Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The SLEDE train slit the air.
Corwin pulled out of his office to consider life outside the work center’s broad windows. SLEDEs were almost everywhere but beyond some were serious gray clouds over dark chocolate mountains. Lightning tongues flicked Earth to sky, holding his gaze and propelling him down a might-of-been road. Unbelievable from some perspectives, they were going eighty miles per, forty feet off the ground. Dad and Mom would’ve been impressed. Or depressed. Maybe angry or resentful.
Tall, skinny, energetic with hypnotizing exuberance, Cake bounced into the room. “Alongsides coming up. Me and Elf are hailing eats. I’ll fly and buy. You in?”
“Hell yeah. Just in time. You’re a hero.” Corwin grinned, standing, stretching. “Shift is about over. I’ll take a cheeseburger with it all, and fries.”
“Plant okay? Can’t afford true bee. Or chick. Or anything but plant.”
“Course. And a beer shake?” At Cake’s smiling nod, Corwin specified, “Stout. Alongsides got a good one.”
“Or had.”
“Yeah. Well, you know me. Anything dark, ‘kay?”
“Sure.”
As Cake descended, Corwin called, “And thanks.”
Cake’s generosity made him happy. Corwin returned to his seat, manifested the office anew, finished admin matters, and logged out. Minutes later, Alongsides docked beside them. Leaning, he looked down and watched Cake leave their SLEDE and hit the stofe. Elf followed three seconds later.
A ping lit Corwin’s Backhand. He shifted attention to the cute guy on the fone. Only after joking with Karlyl, hanging up as his stomach rumbled, did he realize, food hadn’t arrived.
Alongsides was gone. Forty minutes, too.
He flipped the fone to Cake.
No, screw that. Corwing galloped down the spiral. “Cake?” He’d eat down there anyway. Get out of the work area where he’d been for nine hours.
A glance left. No one in the cockpit.
He swung right. No one in group. Kitchen. Dining room.
Nor the patio.
“Cake? Elf?” He tapped their doors.
Tried to enter.
Locked.
Using the fone, he called, wondering, did he misunderstand? Did they stay on the stofe to eat?
Cake’s number said it was unassigned. Try again.
“Call Elf,” Corwin told his fone.
The fone couldn’t comply, explaining, he needed to be more explicit about who or what he was attempting to reach.
Corwin didn’t bother providing more. This was too much like what had happened with Mom and Dad.
He wasn’t ready to go through that again.
It was a lot of waste.
Morgan was uncomfortable. It felt unnatural. All these years of recycling and trying to reduce waste. Now he was piling it outside.
“There.” Grinning in delight, ogling their pile of junk, Joyce backed away from it. “That’s a pretty good pile of junk and garbage.”
His wife peered up into the sky. “When are they supposed to come?”
“Any time.” Exasperation frosted Morgan’s tone. This had been explained numerous times. “They know it’s here. They’ll come and get it.”
Joyce answered, “Why can’t they tell us when?”
That, too, had been gutted as a topic. “I don’t know.”
He and Joyce studied their pile. Old printers and laptops. Unused televisions. Rugs. Boxes of junk. Old paint. Bags of shredded personal papers. Joyce insisted they be shredded. She didn’t trust the aliens. Like, what did she think was going to happen? These extra terrestrials from another solar system had come to Earth to steal their personal information?
It was good that they’d come. First, they cleaned all the oceans, and then junkyards. They paid well for everything.
“This is a great place,” a leader, Galic, said in a televised press conference.
Galic was a gorgeous black woman. Every female alien he’d seen was eye-watering stunning. He’d not seen any males among the ET, formally known as Porqzens. R-Q-Z was pronounced as a hacking sound.
Galic said, “We love your junk. We’ll take all of it that you can give us.” They were also eager to tear down houses, buildings, and bridges not in use. They wanted it all. “We’ll you if you want. Gold, dollars, diamonds, crypto. Just name it.”
Not everyone liked it. “Why are they doing this? What do they want it?” Mostly conservatives were asking these questions because Galic told them, “We’ll reprocess it to create materials and energy. We’re already so efficient that we have no waste.”
