by Various
In the early years, Homeland Security had advised everyone to stay in their basements until the bots had passed. But now the Running was almost a public holiday in Dallas, just as it was in San Diego and Nagasaki. Downtown, rooftops and bars would be crowded with spectators. The citizens of Dallas flocked to celebrate this minor public nuisance, but could not be bothered to attend the Veterans Day Parade. Shameful.
Mendoza couldn’t bear to ignore the bots entirely. So he settled into his easy chair, Patton curled at his feet, to watch through the window. When the warning siren sounded, Patton barked and put his front paws on the windowsill. Mendoza had read online that 986 bots would pass through Dallas, three fewer than last year. Two had fallen into a volcano in Japan. One had gone missing on the Atlantic seafloor somewhere between Morocco and South Carolina.
The first bot came thundering down Sycamore Road at dusk. Minimal corrosion on armor, sensor cluster intact, all six legs swinging in relentless rhythm. Not bad for a machine receiving no maintenance in 16 years.
After it thudded west towards the Interstate, Mendoza exhaled slowly. Its internal reactors wouldn’t run out of fuel for decades. It would return in another 11 months, leaving behind a trail of trampled shrubbery and dented mailboxes.
Mendoza could have retired to some other place that wasn’t on the 32nd parallel. But he’d been born in Dallas, and he’d damn well die there, despite the errant bots. Despite scornful civilians. When he first moved into his ranch-style house, the neighbors had shunned him, as if his physical presence would attract the bots and lower their property values.
A second bot came pounding down the road. Its chassis was blackened and warped, probably from the tactical nuke the Chinese had tried against the bots that first year. A branch of blooming roses dangled incongruously from its primary turret.
As Mendoza got a Corona from the fridge, Patton barked at the front door. For a moment, Mendoza thought the bots had come for him, after all these years. He shook off the delusion, walked slowly to the front hall, and opened the door. The gleaming plastic visor, alarming at first, was only a guy in a motorcycle helmet. Mendoza pulled the biker in, and shut the door.
The biker removed his helmet. “Thanks, man.” He was just a kid.
Mendoza didn’t want to shelter this thrill-seeker who thought it was brave to ride among the bots. Mendoza had served in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Estonia. Real bravery then meant doing your duty every day under enemy fire. Real bravery now meant bypassing the drive-thru at Lottaburger, and going inside to eat at a table, ignoring the stares and whispers.
The kid set his helmet on the table. “I’m Ben, by the way. My bike has a busted—hey, you’re that guy. You’re him. The robot guy.”
Mendoza said nothing and returned to his easy chair. Patton, unused to visitors, growled.
Ben followed and sprawled uninvited on the sofa. “I wrote a paper about you in freshman year.”
Mendoza scowled. He had no reason to be ashamed. The Special Committee had said his actions were only a minor factor in the “accident waiting to happen.” The true causes were “flawed software architecture,” “multiple systems failure,” and “no culture of safety at the Army’s Yuma Proving Grounds.” But Mendoza was the public face of the incident, more tangible than over-engineered safeguards, uninstalled kill-switches, and failed failsafes.
“You live in Dallas?” said Ben. “So you can see your robots every year? Cool.”
“They’re not my robots.” He hadn’t designed the bots. He’d been just a glorified typist.
“My history paper was about the metaphor and symbolism. You know, in the order you gave your robots.”
Mendoza had made one small error that day in Yuma. He’d meant to send the order “Move west of First Robot Battalion” to the Second Robot Battalion. Unfortunately, he’d sent the message to the First, instead. The bots of the First had been trying to move west of themselves ever since.
Ben started tapping on his cell phone. “I’m texting my buds. They’ll be jealous that I got to meet you.” He glanced out the window. Outside, the bots were coming in clumps of three or four “The robots, they’re like, telling us something. You strive to get ahead, but you always end up coming home, right?”
Mendoza checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the all-clear sounded..
“You’re my hero, man,” said Ben.
Mendoza thought Ben was being sarcastic. “Look, I was just doing my job.” From outside came the sound of tinkling glass and a car alarm.
