by Cat Rambo
"It was your suggestion. Besides, these are desperate times. The doctor said you'd live a long life if we could just figure out a way to stop time. With Animated we just might squeeze a few minutes of coherence out of you before your virus reacts to the drug." He grabbed Dumpheys's hand. "Look, I'm sorry if this sounds draconian."
"I don't even know what that means. Stop wasting time."
"All right. Who beat you up?"
Dumpheys tried to relax his body, but it was as if a samba band's percussion section was building to a climax. "It doesn't matter."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? This is life or death. Actually, it's death or death. Look, Flip. You're my partner. We're detectives. Our lives revolve around finding out things people want to know."
"That's just it. Nobody wants to know this. We're happy. I'm so happy I could explode." Dumpheys grimaced, turning away.
"Are you in pain?" Stamens asked.
"As if someone conducted acupuncture on me with truncheons."
"Who?"
"I didn't get a good look at him, but I'd recognize his fist anywhere. I hate to say it but it all goes back to Gorse—what a guy."
There it was, this obsession with Gorse again. No one worked harder or could do a better job of distributing emotions. Life might suck and then you die, but Gorse was something you could depend on. "Are you saying Gorse beat you up?"
"Not directly. They got me before I could get near him."
"Who is they?"
Dumpheys's body sagged like an old couch. The Animated was wearing off, but Stamens was afraid to inject his partner with any more. "It could have been…anybody."
"Flip, these weak pronoun references are going to kill us both. I can't just arrest anybody."
"You might as well." Dumpheys was either getting delirious or someone had mixed in some enigmatic with the animated.
"At least tell me why you did this rogue investigation."
"Because they're cutting corners. Haven't you noticed the drugs aren't working as well as they used to? So we have to augment more often. And God help you if you complain. Someone will beat the crap out of you. And it's not only that. We've lost something. We don't have to earn our emotions anymore. They no longer warn us about anything. We've never been happier about nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at yourself. You've got no family, no real devotion to your job. You don't even really care about me, unless you take your cocktail." Suddenly, his body seized up.
"That hurts me, Flip. At least, I think it does. Do you want another shot?" Stamens asked hopelessly.
Dumpheys shook his head. His mouth opened wide as a glassblower and with his last bit of strength said, "Cold turkey."
The percussion solo ended. There was no encore.
The funeral was an odd affair. Dumpheys had many admirers, all of whom paid their respects. Some were naturally grieved and allowed their feelings to show. Others less close to the fallen detective, or less emotionally connected to events in general, took some artificial grief to appear appropriate. Still others reasoned grief is a drag and compensated with less negative emotions, ranging from detachment to glee. Later, everyone went to the home of Dumpheys's widow for the post-funeral dinner. Stamens was munching on a meat cookie when Nandy said for the twentieth time, "It was a beautiful funeral." Stamens remembered Dumpheys's bloated corpse looking as beautiful as an impacted tooth. When he emitted a soft growl, Nandy asked what was wrong.
"Dumpheys is dead."
"I know that. I made the funeral arrangements."
"And I have to make the solving-the-crime arrangements."
Her mouth dropped. "During his post-funeral dinner? Can't you show a little respect?"
"Respect for what? The food? His last words were 'cold turkey'."
"He wanted to die without another shot of Animated."
"That's what I thought at the time, but I think he was telling me to get off the emotions."
"Why would he say that? If he'd stayed on them, this never would have happened."
"You're right. He found out something while he was off them, and it got him killed. I have to retrace his footsteps. I haven't taken an emotion for three hours."
Nandy grimaced. "That's why you're acting like such a jerk."
Everyone was connected to Gorse by their emotions, but no one knew much about him. Somehow Stamens had to penetrate the inner circle. He knew only one person who'd ever seen Gorse.
"Detective Stamens," Condon said, flinching as the detective entered his store. "You've been beating a path to my door lately."
Stamens leaned on the counter. "I thought I'd try something new. Give me a two-hour bottle of love."
Condon nodded slightly. "Ah, what the world needs now, and I've got it." He punched several buttons on his dispenser.
