Unidentified Funny Objects 2

by Silverberg, Robert

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re hiding something from yourself.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Something you wish to avoid.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What was your zip code?”

  “Zip code? Like on a letter? What is this, 1870?”

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Four three five three seven.” Yates’s eyes widened. “Why do I know that? I remember the zip code, the street, the school, but not the town. Why?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  Yates unstrapped himself from the couch and maneuvered to the desk. This close, Turing became slightly transparent and the paneling on the far wall showed through. It was like being haunted by an especially placid ghost.

  Yates pointed at the switch on the desk. “You said you have library access?”

  Turing nodded. “The library itself is down, of course, but my cached version should be intact.”

  Yates tapped the switch; a holographic interface window seemed to emerge directly from the solid wooden desktop. He began his manipulations, flinging icons around the display in all directions like pucks in a shuffleboard match between madmen.

  “Take your time,” advised Turing. “Keep your head about you.”

  “I don’t come in here and tell you how to do your job.”

  “Actually, you’ve done nothing but—”

  The remainder of Turing’s complaint went unuttered, as Yates slapped the desktop triumphantly. “Got it!” He consulted his chronometer. “Still time, too. That’s how we do it in Brooklyn, baby.” He kicked off from the desk and hurtled across the office, hitting the doorframe at a bone-jarring velocity.

  He fumbled the door open and was immediately assaulted by the emergency klaxons, which had gamely kept up their atonal ululations throughout the session. It was like being shot in both eardrums simultaneously.

  “Don’t forget to schedule a follow-up appointment,” Turing called impotently as Yates vanished down the passageway. “It’s in the regulations.

  “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

  Turing manipulated Yates’s abandoned interface window (no small feat for a being with no substance) until it registered on one of several visual sensors throughout the office which served as his “eyes.” There, highlighted, was the sought-after name.

  Turing wondered idly if any psychology journal could be convinced to publish a paper authored by a S.H.R.I.N.K. unit. Yates’s unique case cried out to be documented (with names redacted, of course).

  He’d repressed the name of the town, not to purge himself of it but to preserve it. During the year he’d spent under his father’s thumb in his Midwestern purgatory, it had become his only comfort, even if he didn’t consciously understand why. And when he’d left home again years later, this time for boot camp, and found himself at the tender mercies of the drill instructors, it had bubbled unbidden to the surface and spilled onto a form, in a blank marked “Password.”

  A small Ohio town called Maumee.

  “I’M HAPPY TO SEE you again, Lieutenant Yates.”

  “Don’t be; I’m just obeying regulations.”

  “Gravity seems to agree with you. I trust everything’s well in hand?”

  “All systems green. Here’s the thing; my watch is almost up. Tomorrow I revive Ensign Aviles and go back into cryosleep.”

  “Go on.”

  “The rest of the crew, they have no idea how close they came to biting the dust. Now that I know I might not wake up once I go back under, I want to get something off my chest. Something I’m leaving out of my official report. Can you keep a secret?”

  “All S.H.R.I.N.K. sessions are confidential.”

  “We’re in a confessional, as far as you’re concerned.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t Catholic.”

  “Always with the sly answers. Nobody likes you very much.”

  “You have my word. Confess away.”

  “I know what caused the system failure. Interference from an unauthorized electronic device.”

  “What kind of device?”

  “A digital photo frame.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Personal electronics are prohibited while the ship is in flight. It’s the oldest rule there is. It goes all the way back to the days of aviation.”

  “I didn’t know they were serious about that. When was the last time you heard about an electronic device disabling a vessel?

  “Fifteen seconds ago.”

  “We’re allowed personal effects. That specifically includes photos. Aren’t photos digital?”

  A suspicion took root in Turing’s virtual mind: a detail that, if verifiable, would tie his journal article together perfectly.

  “Whose picture was in the frame?” he asked.

  “Not relevant.”

  “A woman?”

  “Not relevant.”

  “She must be somebody important.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You wanted to confess. I’m acting as confessor.” And I need you to admit it out loud so I can write it up.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Suit yourself.” As Yates stalked out of the office, Turing continued speaking at a conspicuously elevated volume. “It must have been someone of a quite objectionable appearance, for you to be so reticent.

  “It’s probably someone of poor hygiene, as well. I don’t blame you for your secrecy.

  “Especially if the person is of questionable moral character, which I can only assume, given your reluctance to discuss the matter.”

  Yates’s distant footfalls ceased. Switching subroutines, Turing accessed the obscure data he’d unearthed during his humor self-assessment. He seldom departed from his default demeanor, but this was for the advancement of his field.

  “I hear she’s so dumb, she put headlights on an FTL cruiser.”

  “And so ugly, the captain strapped her to the deflector dish to scare the meteoroids away.”

  “And so fat, if time were a dimension, she’d be four days long.”

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Yates burst into the office, fists clenched. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk about my mother?”

  But by the time Yates reached the desk, Turing had vanished.

