Quantum Cheeseburger

by Jeremy Michelson

  “That would be an affirmative,” the pilot said.

  “What type?”

  Something slammed against the hoverjet. Knocked the pilot down. The armored marines kept their footing.

  Black spikes punched through the roof in a dozen places.

  Metal groaned and the roof peeled away. The eye hurting form of a Stickman stood outlined against the gray smoke.

  “That type,” the pilot said.

  The two marines swung their rifles up. Searing blue-white plasma fire stabbed toward the Stickman. His body split apart around the bolts. Reformed an instant later.

  Long arms with writhing fingers stretched out. The Stickman snatched the rifles away. Tossed them into the night.

  The marines dove at the alien. It skittered away. Its body slid over the airframe with a screeching like wounded violins.

  Before the marines could regroup, the Stickman slithered into the cabin. The thousands of sticks that made up its body slide around, forming and reforming shapes.

  I flattened myself against the wall as it swarmed me. The air filled with an odor like cinnamon. Its fingers touched the chains holding me. My skin crawled as tiny fingers tap tap tapped over me.

  Something popped beside me. I smelled hot metal.

  The Stickman’s arms wrapped around me, fingers slithering over my skin. I bit down the girly scream that tried to erupt from my throat. The Stickman’s limbs stretched, their fibers moaned like an out of tune violin.

  It carried me up and out of the broken hoverjet like I was a feather pillow.

  We cleared the wreckage. I saw the outline of a ship hovering above us. Red lights pulsed slowly at either end.

  The Stickman elongated its body. Reached for an open hatch on the bottom of the ship. Dim red light shone from it. The Stickman clasped the opening and reeled itself in. Brought me up with it.

  Into the ship.

  Now I could add being abducted by aliens to the list of indignities I’d suffered.

  Fifteen

  The Stickman was nicer to me than the military was.

  Or my fiancé.

  Ex-fiancé, I suppose.

  At least to start with.

  The Stickman deposited me on a sticky, shallow, concave depression on the ship's floor. If it was a floor. It was hard to tell. The inside of the ship was a cylinder, tapered at both ends. Red and yellow lights flitted over the surface at random. The only other ornamentation were a few depressions like the one I'd been dropped in. These, too, seemed to be placed randomly on the floor, walls, and ceiling. Though I guessed gravity was the only thing that made any surface in there a floor.

  The whole thing smelled like freshly baked cinnamon rolls. My stomach rumbled.

  The Stickman moved to one end of the craft. Settled into another concave depression Its creaking limbs stretched out. Fingers brushed against the surface. The ship suddenly accelerated. It pressed me down in the depression.

  Acceleration was my assumption anyway. There weren’t any windows. Just a vague sense of motion.

  While the Stickman was occupied flying the ship, I struggled against the chains around me.

  Which only added a few more bruises to my collection.

  I tried to climb out of the depression on the floor. I could move within it, but I couldn’t put any part of my body outside the circle. When I tried to stand, the surface held my skin fast against it. The more I struggled, the stronger it held.

  Not that it really mattered. What was I going to do? Knock out the Stickman, take over the controls and fly to...I don’t know where. Even if I could find the controls, I wouldn't know how to fly it. I was neither a super spy nor a super soldier.

  I wasn’t anything. Just a lab gopher who picked the wrong day to stop at his favorite burger shack.

  The ship slowed. A few seconds later my stomach lurched as vertigo hit me. I felt like I was falling and falling. Even though I was still stuck in the damn circle.

  The Stickman slid itself toward me, limbs creaking and moaning. I forgot my stomach for a moment as I tried to scramble away from it. I didn’t get anywhere, of course.

  The Stickman stretched and reassembled itself in front of me in a vaguely human-shaped form. That's if human forms resembled a ceaselessly moving jumble of thin black lines.

  The sense of falling got the better of my stomach. I slapped a hand over my mouth. The Stickman figured out I was about to lose the meager contents of my stomach. A thing appendage stretched out from it and touched the side of my neck. I felt a sharp, brief pain, then the nausea disappeared. I still felt like I was falling, but at least my stomach seemed okay with it.