Stamens motioned at Condon's wall. "How old is that picture of Gorse?" It showed a profile of a smiling middle-aged man with a strong chin and bushy eyebrows.
"Oh, that came with the shop ten years ago. But he's got enough money to take care of his appearance."
"Do you happen to know where he lives?" Stamens asked.
Condon blanched. "Well, no one knows that. He's so busy though, he spends most of his time at the main factory."
Condon placed the bottle on the counter.
"Which is where?"
"I'm afraid I can't divulge that," Condon said.
"I understand," Stamens said, unscrewing the bottle cap. "You don't mind if I use this now, do you?"
"Well, to be honest I'd prefer…" Condon stopped as Stamens grabbed the proprietor's lower jaw, held it open, and poured down the contents of the love bottle. Choking, Condon slapped his customer a couple of times before his arm drooped and a dreamy smile came over his face.
"Who do you love?" Stamens asked.
"Baby, you send me."
"Good. Let's go find your boss."
Stamens drove, though it was debatable which man was the more reliable driver. In the throes of emotion withdrawal the P.I. felt like a two-hundred pound corn husk. Condon was blowing kisses to each passing motorist and every time they came to an intersection, he said, "Junction, junction, what's your function?" The love drug seemed to have wreaked havoc with Condon's sense of direction, and Stamens feared the proprietor didn't actually know the factory's location. With each mile the neighborhood seemed to deteriorate.
"Why does he hide his factory in a slum? Is he afraid people would break in?" Stamens asked.
"He could afford to have the Marines stand guard if he wanted them. Besides, for the most part, he keeps the basic cocktail inexpensive and available, so there's no reason for anyone to steal from him."
They passed a particularly burnt-out area. Gutted buildings stared solemnly at them like petrified jack-o-lanterns. The car inched over a narrow two-hundred meter bridge, the far half of which lacked any guard rails. Stamens wondered how anyone could live in this kind of poverty and why he'd never noticed it before. The answer, of course, was artificial emotions.
"Follow that truck!" Condon demanded. Stamens looked up to see an Emotion Store delivery truck crossing in front of them. He sighed and signaled for a right turn.
They followed the truck for five minutes when another delivery truck dashed in front of them on a perpendicular route. "Follow that truck!" Condon demanded. Stamens hesitated, then made an abrupt left turn, the wheels screeching. Before long, it was as if every vehicle on the road except theirs was from the Emotion Store. His mind on fire, Stamens zigged, zagged, zipped, and zoomed. Soon the delivery trucks and the roads themselves followed suit. He was hallucinating, and if he didn't stop the car immediately, he'd soon be able to continue his last conversation with Dumpheys. Stamens tried to step on the brake, but someone else's foot was on it, or maybe it was his. He could no longer remember why it had been so important to find Gorse. He just wanted the exploding emotions in his head to stop.
Suddenly, Stamens's body lurched against the door, and ever
ything went black.
Stamens woke in a hospital room. Most of his limbs and appendages were covered in regenerative gel, making him look like Semen Man. Nandy, Chief Rausch, and a nurse flanked his bed.
"I'm afraid I didn't get the license plate number," he said, grimacing.
"That's all right, Stamens," Rausch said. "We got yours. How do you feel?"
"Like a quality control tester for iron maidens."
"I could ask the doctor for more drugs."
"No, I need to be pure if I'm ever going to find out what happened to my partner."
"You're already full of painkillers. As soon as you're out of danger, I insist you resume your regular emotion regimen. As for your partner, we already know what happened to him—the same thing that happened to you. Once he went off his emotions, he became delusional. You crashed your car, he provoked a fight with a mob of people."
"Did you arrest them?"
"We questioned and released them."
"What did he do? Say something bad about Gorse?"
After both Rausch and Nandy commented, "What a guy," the police chief said, "I don't know exactly what he said, but I do know Dumpheys had been prescribed substitute meds to be used during his recuperation from the flu. He decided not to take them. That wasn't a wise option."
Stamens shook his head. "Am I the only one who feels there's something wacky about the brain choosing its emotions?"
