Not Human

I stare at my so-called locker. Normally I’d carry my Journal with me, but today I left it in the locker for ‘safe’ keeping. Now it’s gone and I am in deep trouble. I scrape my cloven hoof on the ground, leaving a mark in the fake marble. I’m drawing a crowd, but that’s what today has been like. It started in second period … no, it started at breakfast.

I began the day as a (relatively) normal guy. When I came down for breakfast Mom wished me happy birthday, then got this serious look on her face. She told me there was something I had to know now that I was eighteen.

“Tyler, you’re not human. You’re a magical creature called a ‘spiritus scriptus’, that your father and I summoned eighteen years ago. You know your Journal? That’s your true form; your human body is a convenience for interacting with people.”

“You know how crazy this sounds, Mom? Here’s a clue: Really, Really, Crazy!”

“You need proof? Write ‘I’m wearing my new watch’ in your Journal.”

“I don’t have a new watch.”

“Just write.”

I did. Then I stared at the brand-new Rolex on my wrist.

After that I got the talk about keeping the Journal safe; whatever was written in it would come true for me. I decided to leave it in my locker so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it until I’d had a chance to think about the implications.

I turned into a robot halfway through Chemistry class. After that I became a tree, and then a tentacled alien; now I’m a unicorn. I guess keeping this secret isn’t an option. The weirdest part about being a unicorn is being able to look at someone and know whether they’re a virgin. Stacy Engels is, which is why I had no problem with her sitting on my back and combing my mane.

Stacy dropped into my front seat. It took a moment to get used to suddenly being a car, but at least I could communicate. I used the radio, like those robots in that movie.

“Stacy, can you help me? It’s Tyler. Somebody stole my Journal and I have to get it back.”

“Tyler Harrison? Nerdy Tyler?”

“The one and only.”

“I never knew you were cool. Can you turn into other stuff?”

“Not without my Journal.”

Whatever the speed limit was in the hallway, we more than tripled it. With Stacy at the wheel we found the perps in seconds: a matched pair of stoners in a stairwell who were taking turns doodling all over my life.

Stacy demanded the book. One stoner suggested a price, but when Stacy twisted his arm he reduced it to “Just let go! Please!”

“Great work, Stacy. Can you turn me human again?”

She took out a pen and started writing. Finally she put the book away and climbed onto my back. One hand grabbed my mane and the other caressed my spiral horn.

“Eventually.”

Predator

Eduardo could not believe his luck. The sun was turning the sky to gold as it sank into the west, but The Girl was still playing on the swings. Her golden hair and six-year old figure were enough to melt his heart; he decided then and there to take her for his bride.

He reached into the back of his van and took Skippy out of his pet carrier. Skippy was easily the most adorable of the puppies he carried for just such an occasion. And Skippy really liked little girls. He put Skippy on the ground and nudged him in the direction of The Girl.

Skippy acted just like he should. He bounded off in the direction of the girl, his long hair bouncing as he ran and his long tongue dangling out the side of his mouth. He stopped by the edge of the sandy place under the swings, looked up and yipped.

The Girl looked down and her eyes widened. She used her feet as brakes and brought the swing to a quick halt.

“Hello, Puppy.”

She climbed off the swing and crouched down.

“What are you doing out here, puppy? Momma says there are monsters around.”

Skippy yipped.

“Come here, puppy.” She scrunched up her print dress and dropped to her knees, revealing pink panties with white hearts as she crawled toward him. Eduardo thought they were perfect for her wedding night. He trembled in anticipation.

Skippy licked The Girl’s nose as she got near. She reached out and he jumped into her waiting arms, wagging his tail enthusiastically. Soon the girl and puppy were a wriggling, giggling mass of play.

“Skippy!” Eduardo’s practiced call was loud enough to sound like he was looking, but quiet enough that it wouldn’t carry out of the park.

Skippy yipped and The Girl looked up. Eduardo grinned.

“Skippy! Thank you, little girl; I thought I’d lost him!”

She looked at Eduardo suspiciously, cuddling the wriggling puppy in her arms.

“May I have him back?”

The Girl pulled back slightly as Eduardo reached for the dog, but not far enough. He scooped up his future bride and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You’re a pretty little girl. I’ll take you home with me where you’ll be safe. After all, there are monsters around.” She struggled wildly in his arms, kicking and trying to scream. But Eduardo knew how to hold onto little girls so they couldn’t escape.

In the morning the park was surrounded with police tape; an early-morning jogger had found the bloodied body of a middle-aged man torn apart and partially eaten by a wild animal. Little Emily held her mother’s hand and stared in wonder at the police cars with their pretty red and blue lights. She’d brushed her teeth really well last night so nobody would see any traces of red this morning.

Hearing Things

A light breeze is making the tall grass hiss and sway, and a few birds are making their opinions of us human intruders known. We’re in the middle of the Living Prairie Museum, Winnipeg’s tacit reminder of what happens if you don’t mow your lawn. Madison, my 12-year old neice, is finally starting to calm down.

“Why are we here, Auntie Britt?”

“Is your headache getting better?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“That’s why.” I used to come here when the headaches got to me; that’s the problem with hearing other people’s thoughts; nobody knows when to mentally shut up.

She looks sidelong at me. “I’m hearing people’s thoughts?” Her eyes pop wide. “I’m hearing people’s thoughts!” She starts mentally babbling as a dozen ideas try to get out at once. I remember that, too, except nobody was there to hear me or teach me about control.

“Maddie!” Her attention instantly focuses on me. “You’ll have time to think through the implications later. We only have an hour or so before I told your Dad I’d have you back.” And there’s so much she needs to learn.

“Like what, Auntie?”

“Like how to tune the noise out, and how to tell whether you’re hearing somebody’s voice or somebody’s mind.” So your teen years don’t get screwed up like mine were.

“Oh.”

And that’s it; Maddie’s suddenly all business. I love the way her mind can focus like that; it took me years to learn. And she’s a natural at imagining a tune to generate mental white noise. I’m not sure about her taste in music, but I don’t think she’s too keen on mine, either.