  "I am Azor," the Stickman said. Its voice was high-pitched and breathy. The smell of cinnamon was very strong.

  “Um, hi Azor,” I said, “I’m–”

  “You are known to me,” Azor said.

  “Ok, well, nice ship you have here, Azor,” I said, “It looks like it goes pretty fast.”

  “I cannot answer questions about SixUnion technology,” Azor said.

  SixUnion? What the heck was that?

  “I wasn’t really asking,” I said, “I was just making chit chat.”

  Azor’s form wavered for a few moments, like it was dissolving. Then the countless sticks came back together in a more or less solid human form.

  “Chit chat. Your language confuses,” Azor said.

  “Sorry.”

  Azor watched me. I guess. He (it?) stayed in the same place and in the same form. I glanced around the cabin. Reluctantly brought my eyes back to him.

  "So, I'm guessing by the falling sensation that we're in orbit?" I said, "We just gonna hang out here for a while, or do you have other plans? Please tell me there's nothing that involves probes."

  Azor’s outline wavered again. How much effort did it take him to maintain that form?

  “The Earth government’s treaty with the SixUnion does not allow the transfer of our technology to your people,” Azor said.

  I shrugged. “Okay. Still not asking about your ship,” I said, “Just kind of wondering what your plan is.”

  “SixUnion technology was detected,” Azor said, “That technology must be retrieved and all sources terminated.”

  Wow. That did not sound good. It sounded really bad, in fact. I glanced around the cabin again. My mouth went dry. My heart thumped wildly. Trapped in an alien tin can orbiting (I assumed) the Earth. If Azor chose to terminate me…Well, who was going to stop him?

  But, given that he went to the trouble of kidnapping me from the military suggested he wasn’t going to kill me. Not right away at least.

  “So, Azor, I’m getting the impression you think I have something you want,” I said, “Is that correct?”

  Azor’s human outline form wavered. “Correct.”

  I thought back again to Guydoro’s. The professor, whoever the hell he really was, put something on my burger while the big goon distracted me. What could it have been? He talked about Dr. Kincaid’s quantum lattice formulas being wrong. Had the professor stolen the right ones from the Stick people?

  My body trembled. I gripped the chains, trying to steady my hands. The whole ship probably reeked of my fear. I only hoped the Stickman wasn’t able to smell it.

  “What do you think I have?” I asked.

  Azor’s form lost its human shape completely. It took on its native form–or what us Earth types thought its native form was. The thin sticks and fibers of its body slid and popped until it resembled a fibrous tree with branches upon branches upon branches. Its countless black lines looked like the very air had been fractured into a million pieces.

  “Your body had been infected with makers,” Azor said, “Extraction without damage to your form is not possible.”

  That sounded downright hostile. I gripped the chains tighter. I wasn’t sure what makers were, but I guessed it was some kind of nano device. Nanobots had been the stuff of science fiction for decades. Tiny machines that could be programmed to fix or change the human body.
Human technology still couldn't create more than the most rudimentary nanodevices. Mostly sensors or targeted medicine dispensers.

  The Stickpeople, on the other hand, might have something much more sophisticated.

  "I await judgment from the SixUnion for authority to remove the consequence of another's indiscretion," Azor said.

  I took a moment to unwrap what he said. It sounded like he was waiting for his boss to tell him it was okay to dissect me and get back their little maker thing-a-ma-jigs.

  “So you’re just going to kill me?” I asked.

  The sticks waved and shook. "It is not a judgment of your person," Azor said, "It is an enforcement of treaty issues."

  I jerked back like I’d been slapped in the face.

  It’s nothing personal, it’s just business.

  How many times had I heard that in one variation or another? How many evil things have been done using that justification?