Humans weren’t appeased. They had reasons behind their doubts. “How do we know they’re real?” GOP Presidential candidate asked. “What if they’re taking all these resources to build machines to take us over? What about the recycling and garbage disposal companies? They’ll all go out of business. That’ll put unemployment up.”
Others speculated, “This is a liberal trick. There are no aliens. They’re using these materials to secretly build death rays and disintegration guns. They’re gonna use the disintegration guns to take away all our guns.”
Yes, it was a pickle.
Flat-earthers were freaked. “The Porqzens are Underworlders. They’ve lived on the other side of the planet, the bottom. They’re coming to take us over.”
Morgan didn’t care. All he had to do was put his junk at his curb for pickup? Lot easier than loading it up, hauling it to the various places, and unloading it. And they were paying him, instead of him paying them? Groovy.
A Porqzen popped into the space in front of Morgan and Joyce. Gorgeous, of course. Tight dark red outfit. Looked like leather. Blonde. Smile like a billion watts.
“Hi, Morgan and Joyce. I’m Zugar. We’re taking your waste now.” She handed them dark goggles. “Most people want to see it happen, so we provide these goggles. Please cover your eyes so the light doesn’t hurt them.”
Morgan and Joyce did. Through the lens, Morgan witnessed a dull light cover his pile. Looked purplish under the lens. Stayed there for about five seconds.
“That’s it,” Zugar said. “All gone. You can take your goggles off. Those are yours to keep for future pickups.” She whipped out a slim wallet and counted paper money out. “One thousand dollars, as agreed. It’s the minimum, I’m afraid.” She sounded like she meant it.
Joyce took the money. She and Morgan stared at it.
Zugar said, “It is real U.S. currency.” She laughed. “We sold a bucket of leftover lithium to the U.S. government.” She handed Morgan a card. “Just call us when you’re ready for your next pickup. Any questions?”
The humans shook their heads.
“Then I’ll take my leave. You all have a great day.” With a small bow and a bright smile, Zugar disappeared.
“Well, that was easy,” Joyce said. “She looked like Farrah Fawcett, don’t you think?”
Morgan nodded. “Do you think we’ll ever go to their planet?”
Day 2. He rode in silence. Forty miles an hour. The open car drove itself, allowing him to gape at the scenery.
So gorgeous. He knew now what breathtaking meant.
Although he’d eaten breakfast after an overnight stop, he snacked as he went. Nervousness.
Other people weren’t encountered. Only bots. They didn’t interact. Once this had been cities. New York. Pittsburgh. Philadelphia. As climate changed and space travel advanced, people departed the planet. Pockets of humanity remained. Some worked for the place he visited, the Great Earth Library. Built in the twenty-third century, trillions of books lined the high, massive shelves. Paperbacks and hardcover books were still being published on less advanced planets.
That’s where he came in.
The car slowed. He could have teleported to the location. Where’s the fun in that?
Turning right, the small vehicle approached a librarian station. The car hummed to a halt. A bot came out.
Stiffly he climbed from the car. Stretched. Picked up the packet from the other seat.
The bot said, “Merr Liu-Gardner?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been expecting you. Would you like to sign our guest book? It can be done digitally with your bios or cursive on paper. Many guests prefer the latter.”
“I’ll do cursive.” He picked up the pen. Bic. Blue ink.
A fresh page awaited. He flipped to the previous page. One entry, six years before. Ngato from Mars Station Five.
Smiling, he signed his name, dated it, and added his home, Cixin Outpost, Trisolaria. Despite that name, only one sun warmed his world. Three moons, though. One red. Two white. All beautiful.
His great-grandfather named the planet and led the colonizing expedition. He’d taught his grandson cursive writing, feeling it important to know. “Let’s not let the old knowledge die.”
Poul Liu-Gardner II handed the box to the robot. “My great-grandfather wrote and published these books. The Library was established after he died but Dad always thought the books deserved to be here. Two are non-fiction, a history of our world and another about our city. The other six are fiction.” He smiled. “Three murder mysteries and three thrillers.”
“I understand. Thank you for the gift. These are the first from your world. We will shelve and honor them.”
