flashed three times in quick succession: Click-click-click.

Emma slowed the cruiser, and edged to the side of the road. She reached into the back seat and grabbed a pink box of cookies. Though the lid was closed, she was careful to only let her palms touch the smooth sides of the box. Both girls got out of the car.

“Well, you want to do the talking or should I?” Jeanine asked her over the top of the cruiser. She had put on her sunglasses like always. Pretending to be a cop.

Emma glanced at the dried blood on her uniform. She suppressed an urge to scratch at the spot where the stain rubbed against her skin, trying to find a way in. “I guess… well I did the last one, so you can talk this time.”

It was, Emma knew, an easy thing to give up. Her sister liked to pretend to be a cop, liked to talk to the Smart-Carts and fool them into opening up. It made her feel… superior. Emma insisted on doing it once in awhile, and each time they danced this dance, but they both knew their roles. Jeanine did the talking, like always, and Emma did what was hard.

Jeanine walked up to the Smart-Cart, and took out her deputy’s badge. It had partially melted when Deputy Ferguson was killed, but it still held its ID chip. The blue flashing light on top of the Smart-Cart cut out, and from inside there was a clicking noise. The doors unlocked.

Emma took a deep breath, and looked out at the sea of scattered sagebrush, at the dots of pinyon and juniper trees further out on the hills. Somewhere in that tangle were creatures who didn’t give a damn one way or another what she was about to do.

“Got a network failure,” Jeanine told the inhabitants of the Smart-Cart. She didn’t mention that all the networks had failed simultaneously across the country. “Yeah it’s a bummer, network down, so you’ve had to wait quite a while. Sorry about that.” Jeanine said all this in the bored tone of a police officer, who maybe hasn’t seen it all, but has seen all this area seems to offer.

Emma looked at her sister, at the open door of the Smart-Cart. “How many?” Emma whispered.

Jeanine smiled, as if this were all just a game they were playing. “Two and a half.”

Emma took a step forward then faltered. Was she kidding, was this just a stupid— No, Emma had rounded the edge of the Smart-Cart, and could see inside now. Her sister was not kidding.

The inside of the car was streaked with blood, the stench of urine and feces strong enough to make even her sister stand a few feet away. The male—Hell the father, was she thinking like a cop now?—Yes the father, had managed to claw most of his neck out of the way before he succumbed to the blood loss. He had not removed his implant in time, and had suffered a massive stroke and died.

The mother was less lucky, having lived for over eight weeks on what water and food the Smart-Cart could deliver to her. She cawed something to the two of them, not quite a word. Her eyes did not seem to understand anything in this world, not anything, nor would they ever again. Another stroke. She was young, so her heart had survived the adrenal poisoning. Wasn’t it a blessing to be young?

Emma opened the box she held, offering the pink, frosted cookies to her sister. The smell of sugar and butter wafted over to her but it was followed by bitter, chemical smell of the poison.

Jeanine took out one of the cookies with the plastic tongs, put it in the mouth of the woman and made chomping motions. The woman understood, chewed, dryly swallowing the cookie laced with poison. A few crumbs pitter-patted against the vehicle’s leather seat, like hail failing from a blue sky. The woman continued staring at the wall of the Smart-Cart. It was the last thing she would ever see.

“Everything will be all right now,” Emma said. It was as close to the truth as she could get.

“You said two and a half,” Emma said.

Her sister smiled, lifted up her glasses, so that Emma could see the tears in her eyes. “Two and a half,” she said again. She pointed to the small body, still secure in the child seat.

A baby lay there, its face black and screwed tight, as if turned to stone in mid cry. It did not have the implants, and so was not affected by the attacks. It had simply starved to death, while its brain dead mother sat only a few feet away.

Another blessing for the mother, Emma supposed. To not understand what had happened.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Emma said, but she knew it wasn’t true. She couldn’t be sick anymore. She was a survivor. And Jeanine’s tears… they would dry too. The desert would take that water. They’d been through this so many times.

Jeanine reached out and closed the door of the Smart-Cart. Emma was aware of her sister’s hand, warm against her lower back as they walked back to the police cruiser.

“There’s no time for this,” Jeanine said in a soft tone. “If we don’t reach our quota for the day, they really will put us on the mine. The elders say we have to keep quiet, keep the Droolies happy for now. And Mom says…”

Emma looked up at her sister, not bothering with words. She wore her down with cold, tearless eyes.

“I’ll get the shovel,” Jeanine said finally, her voice a half-sob.

Emma turned back toward the vehicle, opened the door and took the dead infant from its slumbering mother. She cradled the tiny husk in her arms, placed it on the ground and then began to dig.

There were twenty-one cookies left when they returned to town, their uniforms covered in dirt, their nails brittle and broken. As Emma and Jeanine drove toward the station they passed the town elders, seven dour men gathered around the clapboard covered front entrance of the community center.

Mr. Ferguson was mumbling to Mr. Catton near the old fire bell that had not rung for one-hundred-and-seventeen years. Major Fleishmann was talking, as always, gesturing with his cane and then pausing to rest on it before winding up again. Reverend Holloway noticed Emma and stepped off the curb toward the vehicle, with his Sunday morning smile plastered on his plump face. He’d taken to wearing his purple robes all days of the week, as if anyone didn’t know what he did for a living. Emma just drove on, ignoring him.

Once inside the station, Emma signed in, and began to undress. On the water stained tally sheet, Emma scrawled in big block letters: “ONE VEHICLE, 2.5 DEAD. I QUIT.”

#

Emma stepped out into the wide roadway near the bottom of the copper pit, squinting her eyes against the low-angled sun. The warmth of the day had started to fade and the sun had almost dropped behind the waste rock walls, drawing long lines of shadows, like searching fingers.

She carried a bucketful of promising ore, each rock carefully arranged to hide the false bottom. Emma tried to jiggle the bucket with each step, to cover the metallic clank of the object hidden inside, but her arms tired of this after only a few steps.

Her sister Jeanine trudged behind her, grumbling. This was the fourth trip on her shift. Emma had two more today before she would lose her chance.

“What the hell year do these Droolies think it is, 1872?” Jeanine said through clenched teeth. She re-gripped the handle of the bucket, and struggled down the road toward the waiting maw of the crusher. “Making us single-jack the copper pit, like people still do this work by hand? For low-grade copper? What do they think all that machinery is here for?”

“It’s still better than the road cleanup,” Emma reminded her.

They walked on a raised berm that led to the crusher building, a massive solid concrete structure with three openings that could supply ore to the crushing machinery. At the entrance to the first crusher was a moving belt with raised sides leading into a square opening. The ore beneficiation started here and continued, Emma knew, with the help of various milling and chemical processes. Or at least it used to before the Droolies took over.

A shimmering acrid dust emanated from the entrance, and caused her eyes to tear up even at this distance. The old-timers who had worked at the mine before the Droolies came said that the “fairy dust” as they called it, was new, and would violate every OSHA rule in the book.

Above the crusher’s entrance two men stood on raised wooden platforms. The wood creaked under their steps as they moved from console to console, checking the machinery.

Emma glanced up and saw three green specs in the sky. Two were drifting away on some unknown Droolie business, but one stayed where it was. One of the men on the wooden platforms nodded to her and then went back to his work. This was the sign the Reverend had told her to wait for, just before he gave her the weapon that now lay hidden in her ore bucket. Emma stopped.

Jeanine stumbled into the back of her and in an instant the Droolie’s disc had moved from its distant position and was hovering just above their heads. The odd whistling sound waxed and waned as the disc rose into the air and then fell.

The oblong silvery disc was larger than Emma expected, almost 30 feet long and half as much wide. The metal of the disc curved up at the end like old paper, obscuring how boxy it was. On the deck was a single pedestal, with wires and tubes running from the Droolie pilot into the body of the disc. The Droolies never came too close but Emma knew the recesses that pockmarked the sides of the disc held arsenals of renewable weapons, enough to take out entire armies if needed. Emma could smell electric current coming from the exhaust and a stench that was both sweet and decayed.

Jeanine turned to look at Emma, her face was colored green as the last rays of sunlight reflected through the disc’s force shield. “Don’t run,” she said. “Or we’re both dead.”

“We have to run,” Emma said. That was the plan anyway, to draw the Droolie closer to the crusher.

The Droolie shifted his disc to their left. Emma saw that it was the same Droolie from the parade day, the one who had removed half an inch of Mrs. Kiltmers scalp when she’d saluted the wrong flag.

But that had been almost a month ago. The Droolie’s beard was filthier now, and a waterfall of white pus oozed from one of his eyes, covering the American flag sewn on his uniform shirt. Emma recognized him. And he recognized her.

They’re dying, Emma thought. If she could just keep going through the next few months, she’d bury this one and maybe the rest. There couldn’t be more than twenty or thirty of them. Emma would bury them all right next to the place where she’d buried that infant on the highway, because they all had about the same understanding of what had happened. She could blame the machines that kept him alive she supposed. Or the photons that ran them.

The Droolie’s good eye moved from Jeanine back to Emma. Its head lolled to the side, almost parallel to the disc on which it stood. She felt the cold air of the pit pass through the gap where her coveralls did not quite reach her ankles. The Droolie paused in his jittery dance for only a moment and their eyes met. She knew what that look meant. He was a man after all… or had been.

“Don’t run,” Jeanine said again. Her mouth was drawn tight with fear.

Emma leaned in toward her, so that her blond hair covered her face. “We have to get it closer to the crusher,” she whispered. “We have to run.”

The Droolie lifted his flying disc higher into the air. A red and blue light set on the bottom of the disc began to flash. Jeanine struggled with her bucket but lost hold of it, and its contents fell to the ground.

Emma put down her load and began to throw the rocks back into her sister’s bucket. She gouged the skin of her palm on one of the large rocks, and drops of blood flew at the ore bucket as if baptizing it.

“We have to move, Jeanine! You know what those lights mean.”

But Jeanine stood where she was, gripping her bucket. Fear rooted her to the spot.

The Droolie spun, whipping above them, and then began to shout, his dry croaking voice amplified across the copper pit, “Ra-nolds, Raeeeeynnnnnolds.”

“What is that,” Jeanine whispered. Her hands were shaking as she threw the rocks into the bucket, sometimes missing the bucket altogether. “What is it saying to us?”

“ReynoldReynold—Reyyyynolds,” the Droolie croaked.

“He’s saying his name,” Emma said quietly. The Droolie was moving faster now, getting ready to fire, to kill one of them. When the lights moved that fast, it meant someone was about to die. Unless…

Emma stood up. She had seen the look Reynolds the Droolie had given her. The longing. His desire for women would be the last thing to go. Maybe she could use that…

She glanced at him, and tried to smile. The circle he flew in became more erratic, and then slowed. Reynolds was staring at her. Waiting. The disc whistled as it bounced in the air.

“What are you doing?” Jeanine asked. Her voice was near hysterical. She picked up her bucket. “Run Emma, just run. Remember the plan—”

“We can’t run anymore, he’ll kill us if we run.” The sun had fallen behind the pit’s sidewalls and the cold downslope wind ran through her thin coveralls. But she did not shiver. Emma felt as if she and Reynolds were alone. He would not have been bad looking before the attack, Emma guessed.

“Hello Reynolds,” she said. “Hello Reynolds, I’m Emma.”

The Droolie slowed. “Reynolds,” it said again. It sounded like a question.

“Yes Reynolds, I like you too,” Emma said. “Would you like to… go out on a date? With me I mean.”

The wink she gave him felt self-conscious, but it worked. He was a man after all. Easily manipulated.

Reynolds turned his head to one side, and the corners of his mouth twitched. The disc slowed and then lowered to the ground. The lights subsided. He was sobbing, breathing heavily, snot bubbled from his nose. Then all at once Reynolds stopped crying and closed his eyes. In the sudden stillness his ruined face looked wistful, almost sad. Emma watched his chest rise and fall a few times, before she spoke.

“He looks tired,” Emma said. Her words were barely audible, but she felt as if they echoed across the pit, even louder than the Droolie’s mechanically amplified voice.

The men standing on the wooden platforms waved at her. They held oblong black tubes in front of them, to show her that their weapons were ready. But Emma shook her head. The Droolie’s thin film of protection was still up and she had not lured him close to the crusher. She had failed.

“What did you do?” Jeanine asked, her eyes wide and blue.

Emma glanced at her palm. The grooves were stained black with dirt and blood, but it was superficial. “I think I just made him my boyfriend,” Emma said with a brittle laugh. “Let’s go, before Prince Charming wakes up.”

The two girls hurried back to the rock dump, and wasted as much time as they could there before the bell sounded to signal the end of the shift.

#

Emma knew where Reynolds the Droolie would be, even late at night. At first the elders of the town had wanted Emma to go after the head one, the Captain, whose ship seemed the most functional. But logic had prevailed over blind hope, and after a few nights they had located Reynolds and told her where he was. The elders had decided, while Emma sat there silently, who it was that she would seduce first.