"Boss," Nandy said. "You've got to go back on your emotions. You could have killed both yourself and Mr. Condon."
"Luckily for you," Rausch said, "Mr. Condon suffered only minor injuries and decided not to press charges. He, as well as anyone, understands what can happen if someone goes off their emotions. He also sent you a box of chocolates."
"Wow, that love bottle was concentrated," said Stamens.
"Let me remind you of something, Mr. Stamens," Rausch continued. "Our concern is order. When someone interferes with the dissemination of emotions, that order is threatened. We'll never get it perfect, but at least now when violent emotions can't find an outlet, we can change the prescription."
Stamens grimaced at his reflection in the window. "Does Nick Gorse exist?"
"What a guy! Of course he does," Rausch said. "But if he is to do his job effectively, he needs privacy. We make sure he gets that."
Even with his brain muddled by painkillers, Stamens sensed Rausch was lying, but what should he do? If life was about the pursuit of happiness, the Emotion Store was where to get it. Dumpheys was dead, however, and it seemed so wrong.
"I don't seem to believe in anything. Maybe I need some Reverence."
"That's one thing the Emotion Store doesn't carry," Rausch said. "The company doesn't want you worshipping false idols."
Yeah, we wouldn't want people worshipping someone besides Nick Gorse , Stamens thought. He is an idol I will take down…tomorrow.
© 2014 by Richard Zwicker
* * *
Richard Zwicker is an English teacher who lives with his wife in Vermont. His short stories have appeared in Penumbra, Plasma Frequency Magazine, Perihelion Science Fiction, and other paying markets that don't all begin with "P."
Universe In A Teacup
Seth Chambers
Once they applied the new algorithm, the senseless chatter of the Universe immediately came through as a coherent message: CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? HELLO?
The telemetry rattled off the message a dozen times while the assembled men uttered a collective, "Holy shit!" A return message was quickly composed and transmitted: WE HEAR YOU.
The incoming message ceased. Nothing else happened there in the underground bunker of the New Experimental Research & Development (NERD) headquarters. Actually, "underground bunker" is a bit of a stretch: it was actually just Bill's basement. And truth be told, they didn't research anything, and the only things they ever developed were allergies from the mold buildup. But everyone liked the acronym, and so they stretched the words to fit.
And yet, this motley collection of Firefly fans, D&D aficionados and IT geeks managed to initiate contact with an alien intelligence using nothing more than a satellite dish, a microwave transmitter, and a MacBook (Pro). The "telemetry" began as a state-of-the-art laser printer. Unfortunately, this printer was silent, which was voted as being "no fun at all." They agreed that alien transmissions should make noise, and so the high-tech printer was replaced with an ancient dot matrix machine. It was slow and clunky, but it also sounded very Eighties Sci-Fi.
Bill held his hands aloft in his trademark, "I'm about to give a lecture" gesture. Since it was Bill's basement the NERDS used, he was (grudgingly) deemed leader (or el Jeffe, as Bill preferred). Everyone (grudgingly) quieted to hear what el Jeffe had to say.
"My friends. Colleagues. Fellow scientists," he began. There were only eight people in the basement, and yet Bill peered upon a vast throng. "This is an historic occasion. On this date and time—what is it, the twenty third?—we have heard a Voice From Beyond. A Voice that has likely been traveling through the lonely vacuum of cold, empty, silent space for millions of years. By the time our greeting arrives, their world—alas!—shall likely be dust. We shall never hear from them again, nor—"
Behind them, on the work bench where all the equipment was set up, the telemetry clicked and whirred with a new message:
NICE TO HEAR BACK FROM YOU. TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH. SURE HOPE I'M NOT BOTHERING YOU. BY THE WAY, SEND NO FURTHER TRANSMISSIONS FOR ABOUT 5 MINUTES AS I WILL BE OUT OF RANGE.
The basement erupted in excited talk. The bottle of champagne (purchased from Jewel Foods for this express purpose) was brought forth. Unfortunately, nobody could manage to remove the cork and everyone in attendance, as it turned out, was allergic to sulfites anyway, so the bottle was cast aside.