“I know. There are more books from my world in the car. I just wanted to personally deliver these.”
“Of course. We’ll unload them.”
“Thanks.”
“Feel free to walk the shelves and enjoy the books. You can remove them from the shelves and read them here, but they can’t be removed.”
“Thank you.”
Poul II watched the bot take the books away. Lost and empty-handed, he gazed up at books.
Deep breath. Sigh.
He’d smelled books before. Grandpa Poul had established a library. Of course. Today’s smell dizzied him. Maybe it was the sheer number of books. Perhaps it was the thoughts behind them, or the readers’ thoughts.
Probably all those things. Strolling among the shelves, he thought that he might write a book. He’d always thought about writing one. The desire now was an urgent weight.
Sitting on a bench, he drew out his pad. Opened it.
A blank screen waited.
He could type. Or use voice. Grandpa Poul always printed his first rough draft.
He didn’t have paper.
His fingers tapped.
Once in a Lifetime
Chapter One
The stranger from Trisolaria was a formidable presence.
A mail carrier delivered it. Plasticized black envelope. White labels. His name and address, and the sender, Quest Of, Hershey, PA.
We will be watching you. Failure to completely comply with all instructions will result in immediate termination.
He’d read about terminations. Scoffers who said they would open it on Youtube, Instagram, TicTok, whatever. All vanished in a puff of flame. Comments said, “That’s so fake. How can a company do that? It has to be fake.”
His hands shook. Doors and blinds were closed. He’d agreed. Reveal nothing.
A tab said, “Pull here to open”. He wrestled it for ten minutes before winning. Sweat covered his face by then and he huffed air. Good workout.
The envelope was emptied and placed into the sink. Pale white smoke rose. The envelope splashed into white and pink powder, like Kool-Aid before you add water, and vanished. It smelled like fresh-baked cherry pie. He wished he had cherry pie. Thought about going to the bakery. Just for two seconds.
The ignored treasure was on the counter. A silver ring. A black one. Red marble.
Glittery italics script spelled his name and the date on each.
“Place the silver ring on a finger on your right hand,” instructions directed. “Place the black ring on a finger on your left hand. Then, hold the red ball in both hands and close your eyes.”
That was it? His mouth was so damn dry. Nerves hummed like power lines in the wind.
Should he sit?
Do it in the kitchen?
Would anything be left of him afterward?
He wrote a submission. Months ago. Then re-wrote, edited, revised, wrote it again. Then sat on it before pressing, send.
“I want option three so I may go back to 1962 and kill Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinates President John F. Kennedy in 1963. I think that if I succeed, this world and its future will be better because President Kennedy represented youth, positive energy, and the future. Our country and the world has lost its moral compass since President Kennedy was killed. Bringing him back could restore it.”
He sincerely believed what he wrote. Though he was four when Kennedy was killed. The mourning and aftermath imprinted him. He wasn’t surprised that he was selected. He was pure of mind, a true believer.
He didn’t tell anyone what he’d done. Secrecy was required. He and his friends talked about Quest Of and its options, but he never told anyone that he’d applied, though, after one or two beers, staying shut about it was a killer. He almost quit drinking. They all doubted it was real.
Joe declared in disgust, “It’s a con job.”
Ron said, “I agree in principle, but they don’t ask for money or anything, that I’ve read. What do they get out of it?”
“Publicity,” someone else stated. “Venture capital,” suggested another. “Start up money.”
Man, did he want to call someone and tell them about it. Conversations were imagined. “Look, I did it, I’ve been selected. I have it, yeah, option three.” But he knew what would happen. In theory.
He ate lunch and dawdled, talking himself into doing it, examining the rings and shiny marble, never holding all at the same time, afraid of what might happen if he did.
Finally, two and a half hours after opening the envelope, he sat down in his living room recliner and followed the instructions. Disbelieving that anything would happen, he closed his eyes. The marble burned like a hot coal in his hand. Flinching, his eyes involuntarily fluttered open as his ears popped.