  Story notes:

  Funny stories often arise from the combining of two unrelated elements. The little gaps and overlaps where they don’t quite line up create lapses in logic, and therein lies the humor. In this case, I had long been mulling over the idea of a typical science-fiction future with faster-than-light travel and so forth, but built atop legacy systems that could still be stymied by something as ridiculously anachronistic as a missing password. But making the connection isn’t always enough; sometimes a catalyst is needed. Here, that catalyst was the title—one of a list of titles for which I hope to eventually write stories. The concept of “mother” has many aspects, but two of them—mother’s maiden name as ID verification, and mother as “villain” in the popular conception of psychology—drifted serendipitously together in my thoughts, and the ever-capable Dr. Turing was born.

  Desmond Warzel is the author of a few dozen short stories. These have appeared in handy, lightweight, electronic form on websites like Daily Science Fiction and Tor.com; on genuine dead tree in nifty magazines like Fantasy & Science Fiction and fancy anthologies like Blood Rites; and in gentle, soothing audio on these newfangled podcast things, such as Escape Pod and Cast of Wonders. You can look for his latest work in upcoming issues of Playboy and the New Yorker (you won't find it there, but you can look). He lives in northwestern Pennsylvania.

  CLASS ACTION ORC

  James Beamon

  Things were looking good in the prison courtyard. Seeing how I was stuck here as a convict, I did what an orc does best—fight senseless battles against more righteous forces. So I went to war with the magistrate, the l
aw as my weapon, and proved the former dungeon conditions were inhumane. Half the dungeon dwellers weren’t even human, but the ones that were counted. Those humans needed humane conditions. The ones that weren’t human got a free ride under some racial equality clause. Now all the felonious goblins, orcs, humans, dwarves, and whatever had a courtyard, with weights and card tables.

  The weights were the most important thing. I had to stay buff for when I got out of lockup and joined forces with some dark lord’s dark army. Last thing I wanted to be was the runt orc. They got the shit jobs like “guard the captured yet resourceful hero” or “stand over the trapdoor while the evil lieutenant briefs the overlord with bad news.”

  I strutted through the courtyard as if I was dressed in imperial silk instead of dirty tattered rags, receiving nods of respect from various races and calls of “L.O.” (short for Legal Orc). Being the big man of the dungeon had clout. I went to move some of that lead around, weights sold on the cheap to the prison by the Dyslexic Alchemical Society around the same time they ran out of gold.

  I trained hard, not that it mattered much. The forces of good were working overtime to keep me locked down. Speaking of, a voice called out to me from across the courtyard, a sound that was high and melodious and full of crap magic.

  “Ang Ul Wud!”

  I turned to face the only jackass that would use my government name like that. Llevar the high elf stood sneering at me, dapper and blond and apparently still full of elf-lawyer pomposity. My fame as Legal Orc started with this clown. In a desperate bid to accrue enough community service hours to get sprung from the tank, I took over as public defender for a centaur awhile back. Not only did I win the case, I won against his highness elf Llevar. He strode over with a leather satchel over his shoulder.

  “Came to show me your new purse?” I asked. “Purty.”

  “I just wanted to see how you’re adjusting to all the time you keep accumulating.”

  I stifled a grimace. The first thing this tree prancer did after he lost the case was find some loophole to keep me from getting all my community service hours. Once I was back in the dungeon, he set off on a crusade to get time added to my sentence. His most brilliant stroke of dastard came with the institution of “Quiet Hours,” where any convict caught talking after lights out got fined time. This is when I learned he must’ve been watching me in the wee hours, and I talk in my sleep. A lot. Apparently, I mutter stuff from my minion days like “burn the village!”, “when do we get to eat him?”, and “hell naw, I’m on break”, sweet nothings that kept adding more time than I could knock down. And since this was a stupid realm of apparent sunshine and happiness, there wasn’t enough new fish getting locked up to make decent community service hours in casework. I’d never get out of here at this rate; they even counted “Mu Ha Ha Ha!” and there was no way you could dream about the good old days without tossing around a bunch of those.

  At least I caught my grimace before Llevar could get the satisfaction of seeing it. “I don’t look at it as time added,” I told him. “I look at it as more opportunity to reflect on how I wiped my ass with your winning record.”

  Llevar wasn’t as successful keeping his poker face. His scowl let me know things weren’t the same for him over at the Elf Club. I knew none of his peers respected him. Who ever heard of a high elf losing to an orc when it came to seeking justice?

  “Wouldn’t you like to get out of here?” he asked. “After all, a career criminal not free to practice his craft is like a harpy without wings, little more than a saggy windbag with bad breath and worse posture.”

  “Meh,” I said, as I bicep curled a basket of lead bars. “Dungeon’s been upgraded. Now it’s got that cozy overlord’s lair kinda feel.”

  “Hmmm. I would think you of all people would be dying to get out, what with the whole of Seven Realms talking about the rising new dark lord.”

  I stopped curling weight. I think my mouth started watering. “New dark lord?”

  The high elf smiled, which to me looked like the twin brother of high elf sneers. “Dark Lord Grimsfar.”

  Hot carnage, it was a good name. You could tell how committed an overlord was to spreading destruction and ruin by their name. I still shudder when I think of my days as henchman for Dark Lord Rufus and the Black Witch Kimberly. This evil overlord could be the real deal.