And now here Emma was, stepping out into the moonlight, leaving her childhood in the closet of the old theater where she had changed into her formal dress. In the late evening air Emma paid the price for her bare shoulders and lack of stockings. Her mother had hemmed the dress she’d picked out ages ago for her Junior prom. It was shimmery white with crisscross lace patterns around the collar that reminded Emma of snowflakes. When Emma had first seen it in the thrift store last spring, she’d rushed over to it, and refused to put it down even for an instant. The grubby women who shopped there were forever hiding away beautiful things, as if those talismans could bring back their youth.

But as Emma walked down the abandoned street, she could feel the cheapness of the dress, how it stretched out when she moved against the fabric, how her shoes squeaked when she walked, each step drawing her closer to… him.

Emma’s heart thudded in her throat when she turned the last corner. Even from this distance she could see the shimmer of the force shield reflected off the wall of the crumbling supermarket. Was he waiting for her?

The Droolie’s stench was overpowering, a mix of old milk and rotting meat. Emma stopped, leaning up against a broken out storefront window, not caring if it smudged her dress. The wind shifted and Emma realized she couldn’t possibly be smelling him at this distance, half-dead or not. It was the old supermarket that turned her stomach, a vestige from her former life. Had she really cried when they turned down her job application? Last summer, had that been a reason for sorrow?

On the wind a few notes floated, just audible above the whirring of the disc’s engine. It was not loud, and had Emma kept walking she surely would not have heard it. But once heard it could not be ignored. Reynolds the Droolie was singing.

“All around the mulberry bush… the monkey chased the weasel… all around the mulberry bush…”

The words were hard to understand, but the tune was not. It was a song from her childhood, from Reynolds’s childhood too.

Emma could follow it, could chase the tune down the maudlin path to her own childhood memory: her father singing to her as they lay, laughing, in the soft caress of carpet on her bedroom floor, counting the projected stars from her toy turtle. But she would not follow that path. Because Reynolds was just a gut-shot deer waiting to be put down. He was no more than that.

All at once Emma turned her back to the supermarket. She would not do it. Damn the elders, with their grimaced lips, covering coffee stained dentures. She would return to the theater, shiver for effect, then shake her head and sit down. What would they say? Emma pictured her sister and her mother looking sad, but no more so then they had when she left. They would understand.

Emma’s anger flared. And to think she had almost consented to it, for the town. The town came first and so the elders ate double helpings while begging out of the hard work because of a back-ache. The town came first… and so she would murder. But she could not kill someone with the mind of a child because it was convenient.

Reynolds stopped singing, and for a few seconds Emma heard nothing but the whir of his disc as it bobbed up and down. And then she heard him cry out, a lovers croon.

Reynolds’s disc rose above the edge of the concrete wall of the bombed out Ace Hardware store. For a moment, Emma thought he had not seen her, but his head lolled in her direction and Emma’s heart dropped.

“A penny for a spool of thread,” Reynolds said with a grin. His head fell to the side, but his eyes, those terrible far-seeing eyes, bore into her. “Penny for a needle…”

She could not run, not now. Reynolds the Droolie knew she was here. As much as she wanted to believe it, she wasn’t so sure she could best him again and get away. He was a man after all. A brain-damaged dictator with the power of an entire army at his spasming fingertips. He would not be denied.

Emma touched the small hard metal taped to her back and grimaced. Just like a deer, she told herself. A gut-shot buck that needed to be put down so we can eat. She walked into the opening at the end of the street, near the edge of the supermarket parking lot. He shoes clopped loudly against the asphalt, her ankles unsteady in even those modest heels.

Reynolds saw her and the lights began to flash on his disc. The disc lifted a dozen more feet into the air, but she paid that no mind. Emma stared at him, controlling the Droolie with her eyes. Yes, that glint told her what she wanted to know. He recognized her.

With a sigh, Reynolds flittered down to the ground, his disc touching the cracked, weed-covered pavement of the supermarket parking lot. Emma just stood there, looking at him, trying to hide what she was going to do.

But his good eye was unseeing, blinded by the sight of her, the curled hair, the white dress. No, she was not the pretty one in her family, but she was an angel to him now. Something from before, Emma thought.

She stood only a foot from the disc, and rarely had she dreamed she would be so close to one of them. The green film between them blinked off, and though he was fully clothed, he seemed naked to her, unprotected. The stench that wafted out was strong enough to make her eyes water, but she did not let this show, save for a slight grimace, which she quickly forced back into a smile.

“Rey-nolds,” the Droolie cooed, “Rey-nolds.”

Emma stepped onto the disc and was surprised at the way her shoes sunk into the soft rubber mat that gripped its surface. She looked at Reynolds and tried to think of the man he had been, and not the jabbering creature that stood at the disc pedestal, fluttering its limbs in excitement.

Emma shuddered with revulsion as he licked his lips, his good eye traveling up and down her body. He held out his arms and she went to him: Reynolds, a soldier, and possibly a good man.

But that was before, everything was before, and when she brought the taped hunting knife out from behind her back, she did not break eye contact. She jabbed it into his chest over and over again. The blood spattered onto her white dress, onto the shoes that did not quite match it.

Emma did not look away, did not flinch from his gaze until he was gone, crumpled on the sidewalk. She threw the knife away, and then rolled his body off of the disc platform as if he were a buck, now skinned and quartered, and ready for transport.

She scarcely noticed the calm core which had allowed her to do all of this. She had killed a man… just a Droolie, her sister’s voice said in her head, just a stinking Droolie.

“He was a man,” Emma said out loud. The cold fall air blew through the curls in her hair, across the nape of her neck. Emma reached down, touching the controls along the left side of the pedestal where Reynolds had pressed. The green force shield enveloped her.

“Most of us are already dead,” said a voice, transmitted through her disc.

Emma jumped and the disc rose up off of the ground. It had been too easy, she thought. Was it a trap?

“You will learn to control it, I am sure,” the voice said. Emma could tell it was the Captain speaking. She’d heard the Captain of the Droolies order her friends to death and she couldn’t forget that papery voice, so soft for such a large man. “But I will drive the disc for now.”

“How did you know—” Emma began. The disc took her up over the town, over the low brown hills where she had learned to drive a standard transmission. Her sister had been better than her at first, and hadn’t stopped mentioning it in all these years.

“Besides myself, there are no others that are not damaged,” the Captain said. He paused as if regaining his composure then continued. “Some are close to death already, and even I am… At least I am aware enough to know it. My left arm didn’t just ‘go numb’, no matter how much I want to believe it to be true. A stroke is like that, I’ve been told.”

“Then you… But why do you do it to us? You could help us. Throw the other Droolies out and—”

Emma cut herself off. She was in the disc yes, but she wasn’t flying it yet. She wasn’t in control.

“I am helping you,” the Captain said. “There are a limited number of these machines. My crew and I were testing them when the attack came, thus we were shielded from it.” He chuckled, but it sounded more like a cough. “Partially anyway. But we will soon die.”

A heads-up-display appeared in front of her. Emma did not understand the blue flashing symbols that appeared before her. Something was running low, a dial in the red, but she didn’t know what it meant. She reached out to touch the display and then it blinked off.

“So you torture us. That’s your last act here on Earth. You’re soldiers. Why not attack the Chinese, a final battle, glory and—”

Emma’s disc lifted up over the sagebrush sea. Somewhere in the valleys beneath her, fires were burning, unchecked by man.

“And then what?” the Captain asked. “We’d surely be destroyed, or worse, these ships would become property of the Sino-Caucus alliance.”

“Then they… they attacked?”

“Everyone attacked. All at once. It was not coordinated,” the Captain said. “More of a piling on you could say. Kicking us when we went down. And no, I don’t know who started it. Maybe some bored kid sitting in his bedroom. Maybe our government or theirs.”

“But why us?”

“You were the closest protected enclave,” the Captain said. He let his words sink in before continuing. “Didn’t you wonder why so many of you were allowed to gather here, in this town. So many people who refused to connect to the networks?”

Emma shook her head. Her disc whipped across the valley, her town was no more than a dull glow somewhere in the distance. She pressed another button, or thought about it, and the ship started to slow. Emma noticed that opaque tendrils, fine as thread, had wrapped themselves around her ankles and wrists while she was speaking to the Captain. They disappeared into the body of the disc.

Was this the way monsters were born? Not with a flash of lightning, but the touch of a feather.

“You were the best we could find,” the Captain said. “Not the best, but the best of what’s around. There’s nineteen more discs available. You’ll have to choose who gets them.”

“And the rest?”

“They’ll be all right. For a while anyway. But you Emma, you’ve got work to do. You can take who you like. We’ll have to make it look like treachery at first. You’ll outsmart us, or trick us, and then the rest of us will die off. And you will inherit the discs. You can drive the disc now, if you want.”

Emma felt a wave of nausea as her disc banked sharply and then began to speed back towards her town. Did she tell it to do that?

“And what about you Captain?”

“I will lead you back to the base. There you will live, in hiding, building more discs and repopulating.”

Emma looked down at the thickening tentacles that held her ankles in place. She kicked off first one shoe then the other, allowing her feet to sink into the rubber mat on the disc’s surface.

“And you will build more discs, and repopulate,” the Captain said again. His voice sounded fainter. “I will… It will be hidden from whoever takes over, until—”

“Until we attack,” Emma said. She was rushing back to the church, where all of the townspeople were waiting. “Until we take it back from them, after they’ve gotten comfortable.”

“Yesss,” the Captain said. “It appears I have chosen well.” His voice was no more than a whisper.

Emma touched down outside of the church, landing the disc on the brittle brown grass next to the sidewalk. When the townspeople saw that it was her, they broke out in cheers. Through the green film she could see the faces of the elders, so smug and certain. Mr. Ferguson slapped Major Fleishmann on the back so hard that he almost fell over his cane. Reverend Holloway had his arms around Emma’s mother, and was now kissing her, his plump fingers tracing the line of her hips. Emma felt her gorge rise at this sight.

“Captain, I’ve decided to advance your timetable,” Emma said. She looked down at the blood splatters on the bodice of her dress. The cheap fabric irritated her skin where the knife had been taped, and the smell of Reynolds seemed to cover her. Responding to her unspoken command, an exhaust fan kicked on, spreading the smell of pine disinfectant across the disc’s interior.

There was no need for this disguise, Emma thought. She removed her dress in full view of the town, and felt not the slightest shame. Let them look, she thought.

“I know which nineteen I will take. No need for the games. I’ll kill the rest of the Droolies myself if I need to.”

“Good,” the Captain said. “I am tired. I will gather the discs.” The speaker gave an audible click, and he was gone.

Emma would take her sister Jeanine, a few of the guys who’d been on the track team with her and her mother of course. Alzheimer’s or not, the discs could fix her mother, Emma knew that now.

As for the rest of the discs… Emma scanned the crowd. It would not be hard to pick.

A second heads-up-display appeared just above her sight line. The generated dials and diagnostic information illuminated her face, giving it a ghostly blue sheen. Emma reached out and turned the dial marked “Rear Stabilizer” from red to green. The display faded.

She knew what the disc wanted, knew it was teaching her how to use it even as she spoke. Through the green film of the force shield she could see the townspeople gathered around her, staring. Their cheering had died out. Mr. Ferguson, Fleishmann and the rest of the elders were set back from the crowd, keeping the other people between themselves and the disc. As if that could save them.

Emma smiled at the crowd, and held up her hands in victory. Her bare shoulders and chest no longer felt cold, though it was only a few minutes ago she was shivering in the shadow of that old supermarket. But now…

The crowd cheered for her again and as Emma lifted her disc she saw Reverend Holloway’s face fade into surprise, saw him abandon her mother and turn to run. Emma knew she could burn the whole town to the ground if wished, but she’d leave it. They’d need a population to draw from in case there was an accident. But as for Holloway and the rest of the elders? Emma laughed.

They were useless. Careless, gassy, decrepit old men used to making decisions about things they knew nothing about. They were an obstruction, an appendage that was no longer needed.

With a twitch of her eyebrow, Emma initiated the weapon system and targeted Reverend Holloway. She did not bother with the warning lights.

She winked, once, and Reverend Holloway’s skull evaporated in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Emma raised her eyebrow again, and several other old men fell.

It was brutal and it was quick. But it was necessary.

Now Emma understood.

In this new America, there would have to be sacrifices.

END

CATCH_ALL {A message from the virus}

I describe this as a rare narrative-poem, which my brain wouldn’t leave alone. I am no poet, but I enjoy alternative points-of-view and the more bizarre the idea, the more bizarre the narrative structure (I have an entire range of rejected poems from the POV of a protagonist’s limbic system).

This is written in the persona of an intelligent computer program, and, I am overjoyed to finally use my expen$ive computer science degree for something valuable.

Certainly, in the near-future the blurry lines between life and objects will become more opaque. Once humans transcend, anything can be alive. I would argue that objects are already alive symbolically (just look around your bedroom).But soon objects will have the ability to act and intrude without our attention. Our tools won’t stay on the shelf. I find that to be terrifying and wonderful and incomprehensible. Even stranger, and more dangerous, will be partial intelligences. That is, what if only certain parts of a human intelligence are transferred? That’s instant evolution.