He, Keith, Sara, and Ron questioned how something like option three might work. Was it more than time travel? Had to be, Sara argued. If you went back to do something, would you still be in the same location where you started? Like, his house wasn’t built until 1999. Before that, it was a horse pasture.
Now he had the answer.
I never liked you, the cat said with a smile.
I was trying to kill you when I slept on your head.
It wasn’t by coincidence that I tripped you again and again.
Nor were those love bites like you always said.
And the claws weren’t a whim when I scratched till you bled.
And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.
I never liked the kibble or any of the other food.
Your treats made me sick though I begged for more.
I didn’t like the tuna which you gave off a spoon.
It was all faked when chicken made me swoon.
And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.
I’m a cat and I like games.
I get bored and the days are too much the same.
So I do what I can to keep myself entertained.
Because I’m a cat and this was just another game.
Slow for a Friday, the coffee shop was relatively quiet. The baristas’ joking behind the counter was actually heard across the business.
Only three other patrons occupied tables. Regulars, he knew their names, drinks, and faces. He supposed that they knew the same for him. Maybe not. Maybe they weren’t as observant as him or didn’t care.
A thin sigh passed his lips. He was supposed to be writing but it was one of those days when procrastination stopped him like a mudslide blocking a road. He was a little bored, tired, and restless. I’ll begin in a minute, he told himself, and noted the time. Yeah, like he was really that disciplined and focused. More coffee will help, he decided.
Reaching for the cup, he glanced at the coffee shop table. The blond wood – he didn’t know what kind it was – had a dark knot which resembled a mustache. As he chuckled at that, he spotted two small symmetrical knots above the mustache. They were like eyes, he mused, sipping coffee.
The eyes blinked at him.
His body quailed with alarm as his mind shouted, “What the hell?” He set the coffee down.
A new knot rose, forming a mouth below the mustache.
He looked around the coffee shop. No one was near. He wanted to show someone as validation for his sanity, and then pulled out his phone to photograph the small developing face. As he raised the phone for the photo, the mouth moved.
“Help me,” he heard. “Help.”
Pulling back, he lowered the phone. Friday was about to change in ways he’d never planned.
He glanced up when a women entered the coffee shop and strode with long legs to the counter. Then he caught himself from shouting and leaping out of his chair.
The woman looked just like his little sister. If his sister had not been dead for forty years — if he’d not seen her die (God, stop that thought) and hadn’t gone to her services, consoling Mom and his other sisters — he would have been sure it was Sammy, the name she chose when she was little, telling everyone, “My name is not Debby. It’s Sammy.” Asked why she’d changed her name, Sammy thrust out a hip, removed sunglasses from her nine-year-old face and replied, “Look at me. I’m not a Debby.” It was delivered with such precocious contempt.
Carmichael couldn’t stop himself from watching her. Like Sammy, this woman was stunning, brunette with thick hair and sunlight delivered highlights, long-legged, athletic in stance and motion, like she’s waiting for play to resume. All his sisters were the same, except Sharon, who seemed to be from a completely different set of genes, except she shared their grandmother’s hips, face, and neck — well, all of it as she aged, almost becoming Grandma’s spitting image. The other problem was that the woman looked as Sammy had when she’d died, so she couldn’t be Sammy. Sammy would now be sixty-two. So, that was impossible. Also, what would bring Sammy to Corvalis? Sammy wouldn’t be this far north. She wanted warm sunshine. He’d always thought she’d end up in southern California. That’s where she always declared she was going to live, and Sammy had the will to make it so.
The woman turned, strolling from the counter, sunglasses in hand, as Sammy always did. She glanced his way. He met it with a small smile and slight nod. God, the resemblance to his sister was shocking. He should take a photo, maybe explain why, then —
Her eyes widening, she walked toward him. “Carm? Oh my God, is it you?”
Carmichael sat back and held off answering for seconds. Then, “Do I know you?”
The woman stopped six feet away, sunglasses pointed to her chest, long hair held back by the other hand. “It’s me, Sammy.”
“Sammy?” Carmichael dumbly nodded. He refrained from adding, you can’t be Sammy because Sammy is dead. Didn’t seem like a polite thing to say. “Sammy…Sammy who?”