Then Bill once again held his arms aloft and discussions (grudgingly) subsided. The door at the top of the basement stairs opened and somebody started down. All eyes flashed toward the long legs of Rebecca, Bill's wife.
"On this momentous occasion," intoned Bill. "Our next transmission must be crafted with utmost care and deliberation. I shall endeavor to represent—"
"Why you?" asked Samir, and his question echoed through the throng of assembled NERDs.
"Because," pronounced Bill, stepping upon a wooden box he kept around for such occasions. "One, this is my basement. And two, more importantly, the new algorithm, with which we have shattered the barrier between worlds, is also mine."
Rebecca, still standing on the stairs, cleared her throat. Bill's face drained of color.
"Well, sort of mine," he amended.
Everyone demanded what he meant by "sort of."
"Okay, so my lovely, talented and understanding wife is the one who actually came up with—"
Bill was immediately forgotten as all attention switched to Rebecca. She was coaxed downstairs and offered the last (stale) donut and what remained of the coffee. She declined both but then Samir regally presented her with the bottle of champagne. She accepted the champagne. She also accepted (grudgingly) membership into the NERD group (the first "Nerdette"). Within a nanosecond (a favorite time designation of the group) she was promoted to New Leader and Queen Bee. The basement had to go from being an "underground bunker" to a "hive," but this alteration was accomplished quickly and without argument.
Rebecca's first official act in her role as Queen Bee was to send her husband/drone out for fresh coffee and donuts. Bill lifted his arms in the old "attention please!" gesture but the magic no longer worked. He (grudgingly) buzzed off to do the Queen Bee's bidding.
The rest of the hive informed the Queen Bee of the remarkable progress they had made by utilizing her Glorious Algorithm.
"The alien entity is currently out of range," said Colin. "Most likely having traveled through a, er—"
"A coronal cluster," said Samir, in a voice of confident authority.
Again, the telemetry rattled.
OK. I'M BACK FROM THE—WHAT IS THE APPROPRIATE WORD IN YOUR LANGUA
GE? BACK FROM THE CRAPPER.
"He must mean he just returned from the Crab Nebula," said Timothy. "Communication of this sort can be very nuanced."
The telemetry rattled.
JOHN. BATHROOM. SHITHOUSE. LAVATORY. RESTROOM.
"Or not," said Timothy.
ROADSIDE FOOD GOES RIGHT THROUGH YOU. AM I RIGHT?
There was some discussion concerning their next message. Timothy suggested they inform the alien of humankind's amazing social and technological progress. Colin said they should infuse their transmission with cultural references in order to subtly demonstrate their sophistication.
"Or," said Rebecca. "We could try being good listeners and see what we can learn."
It was decided that this sort of out-of-the-box thinking was just what they needed. They let her compose the next transmission. She typed: SO. TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF.
She turned off the CAPS LOCK and BOLD settings so their alien contact could talk normally.
"Well," said their alien contact, via the dot matrix printer. "My real name is Bob, but you can just call me B'oowloh Bron Bron Zowt. I'm communicating through your MacBook (Pro) via electronic telepathy, which is why transmissions are able to transcend the speed of light barrier."
Timothy sent, "Your race is telepathic?"
"No. Just me. I hear the voices of a million species but rarely am I heard. Rarely can I establish dialog such as this. But I had to reach out and warn you."
Several moments of silence passed, then Rebecca sent: "Please go on."
"Sorry about that. I was consuming a dessert item that is surprisingly tasty. Never know what you're going to get at a roadside diner, am I right? I think you might call this 'key lime pie,' except it's composed of a petrochemical sludge."
"We have such menu items here as well. They're called 'processed foods,'" typed Rebecca. "But you said something about a warning?"
"I wish I could help you, but two guards are keeping close watch over me. You see, the telepathic voices of a million species has driven me mad and so I am a prisoner. They are transporting me from one confinement facility to another. We have stopped at a roadside diner. It is at this place where I happened to notice your Universe."