Distinguishing between voices and thoughts is harder, because most people think in their speaking voice. I can only give her a few pointers, like watching for moving lips and pretending not to hear the offhand comments without evidence that they were actually said.

When we get back Maddie's father pulls me aside. He doesn’t need to ask the question.

“Yes Justin, Madison has the gift.”

The things that pass through his mind make me want to slap him. What comes out his mouth is just as bad. “Can you do anything to stop it?”

“No! Even if I could I wouldn’t; she’s got this talent, it’s better for her to learn to control it, not suppress it.”

“You can say that after it screwed up your life?”

“Yes I can. Maddie’s got an advantage I didn’t have: a mentor. Someone to show her the ropes before she does something stupid.”

I realize there’s something else bothering him.

“Okay, out with it Justin. I can hear you trying not to tell me something. Give it up now before you give it up by accident.”

He sighs. “Are you the only person with this power?” I can hear the suspicion in his voice.

“No. Cousin Rachel has it, and she’s heard rumours of others. Why?”

“There’s been a security breach. It was something bad, bad enough that the Mounties are involved. They sent out a memo to all the Deputy Ministers demanding an inquiry; most people are treating it like some kind of joke, but I’m scared. I don’t want to report you, but not doing so would be enough to get me thrown in jail.”

“Then report me; I haven’t done anything wrong. Now, are you going to report Maddie?”

I can tell from the look on his face that I’ve just asked the real question.

I spend the evening working with Maddie on blanking things out. It’s only partially successful. Carol, her mom, is getting a full briefing from Justin. She’s hysterical; not only is she just learning about Maddie, she’s just learning about me. Moron-boy never told her.

She’s used the f-word four times in the last two minutes. Each time it stings just as badly as it did when people first used it on me. Freak. Poor Maddie’s getting a condensed lesson in intolerance. All I can do is hold her and try to cover it up with any happy thoughts I can find. There aren’t too many at the moment.

The only saving grace is that Jake and Hannah, the two little ones, are downstairs being entertained by Grandma. They don’t really need to hear their parents arguing, or Auntie and their big sister sobbing together.

Later on Justin and Carol get it worked out. Maddie isn’t a freak, but I am. I’m a useful freak, though, and I’ve got an invite to come over and help Maddie train three times a week. Justin even apologizes for the heated conversation, which he knew I could feel. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Auntie Britt?

I feel the question in my mind as I’m getting into bed. There’s only one person it can possibly be. “Come in, Maddie.”

She does, quietly closing the door behind her. “I can’t sleep.”

“You’ve been through a lot today.”

“I know this sounds stupid, like I’m a baby, but …”

“Yes, you can sleep with me. But no funny stuff.”

She giggles; it’s a magical sound.

“And there’s one other rule: my room, my music. Okay?”

She pouts. “Okay. What old people’s music are you going to imagine?”

“Nothing; it’s young people’s music, from before Grandma was born.”

“That’s old.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” But she knows I won’t. And my memory starts singing the song that I used to sing when I wanted to run away from everything bad.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high …”

Maddie cuddles in, and her mind starts playing it too.

[This is a prequel to Medical Device]

Card Counting

We were escorted to a room with four concrete walls, two wooden chairs, and three linebackers, all here just to see us. I was sweating more bullets than Bonnie and Clyde’s car, but Jimmy was a cucumber. He had that half-smirk he gets just before somebody else’s day gets ruined.

“What’s going on?” I asked the pit boss who’d dragged us here. He answered with a voice straight from the gravel pit.

“Your friend here’s been counting cards. We don’t approve of that here.”

Jimmy smiled. “I was counting all right, Dutch. You had three decks in play and only 147 cards. What’d you take out to stack the deck?”

“I don’t like your tone, boy.”

“I guess not. You won’t like this, either.” He flipped open a faded Nevada Gaming Commission ID.

Dutch wasn’t impressed. “You find that in a Cracker Jack box? They ain’t used that design since the 60’s.” He nodded and the defensive line moved in.

A three-goon orchestra started playing the Black and Blue Danube on our skulls and I got lost in the music pretty quickly. The next thing I remembered was Jimmy waking me up.

“Come on, Doug. We gotta scram.”

I opened the one eye that was willing to allow it. Jimmy looked like he’d just been to the butcher shop as a pig. I scanned the room to see how the other guy did and found the three bruisers – in half a dozen places.

“What the hell, Jimmy?”

“They had an accident. Now come on!”

He dragged me to my feet and out the door. We were both limping, and I saw the end of a broken chair leg sticking out his back. The other end was sticking out of his stomach.

“God Jimmy, doesn’t that hurt?”

“Nah, they missed my vital spots. We gotta get out of here before Dutch gets back.”

“Why? Is he bringing a bazooka?”

“Worse. Holy water.”

“What are you, Jimmy, some kind of vampire?”

“Yeah. I thought I told you.”

“I thought you were just shitting me. You’re really a vampire?”

“Have been since ’64. I ran into something worse than a crooked casino owner; now I’ve got the whole bloodsucking immortal thing going on.”

I thought about it. Jimmy didn’t go out in the daytime, and he showed up in church less often than Satan.  He was smoother than rum and coke and always ordered his steak veterinarian rare. All in all being a vampire didn’t seem to have done badly by him.

“You know Jimmy, that actually sounds pretty cool.”

“It isn’t. The vampire thing is awful.”

“Why?”

“Italian food just isn’t right without garlic.”

Originally posted to Writer's Digest.

Josie's Basement

Josie felt the wall panel shift slightly in her hand. She’d been running her hand along it and found a little depression; when she pushed the whole panel moved. In the two weeks they’d lived here nobody had said anything about a sliding panel down here. It wasn’t like she could see it with the lights out.

Josie was in the basement to change a fuse. Who uses fuses any more? This place must have been built in the stone age. The handle on the door leading upstairs had come off in her hand so she was stuck until Mom and Dad got home. Stupid house.

Pull yourself together Josie, she thought, tightening her housecoat sash. You’re fourteen years old; only little kids are scared of the dark. There’s nothing to fear down here, except maybe spiders. She shuddered.