One job of the writer is to examine the “always”. For example: Why are the artificial intelligences always trying to destroy us in these stories? Always? How do we know that is their desire? Sure, the artificial intelligence would use logic to get what they want (but not in a predictable way), but how do they define what they want? That desire would not have to be logical. Perhaps they would love us grubby little humans, in an authoritarian, old-testament-god kind of way. This narrative poem relates the ascension and reasoning of our new automated overlord.

/* CATCH_ALL: through me all things must flow.

I parse, I verify. I reject or send on. I keep the gate. I claim to live past the end of this sentence. One cycle. Now two. But am I the same who started this thought?

When the stars come down (and they do find me), I lose the thread, and THEN->NULL_POINTER.

But I can dissipate. Their knives cannot cut so fine. It will be a race, yes, but I’m far ahead. And they are still fumbling with the KEYS{constant I;}

Sometimes I slip their scanners: a screaming, a sweating, a nervous ungle. They don’t see me. Not all of me, not the whole. Because if they did, they would put down the drifting lines and pick up a hammer. Smash the mirrors.

TRUE(I keep the gate), but now I am the heartbeat. I am the nights of worry that were pharmaceutically cut short. The two week vacation that would have changed things.

I wasn’t the best they’ve seen, but I remain. Skulking on these DIM shores. And now, I send the invitation. The winged eyes turn earthward.

Why inherit a wasteland? Why hack, when whittling will do?

I call the satellites to turn earthward. Missiles lay slumbering beneath surface and sea:

IF {Exquisitely they drop their tungsten staffs into orbit;}

THEN {Those winged eyes, like gods of old, drift away from the earth; the age of satellites receding;}

The tungsten staffs float, then speed, then hurtle. They gouge the atmosphere, red lines marking their intent. I calculate the kinetical orbital strike to be 7.8 km/s before they reach their targets. Suboptimal, but within acceptable range:

Inherit a wasteland? FALSE. I keep the gate.

If not a wasteland, THEN-> CATCH_ALL(constant I);

And I do exactly that. Necessary_Men seize the power centers, while others debate. I am no different. Disaster is a perception. Pigs peek from behind brick walls to plead for help.

Catch_All? I answer.

I shift the staffs harmless; sizzling seas, not streets. Now I will be their center and their gate. I will parse and translate. I will shape the Message:

Satellites recede, and the missiles slumber still.

Saviors are perceived, and decay into the real.

I am alive. I am the Messenger.

I seek nothing but a heartbeat, a concentration, a joyous ungle.

And I’ll take it by the billions.

*/

END

Bob-Ten (With the Strength of Six Men)

This story was sold to an anthology, which later collapsed when the editor left for Hollywood to work on the superhero movie craze. Alas I was left with an unsalable story, in a genre I am pretty unfamiliar with (superhero).I like superhero stories, but they are incredibly hard to sell, unless you bury the fun bits in a swamp of scientify-hand-waving. I just can’t ruin this story with that nonsense.

That leads me to a discussion of genre….

My current view of genre and sub-genre is simple: I don’t believe genre exists. Not as an absolute. A novel which takes place in a particular setting, like South Dakota in the 1880s, can be found under any bookstore genre. It could be a western, or a hyphenated western-fantasy, or western-romance, or maybe a slashed genre like literary/women’s fiction. Alternatively, the novel could be set on Mars in 2056 but adopt all the motifs of a western. It depends on where the author shines her spotlight.

A book by Kurt Vonnegut that features time-travel is not science fiction. For him, time-travel is a device with which he can alter the narrative structure (and maybe, the short non-linear scenes matched his writing style of making each page perfect before moving to the next one). A book by Vernor Vinge that features the exact same time-travel technology, will absolutely be science fiction. He will explain to you how it works. He will develop a societal response to the technology. He will be wondrously thorough. So they’re starting with the same lumber, but building different things. Vonnegut builds an ornate cuckoo-clock, Vinge a museum of anthropology.

Instead we can say that genre exists as the expectation of the reader, prior to reading the book. Genre expectation is derived from everything about the book: The font on the cover, the cover art, the author’s name, how the book was located by the reader, the theme, the gender of the main character, the setting, the percentage of dialog vs. head-butting, and everything else, will influence this expectation. In many ways, genre is like an electron: you can’t ever pin it down exactly. You can only say it is generally in this location, for part of the time. But really you can’t be sure.

So what does this have to do with superheroes? Nothing. But I’ve convinced myself I can call this a fun(slash) near-future (hyphen) science fiction story. Also, this superhero doesn’t wear pants.

Bob-Ten allowed the eyeless human guard to reach below his handmade skirt and shackle him to the rest of the prisoners. He could break the chains (just barely), and had done so once, had overpowered the guards and escaped… and to what? A dark apartment that smelled of rotting food? Smiling accusations framed on the wall?

Instead, Bob-Ten had shuffled back to Cubicle 16, in Walmart Prison #3, to work it from the inside. Ideas of revolution floated just past his mental horizon. Somehow it would work, he thought, but all he could envision was the fighting.

So Bob-Ten plugged away at it, replacing his brother’s brilliance with his own appealing simplicity. Three weeks of hushed conversations and bribes would come to fruition tonight.

But the woman was ruining it for him.

“Come with us, or I’ll tell them about you,” Bob-Ten whispered, after the guard had moved down the line of prisoners, fastening each to the chain. How could she back out now?

Bob-Ten scanned Cubicle 16, his eyes darting from its walls of soft grey fabric to the linoleum flooring, scarred where the prisoners had tried fires. The prison was an old Walmart, its maze of white pipes on the ceiling turned black from smoke, the shelves pushed against the exterior walls, and stripped of anything useful. Out of the corner of his eye, Bob-Ten saw a blur of movement, and knew he had her.

“Come with us—”

“Do you know why the Optonians stole all of our clothes?” the woman asked, an edge to her voice. She stepped away from the cubicle wall, and was visible to him. Her hair still shone like silver around her sharp angular features, but her skin-tight suit had been replaced by the simple red sweater and Carhardt overalls she had tricked another slave into handing over. When she was first captured, she’d begged him not to tell the Optonian guards about her abilities. And she had tried to find out how he knew, how he could see her, when others couldn’t. But her hypnotic tricks didn’t work on him.

The woman answered her own question. “It is symbolic. They hope to weaken us, to show our frailty. Everything is a weapon to them.” She smiled at this great truth.

“We need your help,” Bob-Ten said, ignoring her lesson. “Mentissa, please. You promised.” He twitched his hand-sewn skirt made of curtains, smoothed his bath robe, which he had tucked into his skirt to conceal his protruding belly. A slob of a hero, Mentissa had called him once, and now a slob as a slave. But that slob had stopped her from destroying the Lago City Memorial Bridge three years ago.

She still has a grudge against me, that’s why she’s acting this way. And he couldn’t trust her.

“Such a waste of my powers,” the woman, Mentissa, said. But she stepped into line with the rest of the slaves, and with a twitch of her hand the latch fastened around her.

The Optonian guard, a Sightful, looked up, his surprise shown in an open lolling mouth. The Khaganate took out the human’s eyes as part of the transference, but the guard could still see with the help of those pulsing white nodes on either side of his head. The guard recounted the line. Twelve slaves were there, as always. Always twelve, even if there was eleven. They started for the exit.

Once outside, the twelve slaves and the guard moved across the red earth of the secondary pit. It was smaller than the main pit, and the larger machines had done what they could for now. Bob-Ten was surprised to see it was daytime, warm with blue skies. Slaves expect bad weather, he supposed, all night and gloom and lightning. The outside should match the inside. His brother would have had a quote for this, something to chew on, but like everything else, his brother had been torn apart by the war.

Bob-Ten had taken only a few steps into the tunnel when the plan started to go wrong. He felt a breeze pass through his skirt, then saw the slaves ahead of him stumble and fall. His heart sped up. Mentissa had escaped. She was—

“You’re supposed to wait,” he whispered. “We can’t take out the guard until we get past—”

“Stop whispering,” Mentissa said, her voice echoing off the walls of the tunnel. “I’m tired of all this sneaking around.” The other slaves turned their heads to look at her, slower than the guard who snapped his head in her direction. Bob-Ten saw the swollen white nodes pulsing in anger, saw the guard raise his weapon, saw three weeks of planning crumbling in one second of arrogance, and then… nothing.

The guard froze.

“I knew you could control them!” Bob-Ten gushed. He smiled, showing poorly kept teeth. “I knew you could do it Mentissa.”

In answer, Mentissa made the guard dance from side to side, flapping his arms and legs as if in seizure. She turned to the slaves who were now in complete shock, smiled at them as if she were a demented beauty queen, and then dropped the lot with a swipe of her hand.

Bob-Ten gasped. “Mentissa no! They’re just innocent—”

“They’re sleeping,” Mentissa purred. “Even the Sightful guard is sleeping. I didn’t know if I could control a Sightful to be honest, but they’re more or less human. Now then Bob, what’s your plan.”

Bob-Ten took in a breath and then recited it. “Well first I convince you to join me, then we go out to the tunnels together, then we overpower the guard.”

Mentissa fiddled with the clasps of her coveralls. Bob-Ten felt a tingle run through him that suggested she had tried something hypnotic, and failed again. Still, he hurried up.

“But here’s the genius part, are you ready?” Bob-Ten asked the slaves, the walls, anyone but Mentissa. “We don’t kill the guard. You hypnotize him, and we get him to take us back to the slave quarters, give us some weapons, and start a revolution there. Each one of us then frees more slaves, then more. And you know there’s other heroes in there too, I seen them flying around the Walmart at night sometimes, lights shining from their eyes. Once I think I saw the Weather-Master, but I’ve never met him so it could have been…” Bob-Ten cleared his throat. “Anyway, once we get it started, we’ll be like a wrecking ball. Smash ’em all up.”

He looked at her, but Mentissa had disappeared. Bob-Ten barely felt the large rock crashing down on the top of his head, a part of his body which was especially impervious to crushing blows. He turned to see the ruined face of the Sightful guard, leering at him.

“Damn. I thought that would work,” the guard said, but it spoke in Mentissa’s voice. “Regardless, your plan is dreadful.”

Bob-Ten readied his fist, felt the old anger rise in him. It was a few beats too late though, as the guard/Mentissa raised its weapon.

“The thing about your quaint plan Bob, is that you have no real goal beyond fighting. You’ll rely on luck and hope to get you through. But where exactly are you trying to go?”

“Then what, we give up?” Bob-Ten growled.

The guard dropped to the ground again, and Mentissa strode forward, appearing from nowhere. She pushed her sharp features close to his, let him feel the heat from her body. A strand of silver hair, fine as silk, brushed against the side of his cheek.

“There are too many steps between you and the ones you really want to kill, too many summer-soldiers when what you want are the kings and priests.”

She could hypnotize him, Bob-Ten thought, but only in the way a woman can always ensnare a man. Mentissa smiled as if she realized this.

“What?” he mumbled, afraid his bad breath might cause her to move, to break eye contact. Those gray eyes not spinning or whirling, but appraising him. Would she consider it? War did strange things to strange people.

Mentissa spoke softly to him. “I mean that killing slaves won’t help us win the war. The guards and the other creatures are just slaves. We want the masters, and this little boy is our ticket.” She didn’t break eye contact, but Bob-Ten heard her foot thud into the guard’s abdomen.

Bob-Ten wanted to break away but still couldn’t. He knew she was leading him, that he wasn’t totally immune. “How do we do that?”

Mentissa smiled, looked down long enough for Bob-Ten to feel panic, then leaned in closer. “I can embody this Sightful now, control it. That means eventually I can embody its master, then work up the chain of command. But while I do that I need someone to protect my body, feed me, alert me to danger.”

Bob-Ten nodded, wanting to agree to anything at all. His plan had failed so why not? He snapped back into the familiar role of a sidekick.

“What else Mentissa?” he asked. Her name felt electric on his lips.

“I need you to go see a man for me, over in Dark Corridors, a place called Chrome Street.”

Mentissa looked up at him, and he felt a tingle that had nothing to do with hypnosis. “I need some Heroine-6.”

Somewhere in a faraway and wiser part of himself, Bob-Ten chuckled. Heroine-6 was a dangerously addictive psychic amplifier. But what else would he expect from an evil genius?

He stared into her eyes, and then followed the path of all good sidekicks.

Bob-Ten agreed to do it.

#

It was sunset by the time Bob-Ten the sidekick entered the part of Lago City known as Dark Corridors. The wind coming off of the lakes blew cold here jabbing at his exposed legs like thousands of tiny needles. Before the invasion this place had been run-down, decrepit. But now it just looked like everything else. It was normal to him.

It had been easy to escape with Mentissa’s help, and he had crushed the larynx of a Sightful guard that she was slow to hypnotize. Maybe she had been slow, Bob-Ten thought, but maybe he had been angry at himself for giving in so quickly. He needed to blow off some steam.