  Sixteen

  Back in high school, I came home one normal seeming afternoon. I knew something was wrong when I saw my dad’s pickup in the driveway. I went inside, careful not to slam the door. Dad was in the living room. The curtains were drawn. The TV off. The room dim. The faint, musky scent of his cologne and last night’s fried chicken dinner hung in the air.

  He sat in his old brown recliner. The one with the seat worn shiny by years of his blue-jeaned butt plopping down in it. He stared off into space. Expressionless.

  I eased toward the hallway, intent to escape to my bedroom. I hoped I wasn’t in trouble for something. His eyes flicked up and focused on me.

  Hey son, he said.

  I stopped. We stared at each other for a long moment.

  What are you doing home so early? I asked. My heart thumped overtime.

  Dad sighed. His whole body seemed to droop. Got fired today, he said, Boss decided to hire one of his nephews. Someone had to go and it ended up me.

  It was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me. As much of a shock as it was to me, it must have hit him like a sledgehammer.

  You’ve been there forever, though, I said, How could he do that?

  Later, from mom, I learned dad had been at the company for twenty-six years.

  Dad shrugged. Boss man said it was nothing personal. Just business.

  Three months later Dad was killed when a forklift fell over on him at his new job.

  Just business, my ass. When someone said that, it burned me. It’s always personal to someone. There are consequences.

  Always, there are consequences.

  Lights flashed at the end of the Stickman ship I’d been abducted to. Azor, the abductor, moved away from the depression I sat in. I breathed in the cinnamon musk of him. His words rang in my head. But they came out as: It’s not personal. It’s just business.

  It stoked the fires of anger flaring within me.

  Azor waved his tiny fingers over the lights. Ear grating sounds like a miniature out of tune violin orchestra came from the walls. The lights dimmed. Azor rolled back to me.

  “Judgement has been accepted,” he said, “Do you have a deity you wish to give prayer to?”

  I should have been scared, frightened out of my mind. The nightmare alien had just told me to say my prayers, cause I was going to die soon.

  Instead, it made me angry.

  It made me think of my dad, sitting in his easy chair, his life shattered. He was a good worker. Always on time, an asset to the company. Yet he got canned because some snot nosed relative couldn’t be bothered to find his own job.

  Dad was a good father. A good person.

  A month after my dad died, his old boss called the house. My mom answered. The boss man wanted to know if my dad was available to come back to work. It seemed like the nephew was a waste of oxygen and a disgrace to humanity. Production had plummeted at the plant. Would he consider coming back?

  My dad’s old boss had gotten this all out in a rush before my mother could get in a word. Once he finished my mom told him my dad was at the cemetery. She told him to call her if my dad agreed to come back to work.

  The guy never called back.

  And because some guy decided to teach Dr. Kincaid a lesson–I’m sorry about this, but it’s the only way they’re going to understand–my life was over.

  It. Pissed. Me. Off.

  Red tinged the edges of my vision.

  I stood up. Lights flashed urgently on the walls. Rusty violin music blared. Azor backed up.

  I yanked the chains holding my wrists. The links screeched, then flew apart. I grabbed more chains and tore them off. They parted like wet spaghetti.

  Azor backed further away.

  “Desist your activity,” he said, “Your actions compromise my mission.”

  That made me madder.

  I howled with wordless rage. Threw the chains at him. They flashed and bounced back at me. Some kind of field surrounded the depression I stood in. The chains slapped me in the face. Piled, clinking and clanking at my feet.

  I screamed profanities at them, at Azor, at the universe.

  I tried to lift my foot. The surface of the depression held it like I’d been wading in superglue.

  I raised my fist. Slammed it into the material. It tore. Green sparks shot out of it.

  I hit it again.

  Harder.

  The surface tore away. Underneath pulsed an organic looking muck. I drove my hand into it. Ripped chunks away.

  The wounded violin sounds got louder. Lights flashed along the walls.

  “Human! Stop! Damage to the vessel is occurring!” Azor said.

  No shit.

  The depression’s stickiness suddenly went away. I found myself floating in mid air.

  I swam toward Azor, interstellar murder on my mind.