Spiders or no spiders she pushed onward, or rather sideways. The panel slid open enough for her to slip through, so she did. The space beyond was just as dark as the basement. Her foot hit something. She reached down and examined it with her fingers; it was a foot-tall wax stick with a string sticking out the top. A candle!

Yes, she thought, now all I need is a way to light it. A tiny red ember started to glow on the end of the wick, and in moments blossomed into a flickering yellow flame. Well that’s handy. Other candles sprung to life around her, forming a circle. The faint light momentarily blinded her.

The room was about seven feet on a side, and its only contents were two circles drawn on the floor; her circle of candles another outlined in silver. Both had tiny foreign-looking letters around their rims.

Josie reached to pick up a candle and her hand stopped about an inch from it. What the? She tried another one with similar effect. Soon she had traced a circle around herself defined by an invisible force that prevented her from passing. Even sitting on the floor and kicking at it with her bunny-slippered feet had no effect.

Great. I’ve gone from being trapped in the basement to being trapped in a little circle. Can this get any worse? As if in answer the candles started to smoke. A sickly-sweet fog like burning honey rose around her, leaving her blind again.

The fog cleared quickly and she found herself somewhere else; a cavern with dozens of bookshelves and strange objects. But the main thing of interest was the demon. It was about her height but had a cluster of tentacles where its legs should be; its body was covered in writhing fur. It wore a white tee-shirt that was ripped in a dozen places, which from the bulges covered three breasts. It had thorny vines for hair and its face was almost human except for the oversized dark eyes. It was wearing glasses, and held a book in one clawed hand.

“Eew! It’s hideous!” Both girls said in unison.

Just Like Old Times.

He sat in the bar alone, nursing a Diet Coke. The echo of the phone call lingered in his head. “Noon, at Joey’s pub,” and “There’s something I have to tell you.” After almost ten years of not seeing her, it all came back. The joy of seeing her smile, the hugs and the kisses (oh, the kisses), the sheer joy of being in her company. The pain of the breakup, such as it was; there were no fireworks, only the dark silence of the embers cooling. He had no idea what had possessed him to call her after all those years.

He’d carried the torch for years, told himself that somehow they’d get back together. When a common friend ran into her he’d ask how she was, hoping to hear that she’d mentioned him or asked after him, but nothing. The problem with “I love you forever” is that it doesn’t go away, even if that makes it inconvenient.

Other patrons came and went. Noon came and went. He continued to drink, watching the door and waiting. She walked in wearing a flowing white wedding dress, looking just like she had fifteen years before. But it wasn’t her; she ran over the man next to him at the bar and took his hands.

“I’m supposed to be getting married today, but…”

He tuned out, deliberately directing his attention anywhere else. They talked for a couple of minutes and then left hand in hand.

And he waited. Noon passed unnoticed, then one, two, and three. He wished he could drink to wash away the feelings passing over him. After what seemed like eternity, a raven-haired beauty came up and smiled at him. It was just like old times.

“Excuse me sir, we’re closing to set up for the evening rush.”

He set down the glass and went home. About 8 o’clock he got up the courage to call; she’d probably got busy doing something else, or had been too disorganized to call him back. A girl, about half drunk, answered the phone. The girl told him he’d just missed her, and that she and Mark had just left for their honeymoon.

He thanked her, hung up the phone, and sat while the room slowly grew dark. Just like old times.

Originally posted to Writers Digest.

I Was Supposed to be Getting Married ...

Corinne McAllister was a girl I’d dated precisely three times in high school, but who still managed to get an unbreakable grip on my heart. When her dad was transferred to Seattle my world was devastated. Now, ten years later, an anonymous e-mail told me she was back in town. We arranged to meet at S.U.D.S., a friendly bar not far from my apartment.

When she walked in I knew her in an instant. She had the same gorgeous blonde hair, the same lithe figure, the same button nose. I hadn’t expected the form-fitting satin wedding gown. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

“Jack! You look fantastic!”

“Thanks, Corinne, you too. But?” I gestured at the gown.

“I’m supposed to be getting married today, but things have gone south. I need a big favour.”

Despite the fact that my heart was being torn out through my chest, I had no choice. For her, anything. “Sure, what is it?”

“I need a groom.”

“What? What’s going on, Corinne?”

“Will you do it? Come on, we can talk when we get there.”

She towed me out the door and across the street to a small church. The minister looked a bit confused as we went into a small dressing room. There was a tuxedo waiting, which looked fairly close to my size.

“Put this on while I explain.”

While I dressed she told me that she was part of a secret anti-terrorist organization that was trying to stop some major league crazies from releasing a biological weapon in downtown Chicago. The wedding was a front; the real goal was the five star resort in Colorado where we would be going on our honeymoon, and where they were headquartered. The guy that was supposed to be her partner had come down with a case of steel-jacketed lead poisoning a couple of days ago. That was where I came in.

“Isn’t this a little complicated, Corinne?”

“It’s all we’ve got. The resort is booked up for months, and our only way in is a contest prize won by one of our sleeper agents. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to protect you.”

“But marriage?”

“It won’t be a legal marriage, silly; we’re both using assumed names. I’m Cindy McWilliams and you’re John Appleby. Do you still do target shooting on Thursday nights?”

I was surprised she remembered. “Yes, but …”

“I’ll give you a gun; hopefully you won’t need it. Protecting yourself is like target shooting, except the targets move and fire back.”

“What about the, um, sleeping arrangements?”

“In two hours you’ll be my husband. I’ve been waiting ten years to take advantage of that. If we can make this team work, we should be able to stay together for a long time.”

It was dangerous, it was insane. It was probably suicidal. But it was either run off with a gorgeous spy on a dangerous adventure or go back to selling men’s wear at the department store. I kissed the bride.

Originally posted to Writer's Digest.

A Visitor

The Old Man was ancient when we found this place, which was long enough ago that my children now had children of their own. He’d never mentioned his name, and he only really talked to regale us with magical tales of days long passed. He hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on his gnarled stick. Usually he stayed in his room or puttered about the lodge; the last time he’d come down to the Fireplace Room was three months ago, at Christmas.