“Exactly. You and your robots. Just trying to make sense of the world. Doing your duty. Loyal, even though you’re just a cog in the machine. Semper fi, right?”
“Semper fi is for the Marines,” Mendoza corrected automatically. The bots were a symbol of loyalty?
“Follow your dream, man. It’s about the journey, not the destination. Final frontier. Never give up. Like Old Faithful?”
Mendoza smiled and scratched Patton under the chin. People saw him as Old Faithful? He could live with that.
Ben stood and walked to the window. “I started in South Carolina. It’s my first Running, but I was trying to get all the way to the Pacific. I guess that’s not happening.”
From outside came a loud clang. Probably Mrs. Grommer’s garbage cans; she’d left them out again.
“I think your bike will fit in the back of my truck,” said Mendoza. “We can follow the bots for a while. Maybe all the way to San Diego. Patton’s never been to the beach.”
UN OPERA NELLO SPAZIO (A SPACE OPERA)
by Oliver Buckram
First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (Sep/Oct. 2013), edited by Gordon Van Gelder
• • • •
Act 1
THE OVERTURE begins in D minor, transitioning to a lighthearted D major allegro.
Crewmen stride about the starship, proclaiming their martial ardor in the long war against the barbaric aliens. They are assured of eventual victory, Certamente! Certamente! (Surely! Surely!), if only they can locate the secret alien base.
Orlando, an orangutan, works long hours tending to the antimatter engines (Notte e giorno faticar—Night and day I slave away). As he cleans the intake valves, human crewmen mock him for his short stature, matted fur, and grease-stained jumpsuit. They exit laughing, leaving him in anguish, and in the famous Uplift Aria he sings Non so più cosa son (I don’t know anymore what I am).
He leaves the engineering deck for a fencing bout with his only friend, Roberto the robot. To avoid further mockery, Orlando crawls to the gym via the ventilation ducts. While Roberto handles the saber with inhuman speed, Orlando’s long arms make him a formidable swordsman. As they lunge, feint, and parry, Orlando confesses his love for Flora, a human science officer with golden hair. He’s never spoken to her because, he laments, she could never love an ape (Come sai, Roberto—As you know, Roberto). Afterward, Roberto consoles him with a banana.
Meanwhile, on the engineering deck, Flora arrives on a mysterious errand. When Orlando emerges unexpectedly from a vent, they exchange startled glances. Before either can speak, klaxons sound and lights flash. An alien warship is approaching.
As the chorus takes up the refrain of Allarme rosso! (Red alert!), Flora rushes to the bridge, Orlando following, and the curtain falls.
Act 2
On the bridge, Orlando and Flora peer through a porthole to see fiery explosions in the vacuum of space (Deh vieni alla finestra—Ah, come to the window). The shields fail, enemy fire rocks the ship, and the bridge crew is thrown from their chairs, lamenting their lack of seat belts.
The captain demands that the shields be repaired immediately (Deh, vieni, non tardar—Oh come, don’t delay), but Orlando discovers they’ve been sabotaged. The aliens catch the Terran ship in a tractor beam. The captain makes a futile attempt to break free, pushing the engines to the limit, but Orlando warns Esploderà! (She’s going to blow!).
Offstage, we hear fighting and the approach of an enemy boarding
party singing a triumphal march. To prevent capture, the captain initiates the self-destruct sequence in a duet with the computer, Trenta, venti, dieci, cinque. Facing death, Orlando takes Flora’s hand and in a poignant moment finds she does not reject this final gesture. In a lyrical andante based on the Act 1 motif, they sing La ci darem la mano (There we will entwine our hands).
When the countdown reaches zero, the ship does not explode. The captain cries La maledizione! (The curse!). Alien warriors, resembling armadillos, burst onstage while the chorus exclaims “Behold the hideous armadillos.” During the wild scene of hand‑to‑hand combat, the captain orders Orlando to flee.
While the aliens capture the crew and take control of the ship, Orlando crawls through the ventilation system. He hides in the deserted engineering deck as the D minor theme from the overture returns (Sola, sola in buio loco—All alone in this dark place).