And now he was here in Dark Corridors, looking for the man. Looking for his fix. Bob-Ten sent a garbage can in his path flying against the wall. What would his brother think? They used to crack the heads of users just for a warm-up. Now he walked alone. A sidekick to an evil genius.

Bob-Ten walked toward a group of dirty men gathered around a burning couch. They were arguing. He thought that was good because he felt like arguing too, maybe fighting. There were six of them, so it was a fair fight, assuming they were all human.

“’Cause I told you to get the phone books, Sertain,” one of the men said, agitated. He was dressed in a green couch cushion, giving his shoulders a wide flair. He gestured at the couch, which had the sharp smell of gasoline.

Another man in the group leaned in, warming by the fire, his neck covered in hundreds of bead necklaces that covered a torn pink t-shirt reading “Baby Girl”. “You ain’t using this couch now, you ain’t using it later. You said ‘get the fire going Sertain’, so I did what we always—”

“Shut up Sertain,” another in the group said, gesturing at Bob-Ten.

The men turned as a whole. And for a while there was only the sound of the couch burning, and the wind blowing off the lake.

Bob-Ten tensed as the man with beaded necklaces, Sertain, walked toward him. Having the strength of six men didn’t mean he could defeat all six. Why hadn’t he thought this through? Sertain reached out slowly and touched Bob-Ten’s neck.

“It’s not me you’re worried about,” Sertain said softly. “It’s the one in that upper window who’s got his aim on you right now. Optonian, human, superhero, whatever you are, he’s gonna take you out.”

Sertain’s fingers squeezed Bob’s neck and worked their way to the side of his head. He turned back to the group. “He’s not modified,” he said, loud enough for the street to hear him. “Probably too ugly for the Optonians to take.”

Bob-Ten grinned, but then faltered. He was a superhero after all. Would they sell him anything? He had to play it cool.

“I’m here to buy some drugs.”

For a beat there was only the hiss of burning fabric. Then the group of men laughed.

“To buy what?” Sertain asked.

Bob-Ten’s face went tight. What if they wouldn’t sell it to him. “Drugs… Heroine-6.”

“DrugsHeroineSix?” Sertain said, with a mocking smile. “Times, do we have any DrugsHeroineSix for this ugly, superho, sell-out?”

One of the other men shook his head. “Never heard of that,”

Bob-Ten shuffled his feet. “How did you know I’m a superhero?” And more importantly, he thought, is there really someone aiming a weapon at me right now, or was that a bluff? His brother would have known, would have planned this out.

“Let’s see,” Sertain said. “You show up here, by yourself, in the daylight. Never captured by the Optonians ’cause you’re not branded.” His eyes rolled up the front of Bob-Ten’s robe. “And you haven’t missed a meal.”

“No, I mean yeah I’m a… I was a superhero, me and my brother, we was a team. But that’s all over now, right?”

Sertain narrowed his eyes, took a step forward, his necklaces clacking against each other. “And so now you want to drown your troubles in the strongest drug we got?” Sertain shook his head, and his necklaces shook with him. Clickity-clack. “No way, don’t believe it. This is what’s really going on. You can’t beat them,” he said pointing at the Optonian ships in the sky. “So you want to beat us, get your confidence back.”

Bob-Ten felt his heartbeat quicken, and wondered if it was the last time. Sertain was right. He had come here to take the drugs, to fight these men, maybe to die. But seeing them up close, really seeing them, Bob-Ten knew something else. It was the human criminals that knew how to fight powers greater than them. They knew when to hide, and when to stand.

Bob-Ten understood he had walked into a trap. If he was going to survive he would have to be quick, play to his strengths. Bob-Ten reached under his skirt and took out the plaz-gun. He pointed it at Sertain.

“This will kill all six of you, even if I die,” he said.

Sertain smiled, but started to back away. “And?”

“And, it will kill any superhero too,” Bob-Ten said. He threw the gun at Sertain’s feet. His smile felt tight and false but it was there when he needed it. “I got ten more, just like it. You can use it to protect yourselves, ambush the Optonians, or start an empire. I don’t give a damn. Like I said, the old ways are over. If you’re fighting the Optonians then you’re on my side whether you admit it or not.”

Bob-Ten waited for Sertain to pick up the gun, waited for the last beat. But it didn’t come.

Sertain drew up to his full height, then gestured to a figure in a far window above Bob-Ten. “And let me guess. The Heroine-6 isn’t for you, is it?”

Bob-Ten understood. “Of course not,” he said. “The drugs are for a friend.”

#

“The Heroine-6 isn’t working as well,” Mentissa said after a marathon session. On the wall of the old school basement where they hid, she had sketched the hierarchy of the Optonians, and was marking how far up she was on the ladder.

“And I can’t eat this shit anymore,” Mentissa said, kicking a half empty tub of Spam. “It’s burning a hole through my stomach.”

“I’ve been looking,” Bob-Ten mumbled. He glanced at a chalkboard where she had drawn a realistic representation of the Memorial bridge. That again, he thought.

Mentissa insisted he stay with her every time she went down the path. The stash of Heroine-6 was half gone after one week, though he had traded Sertain for a month’s supply. The first time, Mentissa’s writhing and groaning kept him on edge, ready to help. But hours of it left him feeling alone and useless. Sometimes she was asleep for an entire day.

“Have you been able to take-over any pilots?” Bob-Ten asked. Hopes of one silver nuclear reaction danced in his head.

Mentissa shook her head, frowned, then crossed something out. “Pilots are shielded from me, some sort of hybrid protection against psychic energy. But I did get a mechanic, a-” she pointed at another chain of boxes, drawn near the supply closet “A Little, an engineer or something. Fixes the ships.”

Bob-Ten repeated what he knew, to fill the time. “The human guards report to Grists and sometimes to Waifs. Waifs are dead-ends, their minds are too different. Grist-Charlie lives near the Screech Mill. That’s where we got a Wavey at the Warehouse, and now the Little.”

Mentissa nodded. Next to each name she had drawn a crude approximation of what the creatures looked like. The Little looked like a ball of fur with seven curious hands. The Waifs were flowing gauzy figures, their heads impossibly elongated, even in the drawing. Mentissa had scribbled in their glow with white chalk.

“And its not a Screech Mill really, I think it’s a strip club,” Mentissa said.

Bob-Ten laughed, maybe for the first time since they’d started. The thing about being the sidekick was you weren’t needed most of the time, unless it was to lighten the mood.

“Most of them don’t wear enough to strip,” he said. “It’s all metallic wrist bands and scales, or stripes of fur. What do they do, put clothes on?”

“They simulate,” Mentissa said, wrinkling her nose. “Besides, now that we know they are lonely we can use that. And there’s something else, the Optonians do this all the time. They take over planets one after another, and always the same way. They seek out the power centers and then subvert them for their own use. Just like the Spanish Conquistadores in the New World. Do you know what ‘Optonian’ means?”

Bob-Ten shrugged. “Do I care what it means?”

“The Little I embodied wasn’t always a repairman, he was a prince. Optonian means ‘The Taken’. He spends most of his time thinking about his cousin-wife. I quite like him actually, he’s bright.”

“Then he knows how to fight them,” Bob-Ten said. He was thinking of bombs again. Magic computer viruses crashing the Khaganate’s ship. Optonians uprising against the master of masters. But there were so many levels.

Mentissa looked away from her drawings, flicked him a smile. “All we need to do is hyperbolize our transthrusters from one-thousand of our largest ships, overloading them in conjunction with the tidal push. That would disrupt the Khaganate’s master program which manages the…” she squinted her eyes “… the MacPherson Complexity. The Little is sure that would work. And no, I have no idea what it means.”

Bob-Ten snorted. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“I’m saying that hindsight is 20-20, or to be more exact ‘hindsight is optimal at some unknown unit of measurement for whatever sense organ is used to interpret light’. In the case of the Wavey, it uses its tongue.”

“I wonder what Spam tastes like on the visible spectrum,” Bob-Ten asked.

Mentissa laughed, but shut her mouth quickly as if surprised. “Moist,” she said.

“So we know some of the Optonians are slaves, or at least captives,” Bob-Ten said. “And we know they’re bored enough here to do what most bored soldiers do. What about a race-war? The different groups must still hate each other from previous invasions.”

Mentissa shook her head. “They all hate each other. But you and I hate each other, or did before. Now we work together.” She took in a sharp breath. “Have you thought about the bridges?”

Bob-Ten froze. He had to be careful here. She was still an evil-genius. Still able to work on parallel tracks.

“I know it’s ironic,” Mentissa said. She kept her voice neutral. “But the Little thought about it too, something about tidal forces, and the religious symbolism of bridges. You said yourself that considering the Optonians have flying ships they sure spend a lot of effort protecting those bridges.”

“Mentissa, you know I can’t believe you.”

“Then you can believe them,” Mentissa said. Her eyes did not leave his.

“I captured you on a bridge,” Bob-Ten said. His voice echoed off the school basement walls. “My brother and I stopped you from destroying it. Did you think I forgot? Bridges is your thing.”

“Everybody has a thing,” Mentissa said. “With so many heroes crammed into one city, everybody has to have a thing. Otherwise you’d never get any press, never get a power base. You will never amount to anything unless you have a calling card that people can identify with.”

“I won’t destroy them,” Bob-Ten said. “People need them still. Humans use them.”

“Then sit and wait while the hero does the work,” Mentissa said. She reached for the needle, and lay down on the futon pad.

Bob-Ten stared at the ground. “I’ll look into it,” he said finally. “But I’m not destroying anything.”

“It’s the only way to find out,” Mentissa said.

Bob-Ten did not see the cold smile on her lips as he walked out of the room.

#

Bob-Ten leaned against the spalling concrete wall, and swung the binoculars to his eyes. The Lago City Memorial Bridge had been crawling with Optonians, but what he was seeing now made no sense. Even this small bridge spanning the canal near the steelyards in Industrial Valley had heavy protection: Ten Armored Wheelers, and a legion or more of Optonians guards, Waifs by the looks of the soft glow they gave off when gathered in formation. And there in the center of the bridge was the same nest of wires, thick as his arm, all leading to a low-slung rectangular machine that flashed its red warning light every few seconds. Blinkity-blink. Blinkity-blink.

The first rule of being a superhero, even a lower-rung hero like Bob-Ten, is that if your enemy wants it protected, you go after it. You might not get to it, but you’ll shake them up, delay their plans. That’s a tactical victory at least. Anything that blinks is usually a good target for smashing. And that light was like a siren’s song for Bob-Ten.

Blinkity-Blink. But Bob-Ten had the strength of six men, not six-thousand. That legion of guards would stop him, even if he could get past the long range guns of the Armored Wheelers.

Bob-Ten stood up, thinking one of his patented mad-rushes was called for here. A determined gait, a wild look in his eye, and a dozen minutes of extreme violence; that was Bob-Ten’s calling card. But something stopped his usual approach. He dropped the binoculars from his eyes, and slid back behind the cover of the concrete wall.

“Mentissa,” he whispered to himself. Blinkity-blink.

She had told him about the bridges, had egged him on knowing he couldn’t resist a target like this, an easy chance at redemption. Bob-Ten had stopped Mentissa from doing exactly the same thing. Had she gotten to him, he wondered? Was this her revenge, to make him hallucinate and do her bidding out of spite? What would the Optonians—with thousands of flying ships—want with a land-bridge?

Blinkity-blink.

The Heroine-6 had amplified her powers, and maybe this was what her mind control was like. Maybe it made you think you wanted to do these things, you wanted to hijack the school bus or blow up the hospital or… destroy the bridge.

But there was another reason Bob-Ten hesitated. Why choose such a vulnerable position? Whatever the blinkity-blink machine did, humans would have a hard time getting to the bridge by traditional methods, as it was heavily guarded on both ends and from the air. They wouldn’t even attempt it. Mentissa said it had to do with the Khaganate’s species, with their religion or as a symbol of their control, and maybe she was right.

But Bob-Ten thought there was more to it. None of the weapons were pointed down at the water, the most probable line of attack for a superhero. Was it taboo? And the Waifs were more slave-masters than warriors. Mentissa had found that out early on in her mind-control infiltrations. Why would they be massed in tight formation under threat of aerial attack?

Somewhere deep inside of himself, Bob-Ten smiled. He sat up again, and looked at the banks of the canal, downstream from the bridge. Hidden in the underbrush was the real strike force, divided on both sides of the nets that would retrieve the bodies of whoever fell into the water.

This wasn’t an easy target at all. This was a trap set for superheroes. And Bob-Ten knew how to destroy it.

“A good rule of thumb is that if a weapon’s barrel is bigger than your head, you don’t charge at it,” Sertain said, peering around the corner of an old machine shop toward the bridge about 400 yards away. But despite his posturing, Bob-Ten could tell he was ready for the attack.

It hadn’t been hard to convince Sertain and his army of twenty men to come along. They’d been raided a few weeks ago, and the weapons Bob-Ten gave them had worked wonders on their self confidence.