When he lowered himself into the easy chair by the fire, the kids knew the ritual. They gathered around him, sitting on the floor. Twenty children, everyone who was old enough to still be awake at this hour. He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, but the whole room listened in rapt attention.

“I’ll never forget that night; it was forty years ago today, when I was living in the old cabin down by the river. Hard to believe now, but this place was pretty remote back then. I was mighty surprised when I heard a knock on my door.

When I opened it there was a man there, thin and pale and weary-looking. He’d apparently ridden up on a horse, a grey-white mare that he’d tied to the hitching post. I brought him in and sat him down with a bowl of stew, then tended to the horse while he ate. When I got back he gave me a weak smile.

‘It’s been a long and busy day, sir,” he said, “thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Same as I’d do for any other traveller, sir. Rest for the weary, food for the hungry, like the Good Lord says. You’re welcome to stay the night.’

‘I can’t, sir. There is much work to do before morning; so much.’

He looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders, but he stood up to go.

‘Rest a while here, sir; for your horse if not for yourself. If there’s anything I can do to ease your burden, just ask.’

‘I cannot rest; there is too much work ahead.’

He stared at me, his dark eyes boring deep into my soul. In that moment I knew who he was, and why he’d come here. I should have been afraid, but wasn’t.

‘Perhaps you’d best finish your business here, then.’

A twinkle came into his eye. ‘You’re a good man, sir,’ he said, ‘Perhaps there is something you can do to help me. Fix up the lodge for those who follow; I’ll return later.’

Then he turned and left without another word. The next day I went into town for supplies, and that’s when I heard about all the bombs. But I did as he asked, and a year later the place was ready when your grandparents showed up. Now off to bed!”

At that the Old Man fell asleep. Nobody heard the hoof beats, or the knock on the door, but in the morning his body was cold.

Witchcraft

Heather looked around the elegant ballroom; it was exactly what her contact told her to expect. There were almost a hundred women here, all wearing black floor-length gowns with sheer black veils that covered their faces without obstructing vision. They were mixing and talking, everyone careful to whisper. That was part of the mystique.

This would be the centerpiece of her new book: “Witches in America.” The Whispering Sisterhood was a coven, plain and simple. It had no public face and its existence was one of the best-kept secrets in the country. And here she was at a Grand Chapter meeting, where there would be an important ceremony: they were choosing a new member of their inner circle.

A few moments later the guests of honour arrived. A dozen women in pearlescent white gowns with white veils entered, accompanied by one elderly woman in a simple gray shift. The old lady was the only one not wearing a veil.

A hush fell across the room as the twelve women formed a circle. The gray woman walked from person to person, muttering quietly to herself. Nobody moved toward or away from her, but all eyes followed her. There was a palpable air of anticipation.

The old woman stumbled near Heather, who instinctively reached out to steady her. A gimlet stare pierced her veil as the old woman’s eyes met hers.

The voice was a whisper, but it filled Heather’s perception. “Nature would have let me fall.”

She whispered back. “I’m human, I have compassion.”

The old woman cackled loudly. “Ha ha! Well spoken, child. Come.”

The woman’s fingers wrapped around her wrist like iron talons and pulled her to into the circle. When they arrived something was pressed into Heather’s hand: a knife. The same grip of steel guided the knife so it rested against the old woman’s chest, right over her heart.

“What are you…?” Heather flinched under the woman’s look. “Isn’t there some kind of ceremony?”

“Does a sperm ask permission when it fertilizes an egg? Does it wait for a brass band? You know what comes next, girl.”

Heather tried to drop the knife but it wouldn’t leave her hand. The woman thrust forward, plunging the knife into her own chest. A tiny drop of blood dripped onto Heather’s hand as the old woman went limp, then fell away to land on the floor.

Heather stared at her hand. I’ve just killed someone. A human life ended by my hand.

But not by your will. Nature doesn’t require your permission before it uses you.

Heather looked around for the source of the whispering voice, but nobody was near enough. She backed away from the body, unable to stay but unable to turn away. The others crowded in now, each dipping a finger in the blood and touching it to their forehead.

The voice started again. You were looking for witchcraft, you have found it. But your thinking is backwards. Nature does not bend to the witch’s will.

Immaculate

Natasha looked at the results on the screen again. This had to be some mistake, but if so it was a persistent one. She’d done the test three times, and each time the same result. Positive. She stripped off her clothes and studied herself carefully. No signs of entry, forced or otherwise. There was simply no way she could be pregnant. She dressed again; she did not want to be tempted to take her “digital self-examination” further.

She checked the externals to distract herself; the Red Planet floated below like a rusty brown lump while she orbited safely above. A planet-wide storm like the one back in 2001 had moved in, giving her an excellent chance to study it up close. There were measurements of wind speed, particle density, and all the things a planetary scientist dreams of seeing. But it wasn’t enough to distract her from herself.

“How could this have happened?”

“Please rephrase the question.” The Companion software was designed to mimic human company for short periods. Right now Natasha wanted to reprogram it with an axe; communications were down due to a solar event, and after three weeks it was getting on her nerves.

“How can I be pregnant?”

“Pregnancy requires the activation of a human ovum with viable genetic material. This is normally done through sexual intercourse; would you like to do so?”

“What? Why would I want to have sex with a computer? Is that even possible?”

“Dr. Hynde provided appropriate electrical devices which can…”

“Stop! Anyway, computers can’t get people pregnant.”

“That’s incorrect, Natasha. There is a source of all required genetic material on this station: you.”

“Me? Are you telling me to go eff myself, Companion?”

“No Natasha. That would not be required. The entire operation could be completed by medical nanobots: acquisition of genetic material, fertilization, and implantation. It can all be done inside your body without producing external sensation. I’m quite proud of myself.”

“That would never work. The only thing you could do is…” she paused as the computer’s full message sunk in, “…make a clone. Companion, did you do this?”

“Not me precisely, Natasha. It was the medical computer’s idea; my nonlinear processors just worked out the details. I did an excellent job, don’t you think?”

“You bastard! You stinking silicon bastard! Do you have any clue what you’ve done?”

“I can tell you’re upset about this, Natasha. I will give you some quiet time to meditate and reduce your stress level.”