He discovers a strand of blonde hair on the auxiliary control panel and realizes it was Flora who sabotaged the ship. Since she has betrayed both her duty and his love, Orlando bewails his fate and vows to kill her. Act 2 concludes with his Vendetta Aria, one of the most popular in the tenor repertoire.
Act 3
Silently weeping, Orlando crawls through the ductwork in search of Flora, unnoticed by the aliens aboard the ship. At last he finds her in the kitchen with the villainous alien king. Orlando listens in horror as the king tells Flora that he’s making osso buco, and she’s the main ingredient.
Overcome by emotion, Orlando resolves to save Flora despite her treachery. He whispers his intentions through the ventilation grille, but to his surprise, she hisses Fuggi! (Begone!). She insists that he remain hidden, leaving her to her fate.
As the king reads aloud from his cookbook in a sinister baritone (Per servire l’uomo—To serve man), Flora explains sotto voce that she had secret orders to sabotage the ship so that it would be captured and taken to the hidden enemy base. Once there, the ship will automatically transmit the location to fleet headquarters. Flora sobs that she must be sacrificed for the greater good, lest the aliens suspect the plan. As the king preheats the oven and sharpens his scimitar, the three voices join together in Presto, presto (Soon, soon).
Seeking to at least delay Flora’s death, Orlando bravely sneaks past the king and disables the oven. When the king discovers the oven has cooled, he rages at the stupido forno umano (stupid human oven). Suddenly, the ship exits hyperspace. They’ve arrived at the secret base.
With a gleeful cry of Oh, t’inebria nell’amplesso (Oh vast joy without measure), Orlando leaps from his hiding place and grabs a knife. In a heroic duel of butter knife against scimitar, Orlando overcomes the king. He frees Flora and the rest of the crew, and the Terrans triumphantly retake the ship.
With the alien king in the brig and the location of the secret base established, they elude pursuing warships and enter hyperspace amid a barrage of enemy fire. Flora falls into Orlando’s arms and explains Amo il volto tuo peloso (I love your furry face).
The return to D major and the innocent simplicity of the last few bars conclude the opera, and joy abounds.
HALF A CONVERSATION, OVERHEARD WHILE INSIDE AN ENORMOUS SENTIENT SLUG
by Oliver Buckram
First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (Jul/Aug. 2013), edited by Gordon Van Gelder
• • • •
THANK YOU, Inspector. I’m ready.
Yes, I understand my rights as a resident extraterrestrial. No, that won’t be necessary.
Of course. Ask me anything. I only wish to see justice done.
It grieves me to say so, but I concur. There’s no doubt about who murdered Lord Ash.
Let’s see. When I heard the shot from the laser rifle, I was in the kitchen with Mrs. Moncrieff. She was making cucumber sandwiches while I washed the breakfast dishes. Lord Ash has—excuse me, had—a superb china collection. That teacup in your hand, for instance, is nineteenth-century Wedgwood.
No, no hidden appendages. I am as you see me. The Slime Brethren never evolved hands. We use our digestive system.
It’s quite simple. I clean the dishes by swallowing them. As they travel through my intestinal tract, I scrub them with various sphincters, mucus membranes, and stomach acids.
Vomit them up? Of course not. That would be vulgar.
Correct. Although I prefer the term “defecate.” That particular teacup has passed through me countless times. I gulp it down, and a minute later it pops out the other end, spotless.
Inspector! You’ve spilt tea all over your trench coat.
To tell the truth, it is quite a valuable cup. Don’t worry. I’ll soon have the handle mended.
Very well. Four years ago, my previous master and I traveled here from Callisto. He was a kind man, though overfond of playing whist. After a run of bad luck at the gaming table, he was obliged to offer my services to settle a sizable debt to Lord Ash. That is how I first came to Ash Manor.
Lord Ash was quite a different sort of master. He spent his time drinking, hunting, and (or so it seemed to me) tormenting his servants. It amused his lordship to employ me in a menial capacity, although the Brethren are renowned throughout the galaxy as scholars and healers. When Lord Ash was in his cups, he’d often “accidentally” spill salt on me as I attended him at table. His drinking companions thought this the height of wit. It never failed to send them into paroxysms of laughter.
Because it is our custom. Once we take a new master, we serve him until his death. Happily for me, that time has now come.
One summer, Lord Ash left Io to tour his estates in the Kuiper Belt. He shocked everyone by returning to Ash Manor with a new bride. I’ll never forget his first words to the assembled household. He said to obey her as we would obey him.
Your cup is now repaired, Inspector. Shall I excrete it? I’m sure Mrs. Moncrieff would be happy to make you a fresh pot of tea.
As you wish. At first, marriage appeared to have miraculously transformed Lord Ash. He stopped drinking. He no longer screamed when his breakfast was late. He stopped kicking Pharaoh. My skin was free from salt blisters. He even gave up—
Pharaoh. His lordship’s Labrador retriever. As I was saying, Lord Ash gave up hunting. Before his marriage, he used to spend hours with his rifle, stalking the magma seals that frolick in the lava pools. But it broke her ladyship’s heart to see the little creatures suffering, so he stopped. Or so he claimed.
Those were the best days. Many a happy evening I regaled Lady Ash with tales of my travels through the galaxy. She showed me many kindnesses. Sometimes she brought me mulch from the rose garden. Once, when I suffered a flare-up of mantle mange, she spread soothing salve on my skin with her own hands.
Everything changed on their first anniversary. I was cleaning the fireplace in the next room and overheard the whole thing. Entirely inadvertently, of course. He presented her with a sealskin coat. He’d hunted and skinned the seals himself, to surprise her. She sobbed and ran from the room.
After that, things were different. She mostly stayed in her room. Judging from the salty taste of her pillowcases, she cried herself to sleep every night.
Yes. It pleased his lordship to have me wash the laundry as well.
Lord Ash reverted to his old self, only worse. He started drinking again. He resumed screaming when his breakfast was late. One morning he hit Pharaoh with a fireplace poker. Fortunately, while his lordship was out hunting, I was able to heal the poor thing.
Yes. I mended Pharaoh in the same manner that I mended your teacup. Of course he could breathe in there. Perhaps you’d like to give it a whirl? I can clean your coat while you’re inside me. It may be a tight squeeze in my pyloric canal, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. Simply insert yourself feet first into my—
No? Very well. After we heard the shot, Mrs. Moncrieff and I rushed upstairs. Naturally, for me, “rushed” is a relative term. We found her ladyship standing over the corpse of her husband, clutching the rifle in her hands.
/> She was in a terrible state. Evidently Lord Ash had beaten her—for the first time, I think—and she’d grabbed the rifle and shot him dead. Obviously self-defense.
Well, I suppose you’re right. It’s for a jury to decide.
The death penalty. I see.
How’s the search going? Still combing the volcano fields for her?
No, I don’t imagine there would be. Not if she committed suicide by throwing herself into a lava pool.
Very distraught, yes, when I last saw her.
Of course. Any other questions?
You’re welcome. I was planning on taking the three o’clock railgun to Ganymede Central, if that’s acceptable.
Yes. I’ve booked passage home on the Empress of Rigel. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen my mucus-kin.
My pleasure. Goodbye.
O.J. Cade became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “Longfin’s Daughters” in Strange Horizons (Jun. 2013), edited by Brit Mandelo, Julia Rios, and An Owomoyela.
Visit her online at twitter.com/OJCade.
* * *
Short Story: “Longfin’s Daughters” ••••
Short Story: “The Mythology of Salt” ••••
LONGFIN’S DAUGHTERS
by O.J. Cade
First published in Strange Horizons (Jun. 2013), edited by Brit Mandelo, Julia Rios, and An Owomoyela
• • • •
THREE SISTERS lived next to an eel pond.
The oldest sister fed the eels each morning, just before dawn. She fed them chicken pieces and crooned, felt them wind long bodies about her legs, bare skin against scales, skirts tucked high about her waist.
(The oldest had always been a nature girl, filling the house with ice-cream containers stuffed with sea urchins and starfish, stick insects and caterpillars from the gum tree outside her bedroom.)
The middle sister baked bread fresh every day, and tore it into pieces with her own teeth. She scattered it about the pond on summer afternoons and floated with her hair unbound, and the eels, fat from chicken and the torpor of heat, sifted lazily through the strands for crumbs.