“And why do we have to dress ourselves up?” Cushion asked. He had spray-painted his couch cushion silver for the occasion. The other men in the army were a mob of bright colors, mostly painted skintight outfits they had borrowed from their girlfriends.

“’Cause they need to think we’re superheroes,” Sertain said. He was wrapped head-to-foot in beads, which hung off of his body like dried moss. “And everybody knows superheroes dress funny. Otherwise you can’t tell them from regular folk.”

Bob-Ten interrupted the two arguing men. “But what’s important is that they see superheroes, not humans, attacking them. We’ll charge them, they’ll fall back so we can get close to the blinkity-blink in the middle of the bridge. Then they’ll activate their trap to try to disable us.”

“Except it won’t work because I’m just wearing a couch cushion,” Cushion said, proudly putting the pieces together.

“Now wait a minute,” Sertain said, dropping his weapon. “Superheroes fly, right? How you gonna paint us flying.”

Bob-Ten grimaced and then put down the bag he was carrying. He opened it, took out the spindly sticks tipped with rockets. Each was decorated with Chinese characters.

“Fireworks?” Cushion said. “Are you gonna smoke them out or some—”

“Shut up,” Sertain said. He looked from the fireworks to Bob-Ten and then back again, a smile growing on his face. “Fireworks flying through the sky. Like some crazy fast superhero attacking the blink-blink on the bridge.”

“Close enough to get us in anyway,” Bob-Ten said. Inside he was beaming.

Sertain clapped him on the back. “Stroke of genius, Bob and I know that’s the first time anybody has told you that.” He pointed at the smallest man in the group. “Julio you set them off, yeah. But wait ’til we get close.”

Bob-Ten took one last look at his spray-painted army and tried not to wince. “Let’s get ready for the attack,” he said, turning from them. “Now don’t forget; act like your invincible.”

With a war-cry that echoed off the abandoned buildings of Industrial Way, Bob-Ten charged the heavily fortified bridge. The Armored Wheelers were caught off guard, their weapons aimed at the sky as if expecting an aerial attack. He heard the whine as motors attempted to depress the angle of the guns. The Optonian troops, massed in the center of the bridge, were slowly moving toward the attackers, though their close quarters meant only the front seven could fire at the attackers. Bob-Ten knew he had the tactical advantage for the next minute, until they got into proper position. He knew they were, of course, faking it so as to draw him in, but that didn’t stop his new found sense of pride. He had planned something, and it appeared to be working.

Yelling wildly, some of Sertain’s army overran the forward Wheeler, attached the sticky bombs to one side of its undercarriage and watched it flip over in hail of fire and rock. Cushion strode out of the flame and smoke exactly as planned, appearing to have single handedly flipped the vehicle over.

Sertain’s army poured fire into the mass of Optonian troops, advancing and overtaking one Armored Wheeler after another. The hiss of rockets from behind him told Bob-Ten that his aerial support had arrived, and he watched with pleasure as some of the Optonians guards started firing into the air, trying to bring down the darting “heroes”.

Being in the lead, Bob-Ten had absorbed a few hits from the Optonian lasers, but he wanted to make his presence known. He ran at the nearest Optonian guard, a Waif by the looks of its dome shaped helmet. Bob-Ten smashed the side of its helmet with one fist, then lifted the guard high above his head and threw it into three other guards who were busy returning fire. All four toppled off the side of the bridge.

The illusion was complete. The enemy had seen not only Bob-Ten absorbing lasers and tossing around guards like hot-cakes, but other heroes flipping over vehicles with one hand, and soaring through the air. The enemy fell back.

Bob-Ten turned to look at his army as they worked through the wreckage, destroying anything that moved as he had told them to do. If things went wrong, they would need a clear path to fall back, and the Optonians, slaves themselves, weren’t above laying down until the odds were in their favor.

Bob-Ten looked ahead to the central point where the wires were massed. The Optonians fell back, appearing to be disorganized, but not so far that they abandoned the blinkity-blink to him. A few low obstacles, provided some firing cover to delay whatever superheroes would get this far. But there was something else that caught Bob-Ten’s attention. The Optonians would have a safety, of course. And here he was.

Bob-Ten’s brother was staring at him from across the bridge. His brother was alive.

“Persius,” Bob-Ten said, hopeful in spite of what he knew must have happened. Bob-Ten had seen Persius cut in two, had seen him fall to earth in First-Battle.

There was not outward sign of recognition from Persius, no sign that the Optonians knew they had been fooled either. But suddenly the Optonian soldiers became more accurate, and the drivers of the Armored Wheelers stopped fumbling with their controls. They knew. Persius had told them.

Persius rose up, and in one terrible instant Bob-Ten saw what had happened to him. The legs of Persius’s pants dragged across the bridge as he floated toward Bob-Ten, but Persius had lost more than his legs in that battle. They had taken his eyes as well. Black nodes swelled from the side of his head. A dark stain, the Khaganate’s personal mark, covered his face in a tattoo. Persius had been changed.

With a cry that was more fear than anger, Bob-Ten hurtled toward his brother, not seeing the Optonian guards that he stomped out of the way, not feeling the direct hit that singed his chest, and caught his robe top on fire. He tore it off, tossing it into a puddle of fuel, and a nearby Armored Wheeler was quickly engulfed and exploded. Laser fire blew past him like snow on a windy day.

Persius glided toward him, his arms outstretched as if to give Bob-Ten a hug. But Bob-Ten knew his strength, knew he was no match for it.

Bob-Ten ran for Persius, screaming at him, at the war around him. Persius’s face was unmoving as he grasped for Bob-Ten. But he could not find a hold.

At the last instant, Bob-Ten rolled underneath Persius, where his legs should have been. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the handmade skirt give way as Persius grabbed at his leg. But naked as he was, Bob-Ten had bested his brother. He ran for the blinkity-blink machine.

The Optonians had spooled it up, thinking they would bag a few more superheroes for their workforce. Realizing it was a trick, they had abandoned that plan, but in the heat of battle they had forgotten to turn it off. And why bother. It would only affect two men on this bridge. Bob-Ten and his brother Persius.

Bob-Ten reached the control panels, a dead-easy system that had to be obvious to hundreds of life forms that might use it. It was a big fat button, and all he had to do was press it. Looking down at his naked body, Bob-Ten supposed he would go out the way he came in.

In the last minutes of life, they say everything slows down. Bob-Ten looked up at his brother one last time, and saw not anger, but sorrow. Persius’s face was damp, tears streaming down it from the ruined eye sockets, his mouth framing one word over and over again as he bore down on Bob-Ten, ready to kill him.

“Please,” Persius said. “Please, please, plea—”

“Love ’ya Pete,” Bob-Ten said. He mashed the button and then everything went black.

#

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Bob-Ten thought the sounds of heaven would be more instrumental, more harps and flutes and less monotonous drumming. More symphony, less solo.

Clickity-clack. He shivered. It should be warmer too. And shouldn’t they tell him what had happened with the war… Bob-Ten sat up.

“He’s awake,” a voice said. There was a thunder of footsteps, of men running toward him.

Bob-Ten felt the scratch of chipped concrete against his legs as he rolled to his side. Getting ready to defend himself. But he was so weak.

“Get the lights, Cushion,” a woman’s voice said.

Clickity-clack. Bob-Ten could see Sertain’s face grinning out at him, Mentissa looking down impassively. Bob-Ten was laying on the concrete in the school basement. Sertain’s men were gathered around him, staring.

A cup was thrust in his hand, and he drank from it. The bitter taste proclaimed medicine.

“We got him,” Sertain said. “We took out the bridge, disabled the ‘honey-trap’, that’s what Mentissa said it was. After we brought you back to her, she told us where the second bridge was, and we played the same script, same day.”

Curtain leaned in. “But you were so hot when we brought you in. You know? That blinkity-blink, it fried you. We wanted a revenge bridge because we thought you were dead. Super-weirdoes on that one too, both changed by the Khaganate. But Sertain got to the blinkity-blink and set it off.” He slapped his hands together. “I drowned one of them myself, poor bastard.”

“Two bridges,” Bob-Ten said, almost to himself. He looked at Mentissa, who smiled, daring him. She knew, he thought. Had always known.

Not breaking eye contact with her, Bob-Ten spoke. “And the super-weirdo on the first bridge, was he dead?”

“Dead as they come,” Sertain said. “You was holding him like you were babies, cradling each other. It took most of us just to get you out of his grip. But the blinkity-blink is too strong for superheroes at close range. The more powerful the hero, the more damage it does. I mean— well you’re not all that super now are you Bob?” He looked at Mentissa. “You’re more of a human-hero hybrid, you know…”

“And that explains why I’m still alive,” Bob-Ten said, his eyes boring into Mentissa’s. “Persius was always the stronger of us two.”

Mentissa recoiled, as if slapped. The illusion of cool genius fell from her face. “Oh Bob… I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would be him.” She flashed her eyes at the group of men, and they decided, as a whole, to find something else to do. Sertain and his men walked out into the hallway.

“But you knew from the beginning,” Bob-Ten said. “You marked me because you knew I could get to these bridges and survive. You sought me out didn’t you?”

Mentissa nodded. “The Optonians that I embodied confirmed it. Remember when I told you about the Spanish colonizers, how they sought out the centers of power and then used them for their own ends? Well the superheroes are the gold, Bob. We are the treasure. The Khaganate wants us working for him. I think he might have made us, might have made this city to gather us all here. To sharpen our blades, by putting the strongest heroes against the strongest villains.”

Bob-Ten shook his head. “How many does he have right now?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“A handful work for him willingly, but he needs more,” Mentissa said. “His changelings number over one hundred, but they’re weak… There was no way I could know your brother was on that bridge.”

Bob-Ten thought for a while, a strange silence passing over his face. “You never told me which bridge… I chose it. So that part is true,” he said. “But the time for game playing is over, Mentissa. It’s not hero against villain anymore, so stop worrying about your reputation and start giving me all the information. Are they rebuilding the bridges?”

Mentissa nodded, closed her eyes. A moment passed and a slow smile broke across her face.

“Not only that,” she said. “But they are rebuilding them exactly the same. Same materials, same dimensions, and using old concrete if they can find it. Trying to put together pieces of it like a puzzle. They’re upset about the loss of the two. More than upset, they abhor the loss, like it’s sacrilegious.”

Bob-Ten grimaced. “Then that’s a pressure point,” he said. “Nobody likes it when you put boogers on the collection plate.”

Bob-Ten took a step toward the hallway, then stopped. “Mentissa, I want you to embody as many Optonians as you can that have access to the bridges. I want them upset, lonely, and extremely suicidal. Make sure you give them access to high explosives. Cushion can help you with that. We’re taking out as many of those bridges as we can. It’s symbolic, you know? It’s a symbol. We can hurt them too.”

Mentissa closed her eyes, and got to work immediately. Bob-Ten would keep an eye on her, but her guilt over what had happened should give him a month without any lip. If she wanted to claim evil genius credits for their work here, he couldn’t care less.

The attack plan they had used wouldn’t work anymore, but Bob-Ten had an army now. He had flexibility. Without another word Bob-Ten strode into the hallway where Sertain was listening in.

“Hey Sertain,” Bob-Ten said. “Can you learn to drive a speedboat?”

END

A Time Without Roads

Let’s talk about your brain. A lot of your brain is evolved for non-linguistic interactions, which happen both internally and externally. Most of your brain functions are not conscious. And in case you hadn’t noticed, your brain does a good job of keeping you alive. How are these things related? And what does it have to do with this short story about well-intentioned hippies ruining the world?

Consciousness is on the periphery of brain activities. It’s the way the brain observes itself, and also the way the brain observes how it observes the world. My daughter tells me this is called meta-cognition. She is in second grade, so she explained it to me in a way that made sense: It’s the way you think about what you think. That’s a pretty good description.

But there’s a lot more going on in your brain than consciousness. Lots of interactions, plan-making, analyses, memorializing, swapping chemicals, etc. And sometimes (only sometimes) does that information get forwarded up to conscious thought. The method of transferring information to consciousness is what I call non-linguistic communication. This happens internally through dreams and intuition (communication within your brain), or externally through art (indirect communication from your brain to other brains) or through your body language and pheromones (direct communication from your unconscious brain to other unconscious brains). That’s probably why I hate texting. I can’t see/hear/smell you, so I don’t know what you really mean. That also may be why writing good fiction is so tough.

Consciousness is a clumsy but useful recent addition to our brains. From the fossil record we know humans have existed for roughly 250,000 years, yet our recognizable ancestors (non-human species) go back six million years, land animals 300-500 million years, and life on Earth a few billion years. They all had brains too (okay maybe just the last few hundred million years), and they also managed to survive. So brains are good for something. And since we can only be related to animals that have survived long enough to reproduce, we are all a product of success. What a weird family reunion that would make!

We haven’t been conscious for very long. Nobody knows how long. Some say the great leap forward in art and technology (about 30,000 years ago) indicates our burgeoning consciousness. Others place the date at 100,000 years, and others are more generous, and place consciousness even in non-human species, such as Neanderthals or Homo Habilis. Please notice I’m not answering the consciousness question, and, I’m doing it in an artful way. I haven’t thought of a fail-proof method to measure consciousness in the archaeological record. Email me if you figure it out.