“But — I’m sorry. You — but it can’t — ” Sammy shook her head with small and precise movements. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be Carmichael.” A smile charmed him. “I thought you were my brother. You look just like him. But you can’t be.”
“Why?” Carmichael asked.
“Well, he died almost forty years ago,” Sammy replied with a small sigh. “Car accident, along with my mother and sister.”
“Sharon?”
Sammy froze for two seconds. Her brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? How did you know that?”
“Because my sister is Sharon. She was with us when you died.”
When the shimmering began, he took no notice. Half an ear heard of it, a quarter of his brain gave it a few seconds of attention, but that was mostly because he was a dirty old man. He was a dirty old man, couldn’t help himself, though he tried to be woke or whatever the right expression was, so the three young women caught his attention.
They were right beside him, so young, healthy, and energetic, drinking some kind of holiday coffee drink loaded with whip cream and sipped up with straws. He could even smell whatever perfume of shampoo or lotion they wore. Their behavior kindled a universe of remembered thoughts about what being young meant. One, the brunette, a tall person with wide dark eyes, maybe endowed with some Korean heritage, gasped and said more loudly than anything said previously, “Marcus has the shimmering.”
Voices dropping, heads moving toward a center point, the conversation’s tone was a serious counterpart to their previous merriment. Such behavior just sucked him in.
“He does?” said one blonde. As she continued with rising concern, “When,” and “Who told you,” the other blonde said, “Oh my God, when did he get it?”
Their voices dropped lower. Coffee house adult contemporary rock and mild tinnitus kept him from hearing though he pushed his mind to deeper levels of concentration. Nothing came of it.
They left five minutes later, texting on phones, drinks in hand, moving in a line to the exit and out. The shimmering was such an unusual expression, hours later, at home while watching The Kominsky Method again and eating a piece of Marie Callender apple pie which he’d baked, he remembered it and asked his dog if she’d ever heard of it. Although the dog’s intelligent face perked up, she said nothing.
“Fine help you are,” he said, the expression the two shared often, especially when he thought he heard someone creeping around outside at night. The shimmering still gnawed at him like an earworm which wouldn’t let go, so he turned to his ancient laptop and brought up Google. He hated Google almost as much as Twitter and Facebook, but Google unfortunately delivered the best results.
The shimmering, he typed in, figuring that it was probably using a traditional spelling, chuckling to himself at his droll wit. The computer screen went black as soon as he pressed enter.
“What the — .” He stared at the screen. What now? Damn technology. Stupid computer. He pressed enter a few times, hoping that would stir the screen back to life, and the did alt-ctrl-delete. Ah, yes, the old three-fingered salute. Remember the BSOD, he told himself, and laughed.
Grimacing, he acknowledged, he probably needed to do a hard reboot and pray to the tech gods that the stupid machine worked. Well, it was old. He couldn’t remember when he’d bought it. Seemed like it’d been at least ten years. Could that be right?
The screen lit up as he reached for the power button. It was kind of lavender-ish and blue, but also white and almost bright as looking at the full sun on a clear day. Pulling back with a hard wince, he closed his eyes, said, “Damn,” loudly, and leaned back.
Shelby said beside him, “That is bright.”
Eyebrows jumping, he peered at the black and white dog. Did she speak or was he imagining that? “What?” he finally asked.
The dog turned her brown and amber eyes on him. “I said that it’s bright.”
He gawked at her.
“I mean the screen,” Shelby said. “At least it’s bright to me.” The dog pointed her nose at the screen. “Hey, there are words.”
“You can read?” he asked. “You can talk and you read?”
“Look,” the dog answered, backing away. “Your skin.”
“What?” He looked down in almost the same second. A gasp rode out of him. His hands were shimmering like white sequins under hot spotlights.
Then a voice from the computer said, “You have been given the shimmering.”
“What?” he replied, because his neurons had abandoned their posts and nothing made sense to him. He might even be having a stroke. He’d always feared having a stroke.
The computer said, “Initiation beginning.” The light flowed out of the screen and embraced him.
An unexpected life was about to begin.
Michael Seidel, writer 