  “Don’t matter,” I said. “My time keeps deepening, like the folds of loose skin on your momma’s face. That’s the kind of time I got… that Hoya time, serious like those serious jowls.”

  “See, it’s that crack wise, too-smart-for-a-stupid-orc spirit I need to break. So I challenge you plainly, Ang Ul Wud. Face me in court. If you win, I’ll see to it Quiet Hours go away.”

  “It’s Anglewood,” I said. The deal sounded good. No Quiet Hours meant I had another option besides trying to upgrade the dungeon to a point where escape was easy. “And I want double the community service hours.”

  “Done,” he said, too fast. He dug in his purse and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and parchment.

  I looked at the stack of paperwork, the size of which made my investigative mind start working immediately. Something wasn’t right here.

  “How’d you fit all that in there with your make-up case?”

  “Take the paperwork,” he said with glossy lips.

  I DON’T KNOW WHY LLEVAR gave me all that paper, but the parchment was truly a gift from the gods. That stuff was way better than our standard issue toilet paper. It had to be lambskin. Whatever it was, it was a baby soft sign that my mission to make this dungeon more humane was far from over.

  While I enjoyed one of the little perks of public service, I did read the first page. Turned out a man named Algus Truthseer was charged with fraud, embezzlement, perpetrating a hoax, malicious scheming, and impersonating a prophet. Sounded like a dude who knew how to get over and turn a party out all at once.

  I realized why Llevar was so quick to bet his reputation again when I saw the story behind the charges. Old Algus had convinced a few farmboy chumps that they were all the Chosen One of Prophecy, destined to defeat the near-insurmountable forces of evil with the help of the darkness-banishing sword Cleave. And Cleave could be theirs for five easy installments of only 99 ducats each.

  This case made me mad. It was a scheme I should’ve thought of. Granted, I’m more of a pillager than a schemer, but if the idea was wicked enough to make me envious then I knew this would be a hard case to win.

  No way I was backing out. If I couldn’t burn down Llevar’s ancestral forest then I could at least beat him in court. I went straight to Algus Truthseer’s dungeon cell to talk a taste with the con artist, maybe get an angle.

  An old, thin man in an over-sized gray robe, Algus looked a mess, the hot kind, like he had gotten here by getting rolled downhill inside a barrel. Wiry white hair all over his head, long beard knotted in places, eyes searching about his cell like he was looking for missing keys, he didn’t look like he could convince a rabbit to eat its vegetables.

  “Hell’s up with you?”

  His eyes focused on me and his expression changed to intense. He leaned forward, to no doubt tell me something seriously important. “I dreamed I was awake last night and when I woke up I was asleep!”

  “For serious?”

  He nodded. He was indeed for serious.

  “Alright, dude. I’m your court appointed lawyer—”

  “See!” he shouted, cutting me off. “It’s as I’ve foreseen! Orcs as defenders of the public! Broken clocks telling the correct time at least twice a day! Cats and dogs living together! The shadow is spreading… the penultimate evil rises!”

  “Let’s hope so,” I told him. “Meanwhile, you’re not gonna be any help, are you?”

  “It rises!” he said, standing on his cot and thrusting his arms into the air. “Like a scantily clad woman hidden inside a hollow cake! Soon it will burst forth, surprising us all with its evil, naughty bits!”

  Not for the first tim
e, I was glad I had spent most of my life alternating between being locked up in one legal system or another and working for sinister forces. I would need every trick I had picked up along the way to win this case.

  THE COURTROOM WAS PACKED, standing room only. I knew I’d gotten fans after word had spread of my first win but this was enough to make an orc blush. Once I see a high elf bleed I can’t help but wanna see more elf blood… apparently it wasn’t just me. I winked at the dozen folks in the jury box.

  The magistrate looked to me and Llevar, shrewd eyes under bushy gray eyebrows. “We ready to start this?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Llevar said. “First I’d like to call—”

  “Hold up!” I cut His Highness off then looked at the magistrate. “Yonor, I think the first order of business should be my classy suit.” I looked down at my dirty tattered rags. I wasn’t about to sit through a minute of this case without getting what was promised to me.

  “Cretin,” Llevar said, “this is a class action suit.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Class for the courtroom, action for the weight room. When do I get my suit?”

  The magistrate banged his little hammer. “See here, you dumb, dirty orc, all you’re getting from this court is multiple plaintiffs. That’s what class action is. Use those beady eyes of yours to look behind you. All these boys got grievance with your client.”

  I looked behind me. A sea of young, sour faces grimaced back, standing room only. What a way to lose a fanbase. Least there was a bright side; it would take days, maybe weeks, to talk to all these farmboys. With double community service hours, I’d be a free orc once I won.

  Llevar cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Your Honor, first I’d like to call Luc Brawnshield to represent all the plaintiffs.”

  “Not cool,” I said. “We gotta talk to each and every one of these dudes to get the full story.”

  “They each individually have the full story,” Llevar said. “It’s the same grievance, spoken one hundred and six times. We only need one.”

  The magistrate’s hammer came down and it wasn’t in my favor. I hate the fair races. No matter how much time people wasted on their own, all of a sudden they put a premium on it when someone else wasted it for them.