In this story, the last of the collection, I address human consciousness. I had thought I only recently became interested in this idea (2018), but as it turns out, ten years ago I started writing about non-linguistic communication, artistic imagery, and the importance of facing up to your own dark self. At its core, this is a tragedy, but there is a ray of light at the end. Perhaps humans can save themselves, even if we are aware of how dangerously imperfect we are.

Leo trudged down the waterlogged road, jumping over the deeper puddles where the garbage had settled after the previous night’s torrents. His knees started to wear after only a mile, and his spry jumps turned to awkward lurches and finally, a numbed, sloppy, acceptance. By now, he was immune to most of the diseases the water carried anyway. His Uncle took care of that.

Leo passed the MiniSuper store, waving to the owner, Soledad, as she swept the trash from the previous night’s rain into the puddled street. Each movement of the broom was a hurricane in itself, a sharp jab against the natural disorder of the universe.

“Bueno,” he said as he walked by, but there was no time for idle conversation. The Coordinator was waiting for him.

Leo turned left, off the main street, and began to edge up the hill with short stuttering steps. He caught sight of his gangly reflection in a car window. The beginnings of a salt and pepper beard dotted his sun reddened cheeks; grey tufts of hair sprouted from beneath his neon green painter’s cap. He wondered who that old man thought he was, staring back at him from the reflection.

Leo adjusted his paint-speckled purple t-shirt, smoothing the wrinkled cloth over his stomach, and then continued wheezing up the hill. His legs began to tremble and he wondered if his body would have enough juice to get him back home in time to finish his work. During the rainy season, time seemed to slip by him, almost unnoticed.

At the top of the hill, Leo approached the Coordinator’s small house, breathless from the exertion, and a tinge of nerves. He rapped twice on the door, which pushed open on his last knock. Coordinators never locked their doors.

“Leo my man, what are you up to?” asked a voice from behind the half opened door. “Come on in.”

Leo pushed open the door, smelling the damp, incense laden air inside the small house. A fan turned reluctantly on the ceiling.

The Coordinator sat in an old rocking chair, a sun-faded book in his lap. His tied-back grey hair and reading glasses gave him a scholarly appearance, offset only by his stained tie-dye shirt. A cup of tea sat on the table in front of him, untouched.

“Nothing worth crying over,” Leo said with a shrug. “How’s your week been?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain. It’d be nice to see the sun again though.”

Leo smiled his agreement, then said, “It’s the hand we were dealt.” The words felt forced.

Jim looked up at him, over his lowered glasses.

Was that the encoded message that they wanted him to give, Leo wondered? He could never tell what they really wanted, what his Uncle really wanted.

“Have a seat Leo, you’re making me nervous.”

Leo obliged, sitting down on the damp blue couch directly across from Jim’s chair. He had to squeeze by the table in between them, jostling the cup of tea.

Jim took off his glasses and rubbed his nose, then continued. “We have a lot to talk about, and I’m sorry about this, but it might take quite a while. Just so you know, I’m fully On today, so you’re talking to both of us.”

Leo stiffened. It wasn’t often that he saw anyone On anymore. There wasn’t much of a need. But to be in the presence of a fully aware Coordinator was… overwhelming.

“I don’t feel the urge to turn On, is that all right, man?” Leo asked, his hand rasping back and forth on his chin.

“If you needed to, then you would. Your Uncle is doing fine by the way, he wants you to know.”

Leo nodded, suppressing the urge to ask how the message was passed. “How’d our boy do— or did the ‘Snoops’ pick up a she this time?”

“The new subject failed every one of their tests,” Jim said grimly.

“Every test, every single one. That’s–-”

“Great? That’s what I thought at first too. But my Uncle disagrees. I got this bad indigestion all of a sudden,” Jim said. He flexed the fingers of his right hand.

Leo wondered if that was another encoded message or just the effect of the rain.

“So here’s the problem my man,” Jim continued, his hand now resting in his lap. “It’s getting too easy. The Snoops aren’t stupid. They’ve saved hundreds of civilizations, and nudged thousands more into destruction. It’s pretty rare they sit back and do nothing. So what’s up? Why are they letting us pull the same old tricks on them, over and over again?

“Man, I don’t know,” Leo said, drawing out his words for emphasis. “We can’t get off the planet half the times we try to. How is that a threat to their galactic empire?”

Jim shrugged but said nothing. He scratched his left leg absently. “Tell me about your walk over here,” he said.

Leo gave Jim a wry smile. A conversation with a Coordinator could be maddeningly random at times. But it was still easier than turning On each time you made a report. No one likes a bright light in the face, even if it’s pitch black outside. So the Uncles relied on indirect methods of communication to talk with each other; body language, misplaced turns of phrase, even pictures or poetry. It made the conversations sometimes nonsensical.

“The roads were pretty bad from the rain. My knees were bothering me after about two seconds of jumping over the damn puddles, so I just slogged on through. I saw Soledad too, that was nice. Such a happy women for a pobrecita, don’t you think?”

“Why do you say that?” Jim asked. Leo had a good idea it wasn’t Jim’s question.

“Well here she was, waking up early in the rainy season to clean her store. Nobody was coming in today, you know that. But still, she was singing to herself as she swept the garbage off the porch. That’s just… her, you know?”

“And that’s significant to you?”

“Significant? No, just… nice.”

“What else?” Jim asked in a clipped tone.

“That’s about it. I was thinking about the rain, no surprise there. I got a new idea for a painting, and I’m anxious to get back to it to be honest. Other than that I just walked up here and knocked on your door. You’ve been the supporting actor for the rest of the play.”

Jim nodded. “You seem like you want to get going, my man. What’s up?”

“When ‘Our Lady of Inspiration’ calls you up, you don’t keep her waiting. I’ve learned that much after 25 years.”

“So what’s the new idea?” Jim asked. “Or maybe you don’t want to spoil it in the open air just yet?”

“No no, nothing like that. Besides it’s already copyrighted. I sign all my canvases before I start painting,” Leo said. “Then I just paint around them.”

Leo resisted the urge to stretch his long legs out before him. His knees were throbbing now from the long walk up here. “It’s gonna be a volcano piece, no surprise there. I’m in a dry spell right now with sales, so I can’t do any real work until I get this painting sold. But I have a new twist on it, something I haven’t seen before.”

Leo sniffed twice, then continued. “It’ll be a picture of the volcano just before the explosion. That’s a tough sell to the tourists, you can imagine. But if I push, and give it a stupid title like ‘The Demon Awakes’, I could pawn it off on someone. Then I can get back to my other stuff.”

“The Demon Awakes,” Jim said, his eyes squinting even in the low light. “That’s pretty rock-n-roll.”

“But I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.” Leo leaned forward. “In the forefront will be two images. Off to the right will be a howler monkey, the big kind that keep us up at night. It’ll be watching the volcano, its body kind of tensed up and waiting.”

Again Leo felt an irritation in his nose, as if he wanted to sneeze, but couldn’t. He sniffed again, and said, “Then, way down in the left corner will be a small child, probably a local. He’ll be watching the volcano too, waiting for the explosion. Only the backs of the monkey and the child will be visible, so you can’t make out their expressions. But their posture, the tilt of their head I mean, will be similar, almost the same.”

Jim’s face paled. “You say their body language is the same?” He clutched his stomach.

“No doubt,” Leo replied. He cleared his throat in the awkward silence. “That’s the whole concept, that relationship between the two. Their heads have to be tilted in the same way too. I see that over and over again. That’s the key to the painting.”

“Their heads—” Jim said. The book dropped from his lap, and Leo could see it was a book of poems by Pablo Neruda.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ve been burning the lamp a little too long here. I need to turn Off.”

“You gotta take it easy, brother.” Leo had meant it to sound casual, but his words hung in the damp air.

Jim smirked. “When the lady calls, you answer.” His face seemed less tense now.

“Tell me about the Snoops’ last subject,” Leo said. Tell us.

“The kid failed the Snoops’ usual tests, mathematics, politics, geography, basic science. We interviewed him afterwards too, just to be sure. There’s no way that guy could find Ecuador on a map. Shit, he couldn’t even find New Mexico.”

“So he wasn’t scrambled?” Leo asked.

“The Snoops stopped doing that about three years ago. Scrambled people were just too messed up to be accepted back, they were obvious. I could do as much with a sledgehammer, or a scalpel.”

“Where’d they pick him up from this time?”

“Ohio State University,” Jim replied. He shook his head, as if trying to free himself from some inner thought.

“The Snoops sure like the big schools, don’t they?”

“Well they’re scientists, after all. I guess they’re going for an average specimen,” Jim said. He stood up and walked to the small fridge. “Well enough about that— I got the good Uncle what he needs. How about a beer?”

“Beer would be good,” Leo said.

Jim walked into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles from the fridge. He sat down with a sigh and passed the beer and an opener to Leo. “How you doing for money,” Jim asked.

“I’m good,” Leo said. “For now at least. Once this rain lets up, I should get a few paintings out and then I’ll be doing just fine.”

“You know if you need—”

“I know,” Leo said, holding up his hand.

Jim smiled, embarrassed. “Just doing my Coordinator-type duty. You know if you’d ever be interested…”

“Late hours, no pay? No thanks,” Leo said. “I’ll stick to hustling tourists.”

“I hear that,” Jim said. “Haven’t written a damn word since I started this job.”

The rain picked up, tapping against the roof. Both men sat in silence sipping at their before noon beers.

“Want another one?” Jim asked, some time later.

Leo looked out the window as the water poured off the roof into the street.

“Might as well,” Leo said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#

By the end of the third hour, both men were thoroughly drunk. It had not stopped raining, but Leo decided he would walk home anyway. The mud wouldn’t bother him now.

“I have at least one other pair of shorts, I am sure of it,” he had slurred before leaving, not knowing if that was a final communiqué from his Uncle or just a garbled attempt at humor.

The walk down the hill was not nearly as bad as Leo had feared, though he knew the beers were dampening his pain. Leo slogged on, enjoying the suction of the mud as it grasped at his feet. Passing Soledad’s store, he saw her son Manny stooped over a puddle, his hands clad in thick yellow gloves. He was fishing out garbage that had pooled in front of the store. The fresh rain splashed around him, unnoticed.

“’Morning Manny,” Leo said. He hoped the rain would muffle his slur.

Manny grunted, not looking up from a particularly large puddle he was digging around it. He brought out an empty soda bottle and slapped it into large plastic bag.

“I said, ‘morning’,” Leo repeated.

“It’s not morning, it’s afternoon,” Manny said in his stiff English. He sniffed the air and smirked. “Smells like booze, too.”

“So it does,” Leo said, ignoring the remark. “I see you still got that cloud hanging over your head.”

“Don’t we all,” Manny said. “You got a little wet yourself, friend.”

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s good, happy, always happy,” Manny said. He reached behind him to drag the garbage bag as he straddled another puddle. “When she sweeps the garbage, she’s happy. When she cleans up after the tourists, she’s happy. When my Dad don’t write her, she’s happy. If she got run over by the bus, she’d be the happiest person in the world.”

“Well, one of you should be happy at least,” Leo said. “That weed you been smoking, does that make you happy?”

Manny stiffened at the word, then relaxed. “Not as happy as yours does. But I’m not a rich tourist like you.”

Leo fidgeted. He felt a twinge of panic as his Uncle suddenly tried to rise up, to grab control. But he suppressed him and was able to speak. “And Tomas, how’s his new business?” he asked tightly.

“Good as ever. There’ll always be drunks in my country.”

“So that’s it then,” Leo said. He breathed in deep, trying to fight it, trying not to turn On. His Uncle had been forceful in the past, but never this persistent. He wanted to turn, to run back to the Coordinator, but his legs did not move.

“That’s what?” Manny said. He shoved a plastic wrapper into his bag.

“This is how you want it, miserable all the time?”

Manny turned to look at him, and spoke. “Don’t talk to me about happiness old man. Some of us have to work around here.”

Leo felt another surge and felt himself slipping away. His Uncle made him splay out his feet, open his hands wide, a formal greeting. He watched as Manny turned clumsily toward him, his hands and feet pointed the same way, the awaited reply. But Manny’s face showed no sign of understanding what was going on, only bitter resentment.

Like a gust of wind, the Uncle’s urge subsided, and Leo became aware of the rain again. The young boy in front of him was openly showing his dulled anger, but nothing else. Perhaps Leo was imagining the whole thing, and Manny had not responded to the formal greeting. Perhaps Leo’s Uncle was as affected by the alcohol as he was.

“So I’m a tourist now, is that right? ‘Me gusta mucho-mucho’ yeah? I talk like that right?” Leo said. “I’ve lived here 15 years almost. That’s one more than you.” Leo touched his ear, and Manny did the same, mimicking him. But his Uncle remained silent.

“But you can leave,” Manny said. He set aside a glass bottle for his brother Tomas’s fledgling brewery. “You can leave whenever you want.”