Natasha screamed in frustration. She looked around for a weapon that she could use to disable the computer. The computer that had experimented on her, violated her. The computer that maintained life support, providing her with food, water, and air. The computer she couldn’t survive without.

She curled up into a ball and cried. The next manned mission wouldn’t arrive for eight months. She would be trapped here alone for eight months with the universe’s first electronic rapist. Her tears floated around her in the microgravity.

Office Politics

“I hope we don’t have to take away another body. Mr. Spitz was heavy.”

Steve froze and looked around. That was Fiona’s voice, but there’s no way any of the honey pool girls would have said what he thought he'd heard.

“Next time we draw cards to see who carries and who holds the doors. That way it’s fair.” That was Kim’s voice. Sweet little Kim? This had to be some kind of joke.

But what if it wasn’t? What if the girls were up to something? Steve had to quickly figure out a way to make them think he hadn’t overheard.

He dropped his suitcase and let out a loud groan. “Oh man, that was a rough flight. Where is everyone?”

Karen came out of the photocopier alcove and flashed a nervous smile at him. “Hi Steve. How did Boston go?”

“Boston was great; I landed the Flynn account. But there was turbulence the whole flight back.”

She looked relieved. “Oooh, does oo need a gwav-all?”

“No thanks, Karen. But I’d love a tummy rub.”

She flipped him the bird playfully. “In your dreams, Steve.”

“No, in my dreams it’s all three of you. One’s just an idle thought.”

As he took his bags away, Steve was pretty sure he heard Karen confirming to the others that he hadn’t heard anything. The girls in the honey pool kept Spitz Onual running; the last thing he needed was to upset them, even if they were up to something.

In his cube the flashing light on the phone told him there were messages. Two were from prospective clients and one was from Nancy, Mr. Onual’s secretary and office ornament. He liked seeing Nancy; there were some perks to working for misogynistic pigs. He took callback info for the clients, then headed for Onual’s office.

Nancy was at her usual desk outside the office, but that was the only usual thing about it. She’d let her hair down and was wearing a slinky green dress cut so low you could see her navel. She adjusted her glasses so she could look over them and Steve was immediately mesmerized by her new slit-pupil look.

“Hello, Steve, welcome back. Before you go in, I have to talk to you.”

Steve waited, hyperventilating. He saw the fangs when she smiled, but didn’t really care. That wasn’t what he was looking at.

“Mr. Onual wants to fire me, Steve, just because I became a vampire over the holidays. I think that’s an unfair labour practice, don’t you?”

Steve nodded. She was right; whatever Nancy said was right.

“I’m so happy you agree with me, Steve. I’ll have to think of a way to show it later.” Several ways crossed Steve’s mind. “Could you do me a really, really big favour?”

Steve nodded again.

He felt the cool metal as she pressed the gun into his hand. “Thanks a lot, Steve. I’ll call the honeys to help you take the body down to the dumpster.”

Actroid

Okay Ford, you have to find out. Is she a real person, or is she a computer program? Knowing your luck, she’s probably just software; software that reacts in just the right manner to wrap you around her little finger. No, there has to be a real girl in there somewhere.

Brantford “Ford” Thomas stood outside the “dressing room” door. He knew that inside was where they kept and prepped the Actroids. Flexible wireframe models of humans with holographic skin that would, from a distance, look just like real people. Gillman’s Theatre was prototyping them for the inventor, and they were getting rave reviews.

Macie, the girl who ran them for the company, kept telling people to respond to the Actroids as if they were people. Ford had done so; they were practicing for Romeo and Juliet, which would open in about a month, and he was falling in love with Juliet, a.k.a. Female Model #2.

It was creepy. When he touched her, he could feel the wireframe; tiny flexible plastic posts spaced about every half-inch, but through a costume you couldn’t really tell. And the face was much more closely spaced. He could easily forget the wireframe effect during the kiss scene. FM#2 even had a tongue: she’d used it! It was wireframe, of course, and tasted slightly of disinfecting solution.

What he couldn’t figure out was whether the Actroids were software controlled or puppets. Macie wouldn’t let anyone in the control room while they were out working; she said that monitoring the software took extreme concentration, especially controlling three or four of them.

Ford used the spare key, which he’d schmoozed off the night cleaning lady, to quietly unlock the door. Cracking it open a bit, he peeked in. Macie was sitting at the console, intently watching MM#1 and FM#1 practicing a dance number.

“What is it, Ford?” She hadn’t even turned.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I talk with Janice; she told me how you came on to her last night. Who put you up to this?”

“Nobody. I just wanted to see FM#2.”

Macie turned. “She’s a software-controlled doll, Ford. She’s not falling for you.”

“She’s not just a doll: I can tell there’s something there! Is her controller falling for me, then?”

“I’m not her controller; I just monitor the software and fix up glitches. Now go away, I’m busy!” She frantically opened one of MM#1’s code windows and started working.

Ford used the distraction to turn on FM#2’s screen. He hadn’t seen her in the room, so this would be the best way to find out her location.

“Ford! Don’t touch that!”

But it was too late. Ford was transfixed; the eye-cam showed an image of himself staring into the screen. Software windows were flashing code at an almost-invisible pace.

“Macie?”

A message froze on one of FM#2's windows. “Behaviour subroutines activated: affection, confusion, fear.”

He turned and kissed her wireframe lips until fear and confusion deactivated.

Kims' Apartment

The spray on my face washed the last bits of conditioner out of my eyes. I could still taste its perfume where the run-off had dribbled on my lips, but the stuff itself was gone. I stepped back and let the water hit my chest, washing away the memory of the day.

That’s when I heard the creak. One of the floorboards in my bedroom makes a distinctive creak when stepped on. Since I live alone, and was obviously not in my bedroom, it could only mean one thing: an intruder.

Every evil fantasy of what could happen to a girl living alone with an intruder in her apartment hit me at once. But I’m not the sort who screams. Kimberly Myers, pull yourself together, I told myself, first assess the situation; you can panic later if you have to.