  Azor flowed to the end of the ship. His limbs and fingers stabbed out. Slapped what I guessed were the controls. The ship trembled. I found myself flying toward the other end.

  I swam to the wall and grabbed a fistful of it. It crackled and crunched as my fingers tore into it. Green and yellow sparks shot out between my clenched fingers.

  I pulled myself up. Grabbed another chunk of wall. More crunching. More sparks.

  I crawled toward Azor. His motions grew frantic. I howled at him. Cursed his ancestors. Suggested in graphic terms they had intimate relations with domestic animals.

  Suddenly the ship had a down, and I was on the ceiling. Were we back in atmosphere? Was he trying to land before I tore his ship apart?

  I dropped to the floor and stalked toward Azor. My fists clenched and unclenched.

  “Human, stop! I will be forced to terminate you if you do not!” Azor said.

  I laughed. I didn’t feel like stopping. I’d been kicked around and threatened by practically everyone the past day. Now that my powers were back, I wanted to return the favor.

  Azor's limbs clustered into a solid mass. Pointed at me. I stalked toward him.

  A bolt of red energy shot out from the clustered limbs. It struck me full on.

  I didn’t feel a thing.

  Part of the bolt scattered against me. The rest bounced and blew a hole in the side of the ship.

  Air rushed out of the ship. Dragged me toward the hole.

  Up front, Azor clustered most of its limbs in a ball. The limbs left free flailed against the walls.

  The ship shook and rolled. My feet were suddenly on the ceiling. I bent, punched a hole in the wall. I gripped the material, dangled in mid-air. The pressure was equalizing, but the hole created a suction that wanted to pull me out.

  The chunk of wall I held broke away.

  I flew toward the gaping hole.

  Seventeen

  Azor’s ship shook like maracas in a hurricane as it plummeted toward the ground. It was going to be a race to see if I hit the ground before it.

  The ragged hole Azor accidentally blew in his own ship sucked me out into the night. I grasped the jagged edge and clung like my life depended on it.

  Cold
wind tore at me. My eyes teared up and I couldn’t see a damned thing. How did superman manage this crap?

  I got an impression of lights far below. Fear knotted my stomach. Normally I wasn't queasy about heights. But I made an exception when clinging to the outside of a wounded spaceship plummeting toward terra firma.

  My grip weakened. My super strength was fading on me again. I didn’t have time to think about why. I hung on and hoped Azor could land his ship.

  Preferably with me not under it.

  The ship descended fast. The lights of the city grew larger. For a few moments I thought we were going to crash in the city itself. But the ship drifted away, off toward dark landscape. More lights moved back and forth along a straight line on the ground. A highway. We were going to land somewhere near it.

  The air rushing past me slowed. I smelled desert dust. We were still in New Mexico, or near it.

  My fingers slipped on the torn surface. I couldn’t hold on any longer.

  I saw ground, pale in the dim moonlight. It streaked under us.

  I pushed away from the ship. Tumbled through the air.

  I hit. The impact knocked the breath out of me. Chalky sand flung up around me. Filled my mouth. Ground against my skin.

  I skidded to a stop. Lay there. Not moving.

  I ached all the way down to my bones. My skin felt like I’d showered with sandpaper. Finally, I sat up. Spat sand out of my mouth.

  A heavy thud vibrated the ground. Off in the distance, red sprayed into the air. A second later the sound came, a crack like thunder. Sound waves from the explosion. They thumped against my body with physical force.

  Azor’s landing wasn’t as gentle as mine.

  I got to my feet. Amazingly, all my body parts seemed functional. At least on a nominal basis. My right leg ached where I had gashed it. I tried to examine it in the weak moonlight. I found a sore spot, but I couldn’t find the cut itself.

  I dropped it from my mind and turned in a circle. I had landed in a dune of pale sand. As I looked I saw a lot more pale sand. Off to one side, I could just make out some sawtoothed mountain peaks. Between them and the sand was something else. A shimmer like water. A lake.