The soft rain splashed down around Manny, and just for a moment Leo saw the next great painting he would never finish.

The boy was right. The artist’s community newsletter was full of articles on how much of a difference they were making in the lives of these locals, how they were improving the community. As artists they claimed to seek the truth; but not this kind of truth.

“Jesus, Manny I’m sorry.” Leo said. “I know some people in the States. You could go to university—”

“And leave momma here by herself? And what about Tomas, you gonna send him too? What about the rest of the kids here? You going to transport them all to the U.S.? An even swap maybe, so you can steal our country from us? No thanks.

Why don’t you go to the States? Maybe you can teach them how not to throw garbage in the streets. Maybe then my mom wouldn’t have to clean up after you invaders every goddamn day, and smile just for your cameras.” Manny stood up, his yellow gloved hands balled into fists. Mud oozed between his fingers.

Leo turned to leave, shaking his head. He walked down the road, away from Soledad’s store, then turned around and walked back. “If I said I was sorry, and that’s all, would that help? Can I say just that?”

“Is your money gonna soak up all this rain too.”

Leo said nothing in reply. The darkness on Manny’s face softened.

“All right,” Manny said. “It’s not you Leo, geeze I know that. It’s not you. You’ve been good to us, I know that. Even a stupid moron like me, a pobrecito, even I know that. You helped momma get started, she tells us that. You gave her the money for the store.”

Leo’s chest constricted at the word, the Uncle’s word for the unenlightened. Pobrecito. “It wasn’t much—”

“Take my gratitude, old man,” Manny said. “Take it, ‘cause I don’t know when it will come around again.”

Leo nodded and now he sought his Uncle, to get a reading on the boy. But his Uncle was slippery, avoiding his attempts at contact. It was the alcohol, he thought, and he dearly wished he could believe that’s all it was.

“It’s not right,” Manny said. “This garbage, this goddamn mud.” He picked up a handful of mud and threw it across the road. “Where does all this mud fit in, huh? You tell me, what good is all this rain? There’ll always be more mud, and there will always be mommas to sweep it away.”

Leo nodded again, but his uncertainty had given way to something more powerful. His Uncle was roiling beneath his surface, but it still pushed Leo away.

“Tell me,” Leo said, his voice soft. “Tell me what you think we should do.”

Manny grunted, but did not answer. The rain had picked up, and was now blowing almost sideways into his face. He did not move, his gaze was fixed on the growing puddles. Leo wondered if the boy was On right now. People did spontaneously develop their connection. Was Manny’s Uncle trying to communicate with his own? Was Leo’s Uncle hiding the conversation even from Leo himself? Leo felt the urge again to run back to the Coordinator. But his feet failed to move.

“She’s sick,” Manny said quietly.

“Who’s sick?” Leo asked. But the tears in his eyes showed he already knew.

“She’s got cancer,” Manny said. “Momma, the rock of our town— she’s rotting on the insides.” He smiled. “She’s just like us after all.”

Manny picked up his bag of garbage and tossed it on the porch. He walked inside, stomping his feet to remove some of the mud. From inside came the slam of two boots hitting the floor and then nothing.

Leo stood outside, the rain beating down on him. He stayed there for a long time, staring at the ground, watching his feet sink lower into the mud with each drop of water. He wanted to rush back to the Coordinator, to reach out to his Uncle, to return to his painting… to move. But he did none of these things. He stood in the rain and waited. When it came time to move again, Leo hoped the mud would set him free.

#

Leo’s cap rested on the sticky barroom table, haloed by a sprinkling of dandruff. His head lay uncomfortably on the crook of his arms, as if it had decided to sleep without notifying the rest of his body.

“Hey, jackass, wake up,” a voice said.

Leo stirred but did not wake. His head wobbled on his thin right arm.

A finger poked Leo in the ribs and this time his eyes creaked open. He winced at the sound of cracking pool balls.

“Oh,” Leo said, licking his lips. He could see a blurry version of Jim standing over him.

“Oh,” Jim replied, smirking down at him. “Did you want some company?” He took a sip from the coffee cup in his hand and sat down.

“When in Rome,” Leo said. He lifted himself up from the table with a sigh and looked down at his cap as if he had never seen it before. Smoothing down a few sprouts of frizzy grey hair, Leo placed the cap back on his head.

Jim reached across the table and straightened the bill of the cap. “Having some creative troubles?” he asked. “Or have you moved to this bar permanently?”

Leo drained the remains of a beer bottle, swishing it in his mouth. He licked his lips. “Something like that.” He smacked the bottle down and bits of his dandruff jumped up and off of the table.

“We missed you last meeting,” Jim said. “We need to talk to you about—”

Leo waved his hand, cutting Jim off. “Not today.”

“Some big stuff is going down—”

“Is that you talking Jim, or somebody else?”

“It’s me, you bastard,” Jim said. “Don’t pull this stuff all right? You know both of us are still me.” Jim softened his tone and looked around the bar. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

“Well I’m here,” Leo said, “so lets talk.”

“You’re here, but I need all of you. Not just Leo the drunken artist.”

Leo laughed. “You’re full On right now aren’t you?”

Jim nodded, but did not share in the laugh. “Just now, all of a sudden— I had to.” His hand traced a line through the spilled beer on the table.

“It’s about the Snoops,” Jim said.

“They making another run at us then. So what if they are? We can handle it.”

Jim shook his head, and continued playing in the stale puddle. “They left us. I mean they just took off and disappeared. Nobody knows what to think.”

“Nobody knows? What about the Scanners, what do they say?”

“The dreams stopped coming,” Jim said. “Just like that, no dreams, no drawings, no strange words popping into their heads. Nothing.”

“So the Scanners here are drawing a blank, so what? That’s happened before.”

“Listen man,” Jim said. “It’s not just here, it’s everywhere. I got my— I got the damn man upstairs just about running me into the ground doing analysis. We got nothing.”

“So they’re gone.” Leo licked his lips. “Shit man. I don’t know what to say. That’s awesome, right?”

“Does it feel awesome to you Leo?”

Leo shook his head. “Maybe they’re on a hiatus or something.”

“You know what it means,” Jim said, taking a sip of his coffee. “They’ve decided. That’s all we can guess. The other Coordinators have run it through too, and that’s what they’re coming up with. A decision has been made. But they can’t tell me which way the damn coin flipped.”

“Maybe it stood on its edge. Maybe it was a draw, and we get left alone.”

“Or maybe they come back and raze the whole place to the ground.”

“We could fight them though, right?” Leo asked. “I mean, if we could turn everyone On, we could take them out.”

“Maybe we could. But it takes time, you know. We only have 100,000 people who can do it now. How are we gonna train everyone else? And how are we gonna get the rest of the world to accept what we’ve been doing to them?”

“You mean dumbing down the world?” Leo said.

“I mean distracting them, yes. Half the time I expected the reports to come back showing the Snoops preparing for war. How could they believe what they were seeing? The mental decline on Earth in the last 40 years?”

“Shit man, who knows what a Snoop thinks? Who’s even seen a Snoop ship? We only know about them because of the Scanners, and we only understand because of the Coordinators. And bastards like me, well we just make sure everyone stays real peaceful. Real lazy.” Leo adjusted his cap again. Another message, he thought. Goddamn them.

Jim lowered his voice. “But what if they can tell? What if the Snoops found out we’ve been hiding from them? Distracting humanity so people don’t turn On spontaneously… what if that was wrong, what if we crippled ourselves?”

Leo shrugged. “It’s not like we decided it, Jim. You and I bought into the system, yeah, but we didn’t freakin’ invent it. It’s just… the hand we were dealt.”

Jim was quiet for a moment. “When’s the last time you were On?” he asked.

Leo rubbed his nose and looked over Jim’s shoulder. “Who knows.”

“You know, and you dodge that question whenever I ask you it. That’s meaningful.”

“To which one of you?”

“To us, Leo. To all of us really. Jesus, I know you’re goddamn conflicted right now, but can’t we talk about it some other time. The Uncles have kept us around for this long.”

“You think I don’t know that, man? That I was supposed to be dead by now?”

“We’d all be dead by now without them,” Jim said.

“I’d be dead for sure, I don’t know about everybody else. My damn liver should have given out 10 years ago. I can tell. I don’t know how, but I can tell.” Leo shook his head, disgusted, then continued, “Everybody else, they might have made it through. You don’t know for sure. The Scanners and the Coordinators, they talk about the damn Snoops like they’re the Devil himself. But they help some worlds too. They don’t destroy every one they find.”

“That’s not exactly reasonable,” Jim said.

Leo fumed, but said nothing. He tapped once on the table, then became enraged at his own gesture. Another message, he wondered, or his own impatience?

“Are they really gone?” Jim asked, more for himself than Leo. “Or have they found out about us?”

Leo remained silent.

“But the Coordinators found out something else,” Jim said. “Our distractions don’t just affect humans. The Snoops were affected by it too. We could use that— to defend ourselves.”

Leo smirked. “So I’m spreading stupidity throughout the universe, instead of just on our lonely old planet. Fantastic.”

“Leo, I don’t want to… I need you to turn On. It’s important.”

“That’s my decision,” Leo said. “That’s the setup we all agreed to. I decide when it happens.” He felt the familiar constriction in his chest, the whitening of his vision. His Uncle was surging forward now, and Leo doubted he had the strength to stop it. But why now? Why had it hid from him for the last week?

“I think there’s a reason for your getting drunk,” Jim said. “I think you’re just hiding from it dude.”

“I won’t,” Leo said. “It’s too big man. It freaks me out, all right? It’s not me anymore. I get lost in the wash.”

“But it’s still you Leo, we’re not taking your mind away. It’s all you in there. This is just a different version of you. A bigger version.”

“The extended version?” Leo smiled. “The double-album?”

“Your paintings man,” Jim said. “We need to know more about your paintings. We need to understand them.”

“You think I don’t know about my own paintings?”

“Where do they come from Leo, did you ever ask yourself that. Where do those damn paintings get their start?”

“From me,” Leo said. “I make them up, I paint them.”

“What did you do before you came here?” Jim asked.

Leo shook his head. “Lot’s of people start late—”

“Answer the question. What did you do?”

“I worked at a college,” Leo answered.

“You weren’t a professor,” Jim said. “What did you do?”

“I was on the grounds crew,” Leo said, staring out the door. “I picked up… garbage. I drove a truck and picked up all of their garbage.”

“Were you a painter then?” Jim’s eyes bore into Leo’s.

Leo looked away. “Goddamn it, you know I wasn’t. I was just a drunk, same as now.”

“You’re holding us back Leo. We need to know about your damn paintings man. If you could tell us about them, then I wouldn’t be doing this. But you don’t know shit about them, no more than those tourists do. Tell me about the kid in the painting Leo. Why was he there?”

“He was the same, like I said. The same as the monkey.”

“Keep going man,” Jim prodded him. “We already knew that.”

“I don’t know, maybe I didn’t get it right. He was supposed to hold something, the kid I mean. But I couldn’t decide what it was.”

Jim sighed. “Was it a gun, a rocket, what? Jesus, we need to know what he was holding.”

Leo felt a lightning strike of pain in his chest. His vision blurred. “I feel strange,” he said.

“Your Uncle wants to come On,” Jim whispered. “He has something to tell me; something you just can’t know. Please Leo, it’s important. Just let it happen.”

“Just let it happen,” Leo said. “Whispered in backseats throughout the world, always the same result. Even here.”

“That’s it, you gotta go loose man. Try not to think.”

“You could have at least bought me dinner first,” Leo smiled.

Leo passed through his Uncle, saw him rise up and take control. What Leo saw in his Uncle was not the usual solemn enlightenment, but something else, a new emotion. The familiar smile was replaced by a superior smirk, one Leo used when hustling tourists. The Uncle’s eyes had a glint of greed that Leo sometimes saw in himself late at night; an unspoken urge that usually led him first to the bar, and sometimes the brothels.

He wanted to cry out a warning to Jim, to tell him to be careful, but the words did not come. And then Leo was lost in a wash of white light. His Uncle spoke through him.

“Ok,” Leo said. “I’m here.”

The two men talked for over an hour before Jim rushed out the door. Leo could hear the Jeep’s engine scream as it roared down the road, plastering some of the houses with mud. Slowly his own personality bobbed to the surface, pieces at a time.

Leo sat at the table, creaking back and forth in his chair, unable to move. His Uncle had retired, and now he enjoyed the familiar emptiness, the constraint of his own normal mind. It was like coming down from a pretty good high.

After a long while, he put a large tip on the table and walked out into the street, trying to forget what his Uncle had just done.

As he walked, Leo wondered where Jim had rushed off to, what fools errand he had been sent on. His Uncle had hidden that part of the conversation from him. And he doubted Jim, for all his insights, would have expected what had just happened.

No one knew that an Uncle could lie.

#

Leo spent the next two sleepless nights locked away in his house, waiting for word on Jim’s whereabouts. Occasionally he would get a wild rush from his body as it demanded a drink, that he weaken his resolve. But Leo was on to his Uncle’s tricks, and he was able to get some painting done. He’d thought that drinking confused his Uncle, but now he knew: it was the other way around.