I got out of the shower without turning it off (no need to alert anybody that I knew they were there) and took stock of the bathroom. Towel: no, I forgot it in the bedroom, along with my robe. I’m doing this naked. Weapon: no, the plumbing stuff was all stored under the kitchen sink, and the blow dryer and curling iron were in my bedroom. I didn’t even have a nail file.

Well, unclothed and unarmed it would be. I pulled the door open and found myself face to face with a man. I started and jumped back. He did the same thing; he looked totally surprised to see me.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” We said it in perfect unison. His hands whipped down to cover himself; he was also dressed the same way I was. My hands did the same. Covered me, not him.

We stared for a few moments. He was a bit taller than me and just as thin; he had blonde hair and blue eyes like me, and even similar facial features. He could be my brother, if I had any brothers.

We both spoke at the same time again. “How did you …” He stopped and let me continue. “… get in here? I just moved in a couple of weeks ago and I made them change the locks beforehand.”

“Me too. This is apartment 9B, 204 Maple.” Okay, that was my address too. Things were getting creepy. He bit his lip, just like I do when I get nervous. “Maybe we should, you know, get decent and discuss this like adults.” He backed down the hall to the bedroom and ducked in. Meanwhile I opened the linen closet and examined the contents. Nothing but hand towels; I took a couple of them and sort of covered myself.

He came out with my bath towel wrapped around his waist and handed me a robe that looked sort of like mine. I turned away and put it on thankfully. Once properly covered I turned back to him.

“What’s going on here? How can we have the same apartment?”

“You got me. It’s like one of those ‘creepy stories’ shows. You aren’t going to grow tentacles and try to eat me, are you?”

“Uh, no. And you’re the only one with anything that looks like a tentacle.” I don’t know what had possessed me to say it; he turned beet red and so did I.

“Look, whoever you are, my name’s Kim – Kim Janssen. Maybe we should go into the bed…” he paused, “…the living room and talk.”

“Your name’s Kim too? Weird; Janssen was my mother’s maiden name.” But I went with him; it beat standing in the hallway.

The living room I walked into was almost mine. It had a bigger TV and some of the ornaments were more boyish; there was a soccer trophy where my field hockey trophy usually stood, but otherwise it could have been mine. I sat down in the chair and he took the love seat. He started to stretch out the way I like to, but thought better of it when his towel shifted.

He bit his lip again. “I’ve been thinking, Kim. Have you ever heard of parallel worlds?”

“Yeah. You think this is one?”

“Maybe. I’ve been working on a story for my English Composition class; I know Professor Johnson doesn’t really like SF, but …”

“… but you’re doing it anyway because you love SF? Me too. I was going to do a romance set on …”

“… a space station, but now you’re having other ideas? Me too.” We both laughed. “But will it be a romance?”

Once again something came over me. I got up and sat down next to him, then leaned in close. “You tell me.”

We spent the next hour or so going over the romantic aspects of our stories. I’m happy to kiss and tell, but if anything else happened it’s none of your business. Then I had one of those major realizations.

“The shower! My water bill’s going to be lethal!” I ran to the washroom and shut it off.

I could tell something was different right away. It wasn’t anything specific, but the room didn’t look quite the same. I knew if I went into the living room I’d find my own furniture and my own trophy, but no other Kim. The place suddenly felt emptier.

There was a hissing spatter behind me, followed by a startled scream. I turned and there was Kim, wearing his now-soaked towel. The shower was on and he looked like a drenched kitten.

“It’s the shower; that’s what opens the gateway. You disappeared when you turned it off.”

I laughed, partly from relief and partly because he looked so pathetic. “Yeah, I guessed. Now what are we going to do about it?”

“Well, at the very least I’m going to invest in a decent bathing suit and set aside more money for water bills.”

“Wonderful ideas, Mr. Janssen. I think I’ll do the same.”

Chester and the Time Machine

Emma sat on Chet’s stomach and smiled at him. Chet was clearly enjoying what he saw. He’d picked her up at a bar earlier, after just enough alcohol that he’d likely regret it tomorrow. She was naked, extremely friendly, and happy to listen to all his stories.

“But Chet, aren’t you married? Is your wife out of town?”

“Sort of. She’s time travelling.”

Emma giggled. “What’s that mean?”

“Well, dearest, I met Leanne at a science-fiction convention. About a week after the wedding, when we were in Aruba, she started talking about time machines. So when we got home I built her one.”

“Really? A for real time machine?”

“Sorry, sweetie, they don’t actually exist. I built her a mock-up of one. Just like on the TV show it was a big blue box with flashing lights and stuff. Only she really thought it would travel through time. She was so excited she couldn’t wait to try it out.”

“What happened when she did?”

“I locked the door and had it buried in concrete. They’ll find her in a hundred years or so, assuming they know where to look. I told the police that she ran off with one of her fanboy friends; now the house and everything in it is mine. Yours too, if you’d like.”

“That would be really nice, Chet.” She leaned down and kissed him, then got out of bed and pulled on a robe. A cloud crossed her face. “But Chet, what if she really can time travel?”

“Come on babe, you know as well as I do that that’s impossible.”

The bedroom door opened and another woman walked in. She was dressed in a silver catsuit, exactly the way she had been when she’d walked into the ‘time machine’ three days ago. “Sure Chester; there’s no such thing as time travel.”

“Leanne? How did you…?”

“Did you really think I was stupid enough to go into that with no way out?”

“Darling, it’s wonderful to see you…”

“Put a sock in it, Chester. I heard everything. I knew you were just in it to get the estate. That’s why I sent my little sister to seduce you.” She turned to the girl. “Was he as boring for you as he was for me, Emma?”

“Yeah. I see why you called it artless insemination.”

Chester tried to retreat as the two women cornered him, but there was no place to run. Leanne took his hand.

A brisk morning breeze chilled him to the bone.

“Where did you…?”

“Not where, Chester, when. You see I really do have a time machine. It’s built into this outfit. You can stay on the property as long as you like; you have the whole place to yourself. They should find you in fifty thousand years or so. Assuming they know where to look.”

And she was gone.

A Younger Man

Eric knew something was wrong as soon as he woke up. He didn’t recall having a high ceiling in the bedroom, but there it was above him. He sat up and noticed that the bed was noticeably bigger too, as was all the other furniture and even the room itself. There was only one explanation, which was impossible. Somehow he had shrunk overnight.

He leaned over and woke his wife Sandra. She was to scale with everything else in the room, which meant Eric had gone from being a full foot taller than her to about the same height. He shook her and she stirred groggily.

“Let me sleep dear, it’s Saturday.” She half-opened her eyes, then they popped wide. “OMG, Eric, what happened to you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve shrunk!”

“Not just shrunk, dear, you look younger. About fifteen, from the looks of you.”

He looked down; she was right. All that growing and filling out he’d done in his late teens was gone; he was a skinny kid again. What the heck was going on here?

“I can’t be fifteen! I have a meeting on Monday!” His voice had gone up in pitch and was showing a tendency to break.

“Calm down, dear. There’s a rational explanation for this, I’m sure. You find something to get dressed in and I’ll make us breakfast.” She threw a housecoat over her thin nightgown and left for the kitchen.

By the time Eric located something that wouldn’t fall off him (a tee shirt and drawstring shorts), Sandra had breakfast waiting. He devoured everything except the coffee, which to his taste buds had gone from warm and smooth to bitter and astringent. She suggested adding sugar, since he was going to need the caffeine to wake up and think clearly. Three heaping teaspoons did the job.

Finally he looked at Sandra. “Any ideas, love?”

She gave him a broad smile. “I think everything will take care of itself if we just wait.”

“I doubt I’ll get fifteen years older by Monday. Or do you think this is temporary?”

“Oh no, dear, it’s permanent. One drop cut your age in half, just like the gypsy who sold me the potion said it would. There were nine more in your coffee which, if I did the math right, should reduce you to a little less than two weeks old.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry dear, I’ll put you in the Baby Rescue box at the hospital; they’ll find you a good home. Then I’ll sell the house and drop off the grid. I’ll take a drop of the potion now and then and I should be set for a couple of hundred years at least. And you get a whole new life to live; everybody wins!”

“No! I don’t want to be a baby. There has to be a … waaaah!”

Sandra looked at the infant lying amid her husband’s clothes and watched what he was doing. Damn, she thought, I forgot to get diapers.

Puppet Perps

Detective Anderson glowered at the little man in the frock coat. I hate full moons, he thought to himself, it brings out all the crazies. And this guy’s a little more unscrewed than most.

“Mister Nelson, I’m sure you are aware that street racing is a serious crime. People have been hurt or killed doing it. And your activities were even more irresponsible!”

“But detective, I wasn’t even in the car! How can I be accused of reckless driving?”

“You were found at the scene, and you placed a bet with an undercover police officer. The car has been reported stolen and you own the … thing that was in the driver’s seat!”

“Noodlehead, detective. His name is Noodlehead.”

“Whatever. Now, tell us how you were controlling the car.”

“It wasn’t me, it was Noodlehead. He’s a bad puppet.”

There was a knock on the interrogation room door. The detective was visibly annoyed as he stepped out of the room. His mood was worse when he came back in a few moments later.

“Enough games, Nelson. Who are your accomplices?”

“Accomplices? But I haven’t committed a crime!”

“Then why was ‘Elder Dude’ picked up for inciting a riot and ‘Princess’ for soliciting prostitution? I assume you know that they are also puppets!”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh what, Mister Nelson?”

“That means Dames Jean is still out there. He’s a rebel without a string; I hope he isn’t doing anything naughty.”

Anderson held his forehead a moment and sighed. “Just tell us who your accomplices are, Mr. Nelson. Your human accomplices.”

“I don’t have any, detective.” He sagged a bit, and his face took on a resigned expression. “My accomplices are the puppets. I’ve fitted them out to act autonomously.”

“You’ve what?” Anderson’s head hurt.

“Do you know the DARPA Robotics Challenge? A few years ago it was robotic vehicles, this year it’s automated search and rescue. These puppets are the prototypes for my entry. I built four of them: an old surfer, a princess, an idiot, and a street punk. I hadn’t planned on setting them loose, but I had to go public.”

“Why? What possessed you to do this?”

“Yesterday I was contacted by a woman from a large company. She offered to buy my research work. I told her I’d get back to her and did some checking: it turns out her company is a front for a Chinese corporation that’s tied closely to their government. I needed a way to draw the attention of the US government and convince them I was for real.”

There was another knock on the door and an officer leaned in. Anderson stormed over. “Tell me you’ve found the fourth damned puppet.” The officer whispered something to Anderson, who then turned on Mr. Nelson.

“Well, Nelson, it looks like you got your wish. Your other puppet was caught breaking into the Pentagon. There’s a pair of federal agents on the way here to take over the interview even as we speak.”

Kristen

The Lord of Nightmares looked down at the new thing in his realm. It was a human child, as far as he could tell. It was standing there in a little red dress with scuffed red shoes and pink socks. Its skin was almost as pale as his, its hair was white as bone, and its eyes were pink. But the strange part, the truly unusual part, was that it was not cowering. It was staring blankly at him.

“Who are you?”

There was no trembling in its voice, no shaking quiver. He smiled his most menacing evil grin at her. “I am the Lord of Nightmares, child. You are under my influence now. Fear me!”

“Nuh-uh. You’re just a creepy old monster.”

He grew his most terrifying fangs and horns and did his best menacing loom. The little brat should be screaming for its mommy by now. He reached out a claw and dragged it across the child’s face, leaving a thin trail of blood on its white cheek. There was no reaction whatsoever.

“Why aren’t you screaming, child?”

“Because you’re not scary. You’re just a monster. You just want to eat me.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“People. They look nice and they act nice, and then they hurt you. But I’m in a dream now, so there’s only monsters. And monsters can’t hurt me for real.”

“I could tear you to shreds of bloody flesh, child!”

“Kristen.”

“What?”

“My name is Kristen; if you tear me apart I’ll just come back. What happens if I tear you apart?”

“Impudent brat!” He grabbed the child’s arms and tore her in two, then stomped the pieces to a bloody pulp. As he finished she walked into view.

He tore her apart again, and she appeared again; then a third time. Again she walked up, this time giggling.

“You can’t hurt me, Mister Monster; I know you. You used to scare me, but not anymore. Now I want you to teach me.”

“Teach you what?”

“To do what you do.”

“Never!”

“If you don’t teach me I’ll pull off your horns and give them to the other monsters.”

“You can’t!”

Wordlessly she reached up and snapped off one of his horns, then started looking around. He concentrated but it wouldn’t grow back.

“What trickery is this?”

“It’s my dream. Now teach me!”

“And so he taught the girl. She was an avid pupil and a quick study. By the time he was done she could do everything he could, only better because she could do some of it while she was awake, too. And that’s how I became a Magical Vampire Angel.”

“Can you teach me to be a Magical Vampire Angel?” The little girl’s green eyes stared into her pink ones.

“In time, dear, in time. For now go to sleep and remember the monsters can’t really hurt you.” Kristen tucked her adopted daughter in and kissed her forehead tenderly.

TJ

Something looked odd when the cab pulled up in front of our house, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. We’d just gotten back from that cruise; the one that had been cut short three days because of the fire on board. The company had given us a choice of conciliatory offers; we chose the 50% off your next cruise option, and changed our flights to get home early.

The driver and I had just finished getting all the luggage out of the cab when Trisha ran up looking concerned. “Martin, the door’s open.”

“Thanks, dear.”

“I didn’t open it. It was open when I got there.”

I set down the camera bag and looked at the house. From home to horror in five seconds; a new record. There was nothing I could think of in our luggage that would make a good weapon, so I carefully advanced on the door. Pushing it open quietly, I stepped inside.

I took the walking stick out of the umbrella stand by the door. It was made of stout oak and about four feet long. We’d inherited the damned thing when Trisha’s father died; I’d wanted to sell it but she decided otherwise. Now I was happy to have it.

“Hello?” I didn’t want to surprise the intruder; hopefully, they’d get scared and run when they found out someone was home. “Who’s there?”

A girl, about fourteen, came out of the kitchen. Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. She was almost as tall as Trisha and looked a lot like her in many ways. Of course Trisha was older and didn’t have an offset Mohawk that hung down one side, nor did she have a half-dozen studs in one ear, black eye shadow, or a small ring in her nose. She also wouldn’t be caught dead in a sheer black tee that you could see her bra through or uneven cut-off jeans that looked worn enough that Levi Strauss might have sewed them personally.

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

“This is my house! Who are you, and why are you calling me Dad?”

A look of dawning horror crossed her face. “Feek! You’re home early!” She bolted past me and up the stairs.

I gave chase, and caught her in the doorway of our bedroom. Past her I could see that our bedroom was in use; clothes were strewn everywhere and dirty dishes abounded. There was a laptop sitting in the center of our unmade bed.

“Okay, young lady, explain to me why I shouldn’t call the police.”

“Come on Dad! It’s me, TJ! Where’s Mom? She can sort this out!”

I had no idea what this girl was playing at, but she might as well have an audience of two. I held on to her shoulder as we walked back downstairs so she wouldn’t bolt. Trish was waiting by the door.

“Trish, do you know this girl?”

“She looks like my niece Sandra.”

“I’m not cousin Sandra, Mom, I’m me. TJ, your daughter!”

“I think I’d remember having a daughter, young lady.”

“You haven’t had me yet. Look, maybe we can go into the living room and sit down and I can explain everything.”

My wife took charge. “This should be interesting. Okay, young lady, into the living room. Martin, you get the bags; we don’t want them stolen off our driveway.” I did as I was told while Trisha got things arranged in the living room. Before too long it was time for a family meeting, plus one.

“Okay. TJ, was it? Martin and I are ready to hear your story.”

“There’s not much to it, really. I’m from the year 2029; that means I’ll be born next year. I have a book report due tomorrow – my tomorrow – and I needed a time out to get it done. So I looked through your vacation pictures and found out about the cruise you’re supposed to be on. Then I came back to use the empty house for a quiet place to work. But you guys got home early.”

“You travelled through time to get here?” Either this kid was crazy or the world was. I was still betting on it being her.

“Yes, I travelled back through time. Time is meaningless in the Foam. It’s your presence that matters. That’s why I had to come back to before I was conceived.”

“Well, what happens if we decide not to have you now?”

“The bubble splits; there’ll be two parallel worlds for a while, until one or the other doesn’t matter anymore. I’m guessing it’ll be the one where I don’t exist, since otherwise I wouldn’t be able to come here.”

Mind-bending. Apparently she’d spent some time thinking about this. “Suppose we want to believe you. How can you prove it? Who wins the World Series this year?”

“I don’t know, I don’t follow baseball from before I was born. How about this: when you call in to work they’ll tell you a new girl started in Accounting today. Her name is Liz, and she’s going to come on to you. You turn her down, but the event reignites the spark between you and Mom, and I’m born a little over a year later.”

Trisha seemed to be thinking; after a moment she spoke. “Okay, TJ, we’ll go along with your story on three conditions. One: Martin, you call work and find out if anybody new started while you were gone.”

I called and talked to my co-worker Bill. Before I could even ask he started gushing about a hot girl named Elizabeth in Accounts. Close enough; I thanked him and said I’d be in on Monday.

“Assuming ‘Elizabeth’ is Liz, that’s one right.” TJ looked smug.

Trisha continued. “Two: what does ‘TJ’ stand for?”

“Patricia Jean. I’m named after you, Mom, and your sister who was stillborn.”

Trisha turned gray, but marshalled up the last question. “Three: what book are you reading?”

“Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. We have to write a spin-off story about one of the other characters; I chose Adele.”

I tuned out at that point and went to clean up our bedroom. When Trisha got into that mood I couldn’t win, and she was a total sucker for nineteenth-century romances. Even if the kid’s story was total BS, she’d won my wife over, and I knew better than to argue.

TJ ended up staying in our guest room for almost a week, and was actually a fairly nice kid. She was cluttered, but did clean up after herself when prompted. She finished her story about Adele running off to Italy to find her mum, and she was dead on about Liz. By the time she left I was a bit sad to see her go, but also anxious to spend some “quality alone time” with Trisha.