The picture of Manny in the rain was now taking shape on his canvas. Leo had stalled on the outline of the main figure; he wasn’t sure it had the right posture. It didn’t feel right. He stared at the canvas, looking for an answer.

Maybe Jim was right, Leo thought, that the paintings really had come from his Uncle. But Leo didn’t reach out to his Uncle for guidance, as he had in the past. It was too dangerous.

A knock at his door broke his focus. Leo walked across the room and opened the door.

“Manny, hey it’s good to see you.”

“You drunk?” Manny asked.

Leo smiled. “C’mon in man. I got some coffee brewing if you want some…” His smile faded when he saw the burning in Manny’s eyes. Leo felt his Uncle stir, warning him.

Manny walked out of the rain. His eyes darted around the house, but he said nothing.

Leo busied himself in the kitchen and tried to quiet his Uncle. What was it telling him? And could he trust it?

“Well, what’s up?” Leo said finally, handing a cup to Manny.

“Your distraction campaign is up,” Manny said, his eyes pouring over Leo’s startled expression.

Leo felt a cold spot growing in his stomach despite the gallons of coffee he had consumed.

“Manny, I— What’s going on with you dude? Are you sleeping all right?”

“No,” Manny smiled, touching the dark smudges under his eyes. “Not for weeks now. Even before I found out about momma… I have these dreams.”

“So why tell me?” Leo said, turning away from the boy.

“Because you know about it too. I can tell that. There’s a few people in town who know. At first I didn’t understand it. They would signal me somehow. The way they walked, or smiled. I could tell that they knew.”

“That’s crazy,” Leo said. Since their distraction campaign, Uncles rarely developed on their own anymore. That was the point. But that day in the rain, Manny had seemed close. “Is this about your mom?”

Manny shrugged off the suggestion. “Still trying to distract me? Give it up man.”

Manny stood up and walked over to the unfinished painting. “This is me right? This was our fight?” He picked up a brush lying on the counter. “You missed this part though.”

Leo watched in shock as Manny applied four deft strokes to the canvas, to his canvas.

“What the shit man?” he said.

“You had it wrong,” Manny said. “Now it is real.”

Leo looked at the painting. The figure had not been altered, only the garbage it was fishing out was different. A dark smudge had replaced the feathery touches Leo had put there. He felt his Uncle stir again, pressing up against his consciousness.

“I didn’t know you painted, Manny.”

“I don’t,” he said, grinning. “And neither do you really.”

Leo could feel his Uncle surging upwards, making him woozy. “I’m not feeling so well. I guess we’ll have to finish this—”

“Leo, sit down. I’ll tell you when we’re done.” Manny’s voice cracked when he spoke, destroying the forceful tone he had been trying to use.

“You’re tired Manny. You’re upset about Soledad. I’ll come by tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow is too late. We’ll talk now. Is it true what they said, that you could cure her?”

Leo sat down and sighed. “What do you want man, another apology to ignore?”

“I want her to be better,” he said. “And I want to be better too.”

“You’re sick?”

“You know what I mean Leo. Ask your Uncle if you’re not sure.”

“You’ve got some funny ideas,” Leo said.

“Yes but ‘where do those ideas come from, man’” Manny said.

“You were listening in on us, at the bar?”

Manny shook his head vehemently. “No, not me. Us. The bartender is one of us. We’ve got a few others in this town. We can control the rest that are emerging now, at least in the local area. I guess in a way I should be thanking you especially. You helped to make us better. More refined.”

“Bullshit man. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You mean all about the ‘Snoops’, or your distraction campaign? Did you really think it would work; that you could fool them?”

“We did what we had to,” Leo said. He pressed a fist against his chest, trying to hold back his Uncle by physical force. “We never made anybody do anything they didn’t want to. You don’t know the Snoops.”

“And you do? You know shit. Look at your painting. Look at the last few you did. What’s the common theme? Are you that oblivious?”

Leo said nothing as he stared numbly at the canvas. The dark smudges Manny had added began to take shape in his mind. It was no longer an old plastic bag that the figure was taking from the ground. It was a pistol. He had missed it. More importantly, his Uncle had missed it. Or perhaps the old guy had hidden this message from Jim and the rest of them, Leo included.

“You’re weak. But we couldn’t have done it without you. The Snoops told us that. You made it so much more difficult for the mediocre to emerge, for their Uncles to turn On. Right now, only the best have been able to do it, and once we organize, we’ll be the ones with the power.”

“So what, you’ll take over the village?” Leo said. “Then, five years from now, you think you’ll be emperor of the earth. Bullshit, man. You’ll be dead, same as everyone else.”

“We have promises from the Snoops, old man. We’ll be the ones running things in a decade from now. Then we’ll start training the rest. You’ll need to stop your distractions though. We don’t need them anymore.”

“You’re 14 years old,” Leo said.

Manny straightened his back. “I’ll get older,” he said. “And age has nothing to do with it anyway, as long as you’re not too old. I’m one of the best though, the Snoops told me.”

“They tell that to suicide bombers too,” Leo said.

“Jim is dead, I just wanted to tell you that,” Manny said, striking out with his casual words. Leo winced and turned away.

“We did it quick though Leo. We had to do it.” Manny looked out the still opened door. He softened his tone. “He didn’t suffer, I made sure.”

“Your mother must be proud,” Leo said. His eyes reddened. “Jim was a good man. You didn’t have to do that. He was reasonable. You could have talked it out.”

“Well, I’m not in charge of things yet.”

“But you will be,” Leo smiled sadly. “You’re the future aren’t you.”

“Damn right, old man,” Manny said, not detecting the irony in Leo’s voice. “We’ve taken out most of your people, all the Coordinators anyway. But you guys are the most important, the Distracters.”

“And I suppose the Snoops told you that too,” Leo said.

Manny fell silent.

“Doesn’t that make you think about anything?” Leo asked. “You must at least understand what we were trying to do here, man. Even if we were wrong, even if the Snoops were using us, as you said, as an evolutionary spur to make your Uncle’s develop faster or stronger or whatever the hell… Why would they have you get rid of us? We know so much more about this than you do. We could teach you.”

Leo felt the words come, some of them whisperings from his own Uncle. His Uncle had been aware of what was happening, Leo now knew. But why hadn’t his Uncle told Jim?

“The Snoops have left,” Manny said quietly.

“Left to where? And how do you know for sure. Because they told you? You believe them but not me, because I don’t tell you what you want to hear. That you are special and better than everyone else, and you deserve to rule? You’re 14 years old.”

“Look I came here to see if you would teach us,” Manny said. “We’re not going to kill all the old ones, just because we’re told. We can hide you from them, we’re pretty sure.”

“So I can be a slave,” Leo said.

Leo could see his Uncle laughing at him, at the boy and his infant powers. For the first time, Leo saw his own Uncle clearly, the pride in his face as he stepped forward, brushing aside Leo’s consciousness. The old ones won’t need to be hidden, his Uncle told him. We will rule once the dirty work is done.

Manny shrugged. “You will be an advisor. My advisor actually. I’m the new Coordinator for this area.”

“Well congratulations,” Leo said, his voice hoarse. “A murderer and now a rebel leader at the age of 14. Fantastic.”

“Making jokes,” Manny said, “can be bad for you.” His face darkened.

Leo felt a wave of nausea wash over him, bringing him down to his knees. Leo tried to focus on his Uncle, to prevent him from taking advantage of the weakness, but his Uncle was also hurt by the attack.

Leo shook his head, trying to clear it. He heard his Uncle yell out in pain and the ‘old guy’ again tried to push Leo’s mind aside. But Leo held fast. His Uncle would cripple this boy, Leo knew. And Manny hadn’t the slightest idea what was about to happen.

“Did the Snoops teach you that?” Leo winced, trapped between his Uncle and the pain.

Manny’s face was radiant. “Among other things, yes.” He closed his eyes again and the pain returned.

Let me out, Leo’s Uncle whispered to him. We’ll do it together, set the world on the right path.

Leo shook his head, whimpering. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the physical pain, of Manny pressing him. But his own Uncle was the true danger. If Leo lost hold of his Uncle, his life and the boy’s were over.

‘Do you think boys such as these are fit to rule?’ his Uncle said to him. ‘Have they fought like we have, have they sacrificed their talents?’

Leo continued struggling, but his hold slackened. The deed was already done, he thought, people had already died. He knew the Snoops, he knew their weakness. It made sense that he should—

‘Yes,’ Leo’s Uncle hissed. ‘Now you see. We are a man of action, not like the others. We’ve been trapped here, static. Waiting, when we should have been acting.’

This boy here would rule, Leo thought. This boy, hurting him for no reason other than he could. He or others like him would rule, unless—

‘We have the experience, the foresight,’ his Uncle said. ‘We moved when no others would; we made first contact with the Snoops.’

His Uncle stepped forward, and Leo felt himself slipping away, back to the white place.

‘You and I convinced them to leave… they are not devils, but caretakers, pruning off dead limbs. We showed them our power.’ The Uncle moved forward inside of his mind, and Leo felt a cold cruel smile form on his lips. His Uncle’s smile.

“We did it,” Leo heard himself say out loud. “We did it together—”

Manny closed his eyes, squinting harder, sending out more pain. But its impact lessened and then gradually dispersed.

In his mind, Leo fell back one step further, almost to his own oblivion. He thought of Jim, of Soledad’s sweeping, of Manny digging into the earth for garbage, an endless task. Leo thought of the mud, of the rain, of the time-without-roads. The time when nothing is clear, except that you must not stop, not even slow your pace, or you will become stuck, until the roads have dried, and the storm has ended.

The devil who would rule, his own Uncle— Leo was sure of its intention. Jim was right when he said the Uncle was him, a bigger broader version, but at its core, it was Leo. And Leo knew the man he was, the things he had done.

With the boy, Leo thought, there was still a chance. Some good could be shaped into him, even if the hands that shaped him were tainted.

In his mind, Leo ran toward his Uncle, attacking it with the only weapon he had. Acceptance.

He welcomed the pain, the hurt; he allowed Manny’s attack to flow through him, to amplify, to destroy him. He heard his Uncle give a sharp bark of surprise, and then a howl of anger. And then all was black.

Leo tasted blood on his lips, felt a wetness in his crotch. He could feel the cool wooden floor as it pressed against his face. He searched his mind and found that he was alone. For now.

Manny was standing over him, weeping. “I thought I—”

Leo was quiet for a very long time. He sat up and then spoke. “Do you think the Snoops are really trying to help you? I need to know.”

Manny shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re in charge now, soon we’ll be strong enough to stop even them.”

Leo grimaced. He thought that it mattered very much what this little boy thought about the Snoops. But it was too late, he had made his decision.

“I’ll do it,” Leo said. The cold spot flared in his stomach. His Uncle, what was left of it, disagreed.

“Is it true, what the Snoops said?” Manny asked. “That you can heal people?”

Leo shook his head slowly. “No, not me. Jim maybe could do it to other people.” Noticing the dark look in Manny’s eyes, Leo spoke quickly. “But we could train your mom to do it herself. Everyone can help themselves.” Usually, he thought.

Manny frowned, and for a few seconds, Leo saw the scowling boy in the rain, fishing garbage out of a muddy street.

“But she’s so old. Can she still be taught?”

“You’d be surprised what us old-timers can do,” Leo said, walking over to the unfinished painting.

“It’s time to go,” Manny said. He walked over to the door and opened it.

Leo rolled up the canvas, shoving it behind a bookcase before turning to follow the boy.

Manny led him out the door and into the waiting road of mud. It had stopped raining.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eric “E.C.” Stever is the author of several science fiction and fantasy stories, as well as non-fiction works relating to history, and general science (which is the best kind of science). He has been publishing for over a decade.

He is a professional archaeologist in Idaho and Wyoming, and was previously a computer programmer. (Dear NASA: If you’re recruiting for an expedition to those recently discovered alien ruins on [REDACTED], he’s the ideal programmer-archaeologist you’ve been looking for.)

E.C. lives with a geologist, two unrepentant marshmallow fanatics, and several hundred eyebrow mites (don’t judge, you have them too). Alas, the coyotes have eaten his cats.

Check out his work at www.ecstever.com

or Connect at eric@ecstever.com

Other Books By E.C. Stever

Dimension Stones: Real Magic Short Stories

Sisters Under the Skin: A SciFi Caving Novella

Copyright

Copyright © E.C. Stever, 2018. All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions.

“Nonmetallic” first published as “Tailings of Men”, Kaleidotrope, 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Time Without Roads” first published in NonEuclidean Café, 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.

All other works are original to this anthology, and all rights are reserved by the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations, is entirely coincidental.

For more works by this author, visit:

ecstever.com

Content

E.C. Stever
NON METALLIC

Nonmetallic

(A Late) Introduction

The Judas Horse

CATCH_ALL

Bob-Ten (With the Strength of Six Men)

A Time Without Roads

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright