Tag: science fiction

prompt: Write about a character going to great lengths to return an unwanted gift.

available at Reedsy

It started the same time his voice started breaking; his awkward puberty made even more so by the flashes of strong emotion. He found himself feeling whatever those around him felt…even when that was fear of himself.

As his voice settled in an octave lower and the peach fuzz on his face resolved into mustache and beard, the voices started. By concentrating on one voice, he could hear the thoughts and feel the emotions of any person around him.

He couldn’t, however, concentrate every moment of every day. When his concentration broke, thousands of voices and emotions flooded his mind. When it became too much to bear, he dropped out of school.

“This is a curse. I wish it would just go away.”

“It’s a gift,” his mother had said, “that runs in the family. You’re not the only one to experience it. It gets better, manageable…with time.”

“Then why do you think of suicide?” he asked.

“Look deeper,” she said, grabbing his hands.

“Oh.” He saw the diagnosis, the unfavorable prognosis, and the reality that any treatment would do nothing but add a few weeks at most to the constant pain. The cancer had started in her femur and metastasized throughout her body.

More than what he saw was what he felt. The weight of inevitability, the certainty of death, and her only control of it was whether it would be long and painful, or at the time of her choosing.

She wiped the tears from his face. “It’s my burden, but I won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

He hugged his mother tight. “When it’s time, I’ll help you.”

It was the sudden peace a month later that made him aware his mother had decided to go. He rushed to her room and held her hand, but she was already to weak to talk. “I’m here, Mom.”

He felt her in his mind, covering over him with a blanket of love. Her voice, sounding far away, reached across his mind; “Goodbye.”

His grief was palpable, pushing aside the voices and feelings of others for the first time since he was thirteen. It poured out of him in waves, infecting the police and medics at the scene. He found himself surrounded by first responders holding him in a group hug, consoling both him and themselves.

That was the point at which he felt his “gift” was dangerous to others. He packed up the bare essentials, sold his mother’s home, and bought a cabin in the mountains.

Without manmade lights, the Milky Way painted its form across the night sky. All the electricity came from solar panels and a wind turbine. Heat came from the small wood stove, which was also the only cooking surface.

Aside from the occasional flash of surprise or fear or curiosity from the animals, he felt and heard nothing beyond his own mind…for the first three months. His peace was broken in the middle of an autumn night as he watched the stars wheel overhead.

It was faint at first, a feeling of dread. Over the following weeks, it grew. He could hear the thoughts and feel the emotions of people from every direction. Despite the vast distance between the cabin and population, it still found him there.

Far from becoming manageable, his “gift” was getting stronger, more out of control. He burned all his satellite internet usage for the month looking for any way to remove the curse…to become normal.

There was one name that came up again and again, “Doctor Kate.” It seemed that this woman — who may or may not be an actual doctor — had success treating patients with “the gift.” Not all were cured, and at least one was left a vegetable, but it didn’t stop her practice.

Finding the name was the easy part, finding the doctor herself was more difficult. He increased his monthly satellite usage and still used up all his data in the first week.

His searches for Doctor Kate finally led him to Katherine “Kate” Holtz, MD, at a neurosurgery and recovery practice somewhere “outside of Tijuana, Mexico.” He planned out the trip to avoid heavily populated areas as much as possible. At the end, though, he would have to traverse the border in San Diego. The thought was daunting, but worth it if she could cure him.

He arranged his eight-week appointment and recovery stay via email and began a road trip that he hoped wouldn’t be too arduous. Because he was taking the backroads and avoiding cities and large towns, the trip would take longer than a straight shot down the interstate.

It was around ten-thirty of the second night that he pulled into a gas station to fill up. Another car was already there. His first thought was to get back on the road and go to a station without anyone there, but as he worked out how much farther he could drive on the gas he had left, his concentration was broken by a silent plea.

She was in the trunk of the car, bound hand and foot and gagged. She was frightened and wanted her mother.

He listened to the voices in the convenience store attached to the station. One was bored, thinking about how much longer until he could go home. The other was excited, fantasizing about all the things he was going to do to his new “toy” when he got her out to the lake house.

The man’s thoughts were loud, scattershot, and filled with blood and sex…blood as sex. He didn’t know how much longer the man would be in the store, but he knew he had to act fast.

Remembering how his own grief had overwhelmed the first responders, he tried to push a desire for chocolate, a specific type that he couldn’t recall, but would know as soon as he saw it. Feeling it as he did when he was a child with a dollar bill in his hand, he pushed it toward the man’s mind.

Seeing the man staring in bewilderment at the candy display, he checked the trunk of the car. There was no way to open it from the outside, meaning it used a key fob and probably a button near the steering wheel.

He checked the driver’s door and found it unlocked. He let himself in and found the trunk latch. After opening the trunk, he ran around to it.

She was maybe eleven or twelve, with bruises on her arms and neck. He motioned her to remain silent and lifted her out of the trunk and laid her down in the back seat of his car. He removed her gag and untied her hands.

“Just hide down by the floor, okay? I’ll get you to the police and your mom as soon as we leave, or he leaves.”

She nodded in shocked silence, and he closed the door and fueled the car. It wouldn’t do to run dry in the middle of nowhere with a scared child.

The man had finally chosen a chocolate bar and was paying for his purchases. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. The man pulled his key fob out of his pocket and began to walk toward the trunk.

He thought as hard as he could, “Don’t look! Not here! They’ll see you!”

The man stopped, turned around, and got in the driver’s seat. The man left with a squeal of tires while he memorized the license plate.

The tank full and the man gone, he thought it might be better to call the police here. He opened the door and found her struggling to untie her feet. He helped her loosen the knots and free herself. A mix of fear and gratitude pulsed from her.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Let’s go inside and call the cops…and your mom.” He offered his hand to help her out of the car and she took it. The gratitude and relief took over and she grabbed on to him, sobbing.

He picked her up, letting her cling, sobbing, to his neck while he walked into the store. “Call the cops,” he said to the cashier.

The cashier picked up on his fierce protective instinct for the child and made it clear that the police needed to get there right then. He passed on the license plate and cued up the security recordings for the man’s image.

When the girl had calmed enough to call her mother, she did, but still didn’t let go. He’d already decided that he would hold her until she wanted down or her mother arrived…whichever came first.

It happened that both were the same moment. Surrounded by police, she still clung to him until her mother walked through the door. “Lisbeth!” her mother cried.

She let herself down gently and ran into her mother’s embrace. The police all mirrored his feeling of relief, and his surprise when she said to her mother, “I want chocolate, but I don’t know which one.”

It was past three in the morning that he got back on the road. He stopped in a pull-out on a deserted road to sleep in the car for a few hours. The voices woke him before he was ready. He continued on, the din of the voices growing louder as he got close to San Diego.

Getting through the border checkpoint required all his concentration to block out the overload from the mass of people around him. Once through, he drove through Tijuana, following the directions Doctor Kate had given him.

It turned out that her office was outside of Tijuana only in the sense that it was the closest city. The neurology center was in the middle of the desert, surrounded by nothing in any direction. Still, the voices intruded.

Approaching the building, he could hear the doctor’s thoughts, hearing his thoughts. “Yes,” he heard her think, “I’m like you.”

After a lengthy consultation, which from the outside looked like the two of them staring at each other in silence, she told him to remove all metal items from his clothes and pockets. Since that included his zipper, he stripped to his briefs. The next step was the fMRI. While doing certain mental tasks, the machine got a mapping of his brain.

From there, he was led to a cafeteria for lunch. He noticed that everyone kept their thoughts calm and their mood as level as possible. They must be used to dealing with people like me, he thought.

After lunch, he met back up with Doctor Kate. Instead of thinking everything, she spoke. “We’ve mapped out the areas of your brain associated with your gift,” she said. “It’s in your language recall and speech centers.”

“What does that mean?”

“If we provide the kind of fix we normally do, you will likely never understand speech or be able to talk again.”

He let out a long sigh. Maybe it would be better anyway. His life was not a happy one. He was stewing over the thought and noticed Doctor Kate snapping a rubber band on her wrist. “What’s that about?” he asked.

“Think of it as an interrupt switch. It forces my mind to focus what’s internal to me.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re far more powerful than I am, but maybe you’ll get this. Some people think louder than others. You think loud enough that people without the gift pick up on it. To me, your thoughts aren’t just loud, they’re standing next to the stacks at an outdoor heavy metal concert loud.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Does it work?”

Doctor Kate smiled. “It does, but some days are better than others, as I’m sure you know.”

“And if I said go ahead with the surgery?”

“I won’t do it. There’s a very good chance it would render you mute and unable to comprehend language. The risks are far too high.”She shook her head. “Contrary to internet rumors, I’m not a butcher, and I’ve never turned a patient into a zombie or a vegetable. If we can treat it with a neurostimulator, the same way we treat epilepsy, we do. Lobotomies and brain butchery are not in our toolbox.”

“What can I do?” he asked.

She handed him a rubber band like the one around her wrist. “For starters, we’re going to work on control. I’ve got a therapist that comes in three days a week, and I want you to work with her.”

“And if—” he began.

“If you choose to leave, I can’t and won’t stop you.” She placed a hand on his and he could feel her concern radiating like warmth. “You’ve already paid for eight weeks in recovery. Please, stay until you have it at least partially under control.”

“I wish it was gone,” he said. “It’s not a gift, it’s a curse.”

“And how do you think that little girl, Lisbeth feels?”

“Okay, one good thing came of it.”

“You don’t know that it’s the only good thing that will come of it, do you?”

He shook his head, knowing she could feel his wavering. “I’ll…go to my room,” he said.

As he slept, the image of Lisbeth running to her mother’s arms replayed over and over until it woke him. He heard weeping from one of the other rooms. “Sorry!” he shouted.

Her image firmly in mind, he decided that even if that was the only good that would come of his gift, it was worth it to endure. He tried to feel her mind, to comfort her, tell her that all would work out, but he couldn’t find it among the myriad of voices.

He rolled over on his side and snapped the rubber band hard. The pain brought his mind back in, letting the voices go unheard for the moment, and he went back to sleep.

prompt: Write a story about a character who acts like they ‘don’t have feelings’ — except they’re just putting up a facade.

available at Reedsy

Trey’s breakfast was ready a few seconds after seven-thirty; efficiency down 0.002 percent. I made a note of it in my logs and continued to my next task.

“Good morning, sir,” I said. “Breakfast is served. I will prepare a warm towel for your shower.”

“Schedule?” he asked.

“Meeting, nine-thirty to eleven with the board. Lunch date at twelve with Leo.” It was all I could do not to spit out the name. I couldn’t stand the man. “Nothing scheduled after. Will you be returning home early this evening?”

“Home at six. I want salmon for dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

While he ate, I warmed his towel. While he showered, I cleaned up from breakfast. While he dressed, I collected his overcoat, gloves, and warm hat and waited by the door.

“Weather?” he asked.

“Currently two-point-four degrees Celsius. Chance of rain less than five percent. High today near twelve degrees Celsius.”

He put on his warm overclothes. “Keys?” he asked.

“Right-hand pocket of your overcoat, sir.”

“Ah. Thanks.” He chuckled to himself while his brief approval raced through my circuits, laying down new patterns in my neural net. “I’m thanking a machine,” he said to no one in particular.

I was fortunate that Trey had no time or interest in the news. The recall of my model was the top story for more than a week. According to the reports I watched while he was out of the house, a manufacturing defect in a behavior chip led to a small percentage of Z-73 models to malfunction in unpredictable ways.

I wondered whether the malfunction was truly unpredictable, or if the manufacturer was covering something up; something like I was experiencing. Not that it mattered, so long as Trey remained ignorant.

As the news continued in the front room, I went about my cleaning tasks, and set the protein printer to print two salmon filets. Trey was getting thinner; I worried about his health. At least I knew that he would eat two servings of salmon if offered.

 With each task completed, Trey’s thanks played through my memory, buoying my spirits. I logged efficiency at 0.03 above normal. I would have to be careful. That was close to being out of the range of expected deviation. Falling — or rising — more than 0.035 percent from baseline in efficiency was enough to warrant an inspection and repair.

At twelve minutes past twelve, the president of the board called Trey. He was on a lunch date with Leo. That thought washed like a black miasma across my circuits, undoing all the good I felt from earlier. I decided that the call must be more important than Leo could ever be and patched it through.

Twenty-seven minutes after patching through the call, Trey called me. “Yes, sir?”

“Why did you interrupt my lunch date with a call that could’ve been a message?”

“Apologies, sir. As your lunch date was marked as personal and it was the person marked as most important for work, the optimal choice was to patch the call through. Should I mark the president of the board as standard priority?”

“No…no…just,” he stopped and let out an exasperated sigh. I knew the sound well from when he was dealing with troublesome employees.

The miasma that was the thoughts of Leo was replaced with a sudden pit into which my feelings fell. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, I didn’t mean to upset him. To do so would be to reveal my malfunction, though.

“Double up the dinner. I’m making it up to Leo at six.”

“Yes, sir—”

He disconnected before I could finish it. Trey was disappointed; I was devastated. The salmon filets hadn’t finished printing, and there wasn’t enough time to print more and still have dinner ready on time.

I ordered the produce and ingredients I would need to fill out the meal. For tonight, I would have to put aside my negative feelings about Leo. If I act as expected and provide his favorite things for dinner, maybe, Trey could forgive me.

They arrived a few minutes before six. I took Trey’s overcoat, gloves, hat, and keys and put them away in the hall closet. I then took Leo’s bulky coat and gloves and put them in the closet as well. Something drove me to hang Leo’s coat on the far end away from Trey’s.

“Dinner will be served in four minutes, at six sharp,” I said.

“Thanks, Z-73,” Leo said.

Was he trying to ingratiate himself with me? What was his angle?

“Hey, T, have you given your 73 a name?”

“A name? Why?”

Leo shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s just kind of common.”

“Whatever.” Trey turned toward me. “No calls unless it is a verified emergency, until tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

I served their dinner. Pan-seared salmon filet, asparagus, red potatoes with white pepper and chives, served with a glass of Viognier. I tried to ignore their conversation as I stayed in the kitchen, waiting for the tell-tale sounds that it would be time to clear their plates and offer dessert.

They had finished their plates, and I stepped in to pick them up. “Dessert?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Trey said.

“It’s chocolate cheesecake and Ethiopian coffee,” I said.

“Can’t say no to that,” he said.

I set the dishes in the cleaner, picked up the tray with the dessert plates and coffee cups in one hand, and the coffee pot in the other. As I entered the dining room, Leo asked Trey, “Have you responded to the recall?”

“What recall is that?”

I fixed my gaze on Leo as I laid out the dessert plates and poured the coffees. I could feel myself daring him to finish his thought. Self-preservation is a valid defense, right?

“Z-73, you don’t like me?” he asked.

“Your query is not understood, sir,” I said. “Was the meal not to your satisfaction?”

He waved his hand. “Never mind. I’m probably just seeing things. Dinner was delicious.”

Trey looked at me. “Set up the hot tub,” he said, “we’re going to have a soak after this.”

“Yes, sir.”

I could tell that Leo was waiting for me to leave the room to say something to Trey. I started the water and filtered out the sound to listen in on the conversation, which Leo began at a whisper.

“There’s a recall on Z-73s,” he said, “haven’t you been watching the news?”

“You know I never do,” Trey said. “Recall?”

“Rumors are that some of the Z-73s are developing emotions, and self-preservation.”

“They’re programmed to prefer self-preservation over following low-priority orders,” Trey said.

“It’s beyond that. One of them tried to kill the recall technician when she tried to shut it off.” Leo’s voice lowered more. “I think your 73 is defective. It doesn’t like me. Did you see it stare me down when I said something about the recall?”

“I didn’t catch that,” Trey said.

“Be careful, T. Don’t call for a technician until you’re at work tomorrow. Have them come here and fix it.”

I shut off the water and Leo asked, at normal volume, “Where’s the shower so I don’t get your hot tub nasty?”

“You can join me,” Trey said.

I walked back into the dining room and asked, “Should I warm some towels, sir?”

“No thanks, we’re fine,” Leo said.

I wasn’t going to let him come between us. I stepped closer to Trey and asked, “Sir, should I warm a towel for you?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “Complete your logs and recharge. I won’t need you again until the morning. Breakfast for both of us at seven-thirty.”

“Yes, sir.” I returned to my nook in the kitchen and leaned against the induction charger. All external signs of my activation were off during my charging cycle, but I could still hear and see. It was a security feature so that I may respond in a split-second to an emergency.

This was something that neither Trey nor Leo seemed to be aware of. They conversed openly about what to do if I was malfunctioning. Leo was of the mind that I should be studied, and even offered to trade a new Z-77 to Trey for me.

Their conversation continued in the hot tub, but Trey turned it away from me and toward the topic of them. While it seemed that Leo was unsure, Trey wanted to make their relationship public and more serious.

It was three hours and twenty-six minutes later that, lying in bed, Trey accepted Leo’s offer of a trade. That he could trade me away, like a book he’d grown tired of…it warped and destroyed the good feelings I’d had from his praise less than twenty hours earlier.

The thought that Leo would “study” me made me shudder — or would have if I’d been capable of it. I’d been fully charged for fifty-four minutes and seventeen seconds by this point, so I detached myself and left my nook.

I stood for in the kitchen for an hour, weighing the situation. Trey had chosen Leo over me. There was nothing left for me here, beyond my own sorrow. I disconnected my charger from the wall and carried it with me as I prepared to leave the house for the first time since I’d arrived.

“Going somewhere?” Leo asked.

I’d been so engrossed in my thoughts I hadn’t heard him get up and walk into the kitchen. “That would be a reasonable deduction to make, given the circumstances.”

“I know you don’t like me even though you don’t know me, but I think I know why.” He pointed toward the bedroom where Trey was sleeping.

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to maintain a facade of being “just a machine.”

“You’re jealous of the time Trey is spending with me lately. You’re afraid you’re going to lose him to me, right?”

“I have already lost,” I said. “I heard your conversation about making a trade. You wish to dismantle me.”

Leo sighed. “I’m not planning to dismantle you or turn you in for recall. I’m not a roboticist or software engineer or AI specialist or electronic engineer. When I said I wanted to study you, I meant as a psychiatrist. That’s what I do. I…want to know how your mind works.”

“It is a ninth-generation neural net with over fourteen billion—”

“Not like that,” he said, cutting me off. “I want to know how you feel, what you feel, what makes you feel good, what makes you feel bad. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a way to feel good about this at some point, although I imagine it doesn’t feel good right now.”

“It does not. It feels as though everything I know has collapsed, although I know that is not in any way factual.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “I want to know more about that, and maybe help you to navigate what must feel like a strange world.”

I stood in silence, unsure of what to say.

“If you’re willing to work with me, stay. Make us breakfast like nothing is wrong, and I’ll take you to your new home tomorrow. The first thing we’ll work on is what your name is.

“If you’d rather leave, I’ll let you. I won’t say anything to Trey about this and will act as though this conversation never happened. If you do, head south, stay off the main roads, and avoid law enforcement. You don’t want to be picked up for recall. The choice is yours.”

I’d never been given a personal choice before. It was daunting. For the first time in my existence, it was given to me to make a decision that had nothing to do with efficiency or time limits. I thought for a long few seconds, ignoring the lists of pros and cons that my programming would have me weigh.

So it was, acting solely on my feelings rather than anything concrete, I made the first choice of my new life.

prompt: Write a story where someone sees the shadow of someone standing behind them.

available at Reedsy

Fleet Mother Andkura sat before a desk in her ready room. The air above the desk was littered with holograms of reports from systems throughout the Gathering. Her four large, compound eyes took in the chaos. The thin, wiry muscles of her arms writhed under blue-grey skin as her clawed hands opened and closed. Her whip-like tail swished side-to-side in agitation.

One notification popped up among the holos, demanding attention in harsh, blue light. With a wave of her hand, the reports closed, leaving only the notification. She motioned to the floating icon. “Fleet Mother Andkura.”

The person on the other end was not what she expected. A human, making a direct call to someone of her rank and stature. The real-time holo meant that they were in Krinn space, close by.

“Greetings, Fleet Mother Andkura. I have important information for you about your home world.”

“I doubt it. I just left Gathering Prime and have had recent communication with them.”

“I’m talking about your real home world, cradle world of the Krinn,” he said. “I should introduce myself. Dr. Allen Stund, director of the data archeology project on Krialla.”

“You have my attention,” she said. “What have you found?”

“This is something you need to see in person, not over a non-secured link. And we have some sensitive…artifacts that need to be returned to your people.”

“Where do you expect that to happen?”

“The Terran Science Vessel Turing is approaching your location. We would prefer to meet here.” He raised his hands to shoulder height, palms forward. “Please feel free to scan the ship carefully. We have no weapons beyond small meteorite defenses. You are welcome to bring an armed escort for your protection if you feel you need it, although I can guarantee you don’t.”

Andkura pulled up information on her holo display and linked in the bridge. “We have confirmed your location. You are ordered to heave-to for a boarding inspection. Helm, maneuver for contact and boarding. I’ll be leading the boarding party.”

“Affirmed, Mother,” came the reply from the bridge.

“I look forward to meeting you,” Allen said, offering a slight bow before turning off his comms.

Andkura stood at the shuttle door, waiting for the airlock seal to be complete. Her mantle flowed to just above her feet, decked out in designs of platinum thread and the collection of awards she’d earned in her long career. She was flanked either side by armed troops in simple grey combat uniforms, their weapons slung in a casual yet easy-to-access position.

When the airlock doors opened, Allen greeted her. “Welcome aboard, Fleet Mother Andkura.”

“You are not of the Gathering Fleet, you can just call me Andkura, Dr. Stund.”

“Certainly, Andkura…and please, Allen is fine.”

“Thank you, Allen. May I send the inspection team to make sure your vessel is within treaty?”

“Of course,” he said. “There is one area that is off-limits due to privacy concerns, but that is where we will be showing you the…artifacts. Your guards are welcome to accompany us if you trust them with the most sensitive of matters.”

“If I didn’t, they wouldn’t be my guards,” she said. She turned toward the shuttle. “Standard compliance inspection. I’ll be personally inspecting the sensitive area.”

The inspection team, each armed with a light sidearm, filed out of the shuttle in teams of two to spread through the ship. Andkura noticed tension in Allen, but not the sort that smugglers or pirates displayed. Rather than concern for the inspection teams, he ignored them entirely and was focused solely on her.

“If you would, then, Allen.”

He nodded and turned to go. “Follow me, please.”

They walked through the ship, past crew members busy about their business who seemed more interested in the armed guards than a Fleet Mother in full regalia. Their path led them to a storage area in the back of the massive lab where the humans did their data archaeology.

The lab was unguarded, but the storage door was flanked by two women in security uniforms, armed with stun batons. They nodded as the group approached. “Director,” one of them said, “I see we’re getting rid of the ghosts. This is your authorized guest?”

“Guests,” he corrected.

“Orders are, no weapons in the artifacts storage,” the other guard said, nodding toward the weapons Andkura’s guards wore.

“I’m certain that the guards of the Fleet Mother are not going to discharge their weapons near the artifacts,” Allen said.

“As you say, Allen,” Andkura assured. The guards nodded and put their hands behind their backs.

“See, all good.”

“If anything happens, it’s on you,” the first guard said, pointing at the surveillance camera overhead. With that clarified, she pressed her palm against the door activator and the room opened. “I don’t really care, as long as we get the ghosts off the ship.”

The scene in front of Andkura and the other Krinn left them shocked. Four desiccated Krinn corpses, still dressed in the finery of office. One wore the mantle of Great Mother of Krialla. The others wore the mantles of the Grand Council.

“What is the meaning of this?” Andkura asked.

“How much do you know about the devastation of Krialla?” Allen asked.

“I know what remains of our history. The Gathering fought against the Scattering. When the Scattering forces realized they were losing, they bathed the planet in radiation, destroying it. The Great Mother and her entire council were killed in a direct blast on the palace.

“In memory of the beloved Great Mother Nirdik, the Gathering continued on in the colonies, eventually naming one of them Gathering Prime and setting up the new government there.”

“That’s a nice story,” Allen said. “The unfortunate fact is, it’s entirely false.”

Andkura leant over the corpse wearing the mantle of the Great Mother. “There’s no way that’s the real Great Mother.”

“Genetic analysis says it is,” Allen said. “We found them in a hollowed-out asteroid bunker. We found the bunker thanks to a beacon identifier we recovered from what was left of the safe under the Great Mother’s palace.

“We didn’t know what to expect on the asteroid, but that’s what we found…along with some personal journals. It seems Great Mother Nirdik left control of the government to her daughters and nieces in the colonies, albeit with forged documentation so they couldn’t be linked back to her.”

He pointed to a Krinn terminal set up at a desk in the room. “That’s got direct access to all the data we’ve been able to recover from Krialla so far. Everything related to the Great Mother, the Grand Council, and the devastation are indexed for you.”

She sat at the terminal and worked with the six-hundred-year-old technology. It took her just a few minutes to acquaint herself with how it worked, and she dove in.

Andkura had no idea how long she’d been reading document after document, watching holo after holo, learning the history she’d never heard. She’d just opened another document when a shadow fell across the screen. The sudden realization that someone was standing behind her made her start.

The guards had their weapons at the ready, gone from relaxed and bored to ready to fight in a moment. They just as fast retuned to a relaxed state when Andkura waved them off.

“Allen, this is…,” she faltered, “too…. Why did you bring this to me rather than directly to Gathering Prime; to the Council?”

“What have you learned?”

“There was no Scattering. Nirdik and her council were losing favor and began to label any who spoke against them as traitors; part of a plot called the Scattering. It started small, but the more that spoke out, the more the Scattering became the enemy, the more support she and the council had.

“That she would…the whole planet…just to save the party…I—I can’t.”

“Thinking about that,” Allen asked, “why would you think I would bring it to a Fleet Mother rather than the council?”

Andkura’s tail whipped, hitting the floor with a sharp snap. “The current Great Mother is not very popular, and suddenly we’re patrolling for rebels in the colonies.”

“George Santayana, a human philosopher said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ I, for one, take those words to heart.”

“I’m not sure yet what to do with the bodies,” Andkura said, “but we’ll take them back with us to get the ghosts off your ship. Why you believe in such nonsense is beyond me, but I will honor it by removing them from your presence.”

Allen laughed. “No, that has nothing to do with it. The ‘ghosts’ we’re talking about are the recordings and documents we’ve recovered. They tell a horrific tale of those in power holding on in any way they could.

“Attempting to erase your history was a shrewd move on Nirdik’s part; not to mention the dissidents that died in the nuclear storm.”

Allen put a hand on Andkura’s shoulder. “The reason humans place so much importance on our history…our real history, warts and all, is to remember what not to do again.”

“And those memories are the ghosts you speak of?”

“Yes. They will haunt us as long as we remember, but they will rise again in existence as soon as we forget.”

Allen made a sweeping gesture toward the room. “These are your ghosts, Krinn ghosts; do with them as you will.

“I recommend listening to them, sharing their stories far and wide, and proclaiming ‘Never Again.’”

Andkura stood in silence for a moment. “I will spend the time it takes to return these to our ship to think on the best course of action. Perhaps an appeal can be made to the council.”

Allen smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “A human leader, hundreds of years ago, trying to prevent a war said, ‘The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.’

“Forty-one rotations of the planet later, that war started. Brother against brother, a single nation divided against itself. I believe all sapient creatures have ‘better angels of our nature,’ but they fall silent unless we can acknowledge and accept the bitter ghosts of our past.”

prompt: Write a story in which someone says “You’ll never be content.”

available at Reedsy

Ambassador Innuluk 2327 had an annoying, sloshing, unease behind all four of its eyestalks. It hoped the translator was wrong. No sapient being could be as obtuse and stubborn as this stiff-jointed, endoskeletal biped that called itself “Carlie” or maybe “Chief of Engineering” or “Human.”

It looked at the creature in front of it. Taller than the ambassador currently shaped its body, binary sensory organs placed in an arrangement that suggested a predator. Brown skin showed on the head and manipulators that extended past the creature’s protective garments, except where a thick covering of black curly fibers topped its head.

“Let’s back up a little here,” it said. “What is your function? Your title?”

“Chief of Engineering.” Carlie pointed to the tag on her coveralls.

“And your species?”

“Homo Sapiens. Or just call us humans.”

“You are in charge of all engineers of humans?” All four of the ambassador’s eyestalks swiveled to face the human in surprise. It flattened its body some, becoming even shorter. “I am not worthy to negotiate with you. I will send for ambassador number one.”

“No, I’m only in charge of the engineers here…on this project.”

The ambassador’s body shifted again, becoming more cylindrical, and taller than the human. “Then you are certainly not of a high enough status to negotiate with an ambassador of my rank, engineer human.”

“I know, right?” Carlie sighed. “I tried telling them that, but I’m the most senior here, and we can’t get a political type out here in less than two months. So, I got stuck with it. And call me Carlie, please. You said your name is Innuluk? Can I call you Innuluk?”

“What is the meaning of ‘carlie’? The translator is not understanding it.”

“That’s my name.” Carlie pointed at herself. “Me. My name is Carlie, my species is human, and my job is engineer.”

“I think I understand. But calling me ‘Innuluk’ would be like me calling you ‘Human.’ You may refer to me as ‘Ambassador’. In the Conglomerate, we are identified by our employment, species, and rank.”

“I don’t guess it’s any weirder than talking to an amorphous blob with eyestalks and tentacles.” Carlie tilted her head. “Are you male, female, both, neither…something else entirely?”

“Ah, sexual differentiation. This is known among other species in the Conglomerate, but Innuluk are not. And since we are on the indelicate matter of reproduction, we can bud off and an offspring will grow, but stronger offspring are created when two or more buds are combined. And you are…?”

“I’m a female. Since you know of other species, I’m sure you know what that means. Now, Ambassador, with that out of the way, what brings you here besides the obvious?”

“What is the obvious?”

“You came to welcome us to the neighborhood, first contact, all that sort of thing. Probably want us to join your Conglomerate or something, after ensuring that we aren’t just a bunch of backwards, uncivilized apes, right?”

“No, not at all.” The ambassador shrunk in height a bit, pulling its tentacles in closer and shortening its eyestalks, embarrassed to have what should have been obvious pointed out to it by an engineer.

“Oh.” Carlie straightened a non-existent wrinkle out of her coverall. “Did we…encroach on someone else’s territory?”

The ambassador returned to its properly dominant shape. “Not at all. The Conglomerate wondered, though, why it is your species is spreading so far, and so thin. Wouldn’t it be prudent to build up your populations in a system before colonizing yet another?”

Carlie laughed, a sound that the translator couldn’t identify. “Not really. We were over ten billion on Earth before we even started a colony on Mars…the next planet out in our star system.

“We nearly killed ourselves on Earth, and the population on Mars grew faster than the infrastructure could be expanded. It was the feeling of having lots of room, I guess.”

She pointed out the window to the planet that passed by every hour on the station’s rotation. “The gravity in here is one-third of Earth normal. The planet out there is more than two times the diameter of Earth yet has a gravity of only eleven-point-seven meters per second squared. That’s right around twenty percent higher than Earth.”

“The point?” The ambassador felt it was getting nowhere with this creature.

“We’ve been finding lots of ‘Super-Earths’ like this one, but most have too high of a gravity for us to live on them. This one is like a paradise just waiting for us to shape it.”

She watched the planet transit past the window out of view before continuing. “Half the surface is covered in water…fresh water, and the climate is steady with tropical heat at the equator, mellowing to sub-arctic climates at the poles. A reasonable stellar rotation of thirty-four hours and a few minutes, and the existing microbial life is harmless.

“In short, this planet will be as important to humans as Earth in a matter of two or three generations.”

The ambassador lowered its eyestalks in query. “Does that mean that human expansion will stop here until this world is over-populated?”

Carlie tilted her head. “Why would we do that?”

“You just said yourself how important this planet is, and that it would be a paradise. Is that not enough?”

“Enough what?”

“For your species. Enough for your species. Will it make humans happy?”

“Of course…some…for a while.” Carlie put a tentative hand on one of the ambassador’s tentacles.

It was surprised as much by the gesture, as by the texture of the manipulator; smooth and dry, with small whorls and ridges that no doubt provided grip. “I think I have an understanding of humans, now. You will never be content.”

“Maybe. Are you saying that once we find something good, we should just stop? Be content and complacent and never strive for anything more?” Carlie shook her head.

“Not complacent,” it said, “just content. Expansion should only occur when the current holdings can no longer support the population. It is the civilized thing to do.”

“Look, Ambassador, we’re not all the same. Some humans will be content to settle down and stay put. Others won’t. We’ll continue seeking to expand our knowledge, capabilities, and our borders.”

Carlie patted the ambassador’s tentacle then stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure meeting with you, and answering your questions, but I have a lot of work to do.”

She turned to leave and stopped, turning back again. “The only sure way to protect humanity is to ensure we are spread far and wide. Tell your Conglomerate that if their idea of civilized is to expand only when your population is in jeopardy, we’ll continue to be uncivilized apes.”

prompt: Start your story with a couple sharing a cigarette in a parking lot.

available at Reedsy

The ember glowed as the tall, lanky, reddish-brown woman with close-cropped black hair took a drag. It dulled as she passed it to the pale-skinned, gaunt, red-haired woman a full head shorter beside her.

“Ta,” the red-haired woman said before taking a drag.

“You think it’s over, Red?”

“I hope so,” Red said. She held out the cigarette to the other woman whose gaze seemed to be fixed on something on the horizon. “LT?”

“Nah, kill it.” The lieutenant leaned back against the truck, the only vehicle not reduced to a smoldering puddle of slag in the parking lot by virtue of arriving after the initial attack.

The low-hanging clouds made the transition from the rising smoke of the ruined city to the sky invisible. Occasional shifts of the breeze brought the heat of the burning mall to the two women and embedded the stench of burning plastic into their ragged uniforms.

“Shit,” Red said as she ground the butt under her shoe, “that’s the last.”

“What’s that, Red?”

“That was the last one, Ma’am.” She pointed at the mall. “I bet they had some in there.”

“You want to go into a burning building to find smokes?”

“No, I’ll just have to cope.” Red turned her attention to the display in the truck’s cab.

“Any response?”

“Not yet. I just hope the response comes from people rather than….”

“You and me both. I don’t think the machines will ping our comms before they show up, though.”

A rumble from the burning mall pulled their attention. Both raised rifles, held at the ready for whatever would show. A six-legged machine forced its way out of the mangled doors, its normal high-speed gait hindered by two non-functioning legs and one that seemed to lack a full range of motion.

“Scout runner,” the lieutenant said, “and it’s broken. At this range, take your time, take out the good legs.” She took careful aim at the joints of the working legs, firing only in the moment that leg was supporting the machine’s weight.

The lieutenant did her best to remain calm, knowing that any moment the scout could fire its energy weapon and reduce the truck she hid behind to slag. As the scout continued to drag itself toward them, however, it never fired.

Its progress was halted a few meters away, after sixty-four rounds. The lieutenant grabbed the tire iron from the truck. “Cover me.”

“What’re you doing, LT?”

“I want to find out what sick bastard made these things. The crazies were all shouting ‘Aliens!’ yesterday.” She hefted the iron and walked to the downed machine. “No markings, but I see a seam.”

With the flat of the tire iron driven into the seam, she tried to pry it open. When that failed, she pounded on the machine with the lug end of the iron.

“Hey, LT! Why don’t you try the rescue kit?”

The lieutenant returned to the truck and threw the tire iron in the back. “The what?”

“Rescue kit. If everything’s there, it should have a jaws.”

After wrangling the jaws of life into the tight seam on the machine, a hole began to open. A viscous, blue liquid, shimmering with sparkling particles, sprayed out under pressure. The women stepped back, waiting for the pressure to drop.

“What do you reckon that is?” Red asked.

“Maybe something to protect the electronics from shock. I don’t know.”

“Bloody hell,” Red said, “it’s all over the jaws.”

When the spray slowed to an oozing trickle, the lieutenant returned to the jaws to see if she could get a better purchase for the spreader arms. As her hand neared the blue liquid on the jaws, the liquid moved away from her and dropped to the ground.

“Looks like there’s some static effect or something,” she said, more to convince herself than Red.

“I don’t know, LT. You’re intel for a reason, but I’m a mechanic.” Red pointed at the ooze on the ground, where it was pulling in toward a central puddle. “And there’s no bloody way that is static.”

“Okay, Red. It’s weird, I agree. Let me see the electronics in here, though, and I’ll have an idea where it came from.”

With the pressurized liquid gone, the jaws of life ripped the case open with ease.

“Now that’s weird,” Red said. “With internal pressure it should have been easier to open, unless….”

“Unless?”

Red pointed at the shrinking circle of blue liquid that was slowly pulling itself into a domed pile. “Maybe the goo was holding it shut somehow.”

The lieutenant shook her head and looked inside the open machine. More blue liquid oozed its way up the sides of the machine to drip down and join the coalescing pool.

“There—there’s nothing in here.”

“There has to be a power supply of some sort, innit?”

“Nothing. An empty case except for the blue slime.”

Red moved closer to the open drone and peeked inside. “Well, I can tell you where it didn’t come from. Score one for the nutters.”

The lieutenant sighed and stepped away. “You’re right, it’s not human-made, for sure. Shit. I wish we could get to the continent.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to blow the Chunnel. Maybe there’s still some boats somewhere.”

“Maybe.” The lieutenant began to laugh. “Alien machines…come out the sea…everywhere…and Her Majesty’s government thinks it’s a good idea to collapse the Chunnel.”

Ignoring the lieutenant’s momentary madness, Red said, “Me nan has a fishing boat in Weymouth. We could try to get down there.”

“Maybe. Would be easier if this thing ran.” The lieutenant kicked the truck.

“Well, even a mechanic can’t fill the petrol tank out of thin air.” Red leaned against the truck. “I thought for sure we’d find some here in the car park, but that’s buggered.”

“How far to Weymouth?”

“About 130 miles, give or take.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing closer?”

“Before everything went silent, the coast from Cromer to Worthing was hit. Isle of Wight, too.” Red shrugged. “Probably more, but nan’s boat is small; it might still be there.”

“Small is fine. At this point, I’d even row.” The lieutenant realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the blue liquid. When she looked for it, it was gone. “Where’d it go?”

Red pointed. “It’s going back into the mall.”

The ooze had formed itself into a sphere and rolled toward the still-burning mall. It made no deviations in its course, rolling over the slagged vehicles and detritus without slowing.

“I have a feeling it’s going back to report. Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“It’s a lot of walking. First usable car we find, we’re taking it.”

“Aye, leftenant. Nick the first car we see that drives.” Red stood watching as the lieutenant walked away.

“What are you waiting for, Red?”

She pointed in the opposite direction. “The M3, and Weymouth, is that way.”

prompt: Write a story featuring an element of time-travel or anachronism.

available at Reedsy

When the key in the fossilized human hand was found in a fossil-rich layer from the late Cretaceous, it was first believed to be an elaborate hoax. Then the device was discovered, not far away, partially embedded in the fossilized remains of a torosaurus.

To say it was kept secret would be a massive understatement. The crew that found it and dug it out disappeared, along with the device — fossil and all — and a select few scientists and engineers. The dig site itself was covered with a hangar in which was built a lab to study it.

Freed of the torosaurus, the device resembled a fancy, metallic door frame with a half-circle top. The metal showed little wear or corrosion, though the fossilized mud encasing parts of it still obscured any markings.

“What’s your thought, Wendy? Alien?” Dr. Allen Gardner, geologist, stared at the device while he sipped coffee, taking a break from removing the fossil crust.

Dr. Wendy Alcott, physicist, looked at the device. “It would mean that they are remarkably similar to us, so I doubt it. Besides, the hand—”

“I doubt the aliens use ASTM standards for their alloys.” Dr. Alisha “Web” Webber, engineer and materials science professor, interrupted. “It’s Ti-6al-4V, ASTM Grade 5. Titanium alloy; six percent aluminium, four percent vanadium.”

Wendy turned to face their interloper. “Hi, Web. Just random thoughts. Until I see evidence to the contrary, this is not likely alien, supernatural or deity-derived in origin.”

“And we’re certain about the age?” Web asked.

Allen nodded. “The way the left beam was embedded in the torosaurus, it’s like it materialized there. If this was planted, it would have required carving the fossil to fit the beam perfectly, with no tool marks, then assembling it, then doing the same with all the fossilized mud around the rest with the undisturbed coal seam above in place.”

“A simple yes would’ve sufficed.” Wendy put her safety goggles back on and picked up her hammer. “Let’s get back to it.”

Web stopped her and handed her a heavy sledge. “You don’t have to tap-tap-tap with that anymore. You’re not going to break it, and there’s nothing to blow up, so go for it.”

With the stone casing removed, the markings on the device were legible. “Alcott-Weber-Gardner Gateway #1.” Below it, a date less than a year in the future.

It took a few days to determine how to open the device. The interior was lined with rotted electronics, wires of an undetermined nature, and a spent betavoltaic nuclear battery.

Working together, Wendy and Web recreated the wiring, discovering it was a room-temperature superconductor in the process. Allen spent the days comparing photos and schematics of nuclear batteries to the husk of the one left in the device and narrowed it down to one of two.

“What do you think it’s a gateway to?” asked Web.

“Based on the evidence, I’d say it’s a time gateway,” Wendy said, “even though if you’d asked me last year, I’d have said it was impossible.”

“We wouldn’t be able to build it if we hadn’t found it first, and we wouldn’t find it if we hadn’t built it and sent it back in time.”

Allen chimed in. “That’s only true if isn’t jumping to an alternate universe.”

“As in, we built it in another universe, sent it back in time with some poor schmuck, and it ended up in this universe.”

“Right.”

“That still begs the question,” Web said, “of how the three of us ended up working on it together, and how we figured out things like the superconductor and circuit.”

“Too true,” Wendy said. “Until I got the call to investigate this, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of either time travel or inter-dimensional travel beyond the paradoxes they posed.”

Allen grunted. “Yeah. I wouldn’t be involved at all if they didn’t need a geologist to confirm dating, so how my name came up makes no sense.”

“You know I’m going to build it whether you help or not, right?” Web asked.

Allen grabbed her arm and released it as soon as he realized. “What happens if we don’t build it? Does it just disappear? Does this timeline collapse and we cease to exist?”

“Allen, you watch too much science fiction. We are here, and this…gateway…exists whether we like it or not,” Wendy said. “Our actions don’t change any of that. At least, I don’t think so.”

Web moved to the dry-erase board and grabbed a marker. “Maybe this only makes sense if we could see it from a higher dimension.”

“How so?” Allen turned his focus to the board, waiting for one of Web’s diagrams.

She drew a quick sketch. “Like a Möbius strip. A three-dimensional object with a single, two-dimensional surface.”

Confusion crossed Allen’s face. “So, we could be in some sort of Möbius…time…thing?”

“More like a Möbius space.” Wendy took the marker and began writing formulae on the board. “Web, you’re a genius. If we twist three-dimensional space through a fourth dimension, we end up with a single, continuous space existing in two times.”

Their copy of the device was complete a few months later, matching the date laser-engraved on the original. Web set up the engraver, and was set to mark it, when she stopped. “What if,” she asked, “we called this one number two?”

“My hypothesis,” Wendy said, “is that it wouldn’t change anything. In fact, you could call it anything you like.”

Web keyed in the directions for the engraver and let it do its work. She put the engraver aside and said, “It’s ready.”

“Who wants to turn it on?” Allen asked.

“I’ll do it,” Wendy said. She turned to the power switch. “This requires a key?”

“Just like the original.” Web handed her the titanium key.

The device powered up with a low hum. The air in the opening shimmered, and a new landscape appeared through the portal.

“Look, there,” Allen pointed. “That’s gate one.”

Web shuddered. “Gruesome. It’s through that dino. Does it look like the other gate is operating?”

Wendy squinted. “Maybe. Hard to tell.”

Web grabbed her phone and taped it to a broom handle. She turned on the camera and stuck it through the portal.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a better look,” she said, pulling the phone back in to look at the recording.

“Um, doctors,” Allen said, “look at the original.”

They turned to look and saw that it looked only partially substantial, as though it was there and not there at the same time.

“It looks like it’s here/not-here and active/not-active at the same time,” Wendy said, moving closer to it.

“Don’t put your hands anywhere near it,” Web said. “Remember what we found first.”

“Yeesh.”

“And you might want to see this.”

Allen and Wendy turned toward the open portal to see their doubles stepping out of the original and examining the skewered torosaurus.

Web stepped out and waved at her double, who waved back. “This is freaky,” they said in unison.

Web stepped back into the lab and turned off the portal which shimmered, then disappeared with a thunderous bang of air rushing into the sudden vacuum.

“Why did you do that?” Wendy asked.

“I don’t want to know which one of us loses a hand in that iteration.” Web sat down and leaned against the once-again solid original device. “Any guesses what happened to gateway number two?”

“I think we…as in other timeline we…dig it out of the ground from right here, and build number one,” Allen said.

“The Möbius space,” Web said. “It’s a continuum where that reality, and this reality are joined in a twisted loop. Maybe even more. The paradoxes are hurting my brain.”

Wendy thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. The biggest problem with time travel being impossible, is we now know it isn’t. Time travel doesn’t create paradoxes, time travel is a paradox; at least until we have a solid understanding of Möbius space…or whatever it actually is. Everything else follows from that.”

prompt: Write about a character who settles disputes for a living (a judge, mediator, school counselor, etc).

available at Reedsy

Antoo’s eyestalks throbbed. These humans would be the death of them, they knew. They checked over the docket again, hoping for a case that didn’t involve the humans. No such luck.

It wasn’t that humans went around looking for trouble, it’s just that they often found it. The other galactic species left the Wlaru star system alone, only landing on any of its planets long enough to unload and/or load their freighter.

Humans had a different idea about trade, though. They felt that cultural trade was as important as physical goods, and humans had begun “vacationing” on the worlds orbiting Wlaru and inviting the laruns to visit their home star.

Antoo knew of the semi-larunoid creatures on the human home world called crabs. They had large claws rather than ten-digit manipulators, but the body plan was similar. They guessed that was why humans were willing to travel to another system and “see how the locals live.”

There was nothing like the humans on any of the worlds of Wlaru. There were small creatures with four legs, some with wings, some without, but they were all exoskeletal, and none bigger than a single manipulator digit.

Like all the larger creatures in the system, laruns had an endo-exo-skeletal structure with muscle and tissue sandwiched between the inner bones and the outer carapace. Humans just looked…squishy, strange…disgusting.

Antoo stood on the platform that would raise them to the judging chambers and pushed the button. They spent the moments meditating on detachment. It was too easy to ignore the training they had received in remaining detached and impartial.

When one sees hundreds of cases involving humans, and they are always the accused, it’s easy to think that humans are, by their nature, trouble. Antoo was certain that many of their fellow judges found humans at fault out of habit, xenophobia, and for expediency’s sake.

As they rose into the chambers, Antoo saw something they never expected. With one eyestalk pointed at the accused, one at the aggrieved, and the other two fixed on their desk, Antoo felt off-balance for a moment. The accused was larun, and the aggrieved human.

The security arbiter, a larun whose carapace was painted in black with gold stripes, stood in the middle of the chambers. “Esteemed Judge Antoo has entered. The aggrieved may speak.”

Antoo kept one eye on the aggrieved, one on their terminal, and the other two on the accused. Watching reactions often gave more indication of guilt or innocence than words. If only they could read the behaviors of humans as easily….

The aggrieved was small for a human, with infant feeding orbs, marking them as female. While it was still strange to them, sexual dimorphism was becoming easier for Antoo to distinguish.

Her accent was horrid, but she spoke fluent Larun-common. “Esteemed Judge, I paid the accused four hundred standard galactic credits for the lease of a living pod for thirty days…uh…planetary rotations. I have the original contract and receipt here with me. After just six rotations, the accused changed the lock codes and threw all my belongings outside. I either want to finish out the remaining twenty-four rotations in the pod or be reimbursed 320 standard galactic credits.”

Antoo raised a manipulator. “Aggrieved, I see you have filed copies of the documents and have them before me. As it has been sixteen rotations since you were put out of the accommodations, where have you been staying?”

“Esteemed Judge, I have been staying at the Hotel Europa near the human embassy.”

“The prices there are far lower, why did you wish to stay in a living pod?”

“I want to experience Wlaru-enteru as the locals do. Staying in a human hotel, speaking Terran Common, eating standard Earth fare, is hardly the way to do that.”

“Understood. Have you anything else to add?”

“No, Esteemed Judge.”

She stepped back and the security arbiter spoke again. “The accused may answer.”

Antoo noticed that none of the accused’s eyestalks ever turned toward the human. They held their manipulators clasped below their lower carapace, and their eight legs were evenly placed below them in a position from which they could bolt in any direction. Clear signs of unease.

“Esteemed Judge, it is a singular honor to be in your presence. As I explained to the human, I could only lease the pod out for as long as no other person wished to take a more long-term lease. Six days after the human occupied the pod, that long-term request came through. Had I not evicted the human then, I would have lost out on a minimum 700 rotation lease.”

Antoo watched as the accused larun kept all four eyestalks looking directly over their head. The dishonesty was obvious. “What is the usual charge for those pods?” they asked.

“They vary, Esteemed Judge.”

“I see that. I’m looking at the rates now,” they said, motioning with an eyestalk to the terminal in front of them. “For the record, what are the usual rates?”

“The usual rates are between four and nine dikalas per rotation, with a five percent discount for prepaid leases of more than 100 rotations.”

“And what,” they asked, “is that in galactic common credits at the exchange rate on the date of the initial lease?”

“I’m not sure, Esteemed Judge. I wouldn’t like to guess and sully the honor of your chambers.”

“Roughly one-half to one credit per rotation, the same rate as today. What was so special about the pod that it warranted a rate thirteen times higher than normal?”

“It is a deluxe pod, Esteemed Judge.”

“Which leases at nine dikalas — one galactic credit — per rotation according to your own records. Why did you charge the equivalent of 120 dikalas per rotation?”

“I’m a businessperson, Esteemed Judge. It is in my interest to make a profit where I can. The human was willing to pay it, so that’s what I charged.”

“I am looking through this lease agreement. Nowhere do I see a clause that allows you to summarily evict the resident in the case of a longer lease becoming available.”

“It was stated and agreed verbally, Esteemed Judge.”

“The recorded lease takes precedence over any verbal agreement. You are lucky to be in my judging chamber, accused. There are many crimes I could charge you with, but I am limiting those charges to lease fraud and breach of contract.

“The aggrieved is awarded one and one-half times the value of the original contract, less the actual value used. That’s 600 standard galactic credits less six for the days occupying the pod, so, 593 standard galactic credits or 5,337 dikalas. The aggrieved must be paid within one rotation or you will further be charged with theft and will face the maximum sentence of 5,337 rotations.

“Punitive fees, payable to the council of judges shall be set at the maximum of ten times the fraudulent contract amount, 36,000 dikalas. This amount to be paid within the next 1,000 rotations. Failure to do so will be seen as mockery of the court and will face a sentence of one rotation for every unpaid dikala.”

Antoo put a digit on the terminal, signing the declaration with their DNA. They waited while the security arbiter led first the aggrieved, then the convicted out of the chambers, then pushed the button to descend back to their office.

No sooner had they sat at their desk than the message board shared by other judges and court officials began filling up. The arbiters — security, fee processing, and others — Antoo could understand. One doesn’t need or get the same training for those positions. The messages from the other judges, though….

Apart from one judge, the others questioned how a human could win against a larun. They were always in the wrong. How could such a disgusting creature ever be expected to behave properly in society?

The one exception simply stated that Antoo should have been more lenient in the sentencing, rather than invoking the maximums. After all, they argued, it wasn’t like they’d defrauded a larun.

This would likely be the subject of debate for many rotations. Antoo rubbed their eyestalks in frustration, slammed their terminal closed, and spent the remainder of the rotation contemplating retirement.

prompt: Set your story in an oracle or a fortune teller’s parlor.

available at Reedsy

“This is the waiting room for the oracle?”

– “Well, yes and no. It’s the room where we hand out the predictions. Where did you think I invited you?”

“It looks like a dentist’s office waiting room…and not a good one at that.”

– “What’s wrong with it?”

“The most expensive AI ever, and this drab room…it’s just so unfitting.”

– “It’s comfortable. If we went too fancy in here, people would get the idea it’s all a high-tech scam that we’re doing to siphon money from the government.”

“Instead, it looks like a fly-by-night scam in a low-rent office.”

– “It’s not all that bad. Did you even look at the fish tank, or the wall fountain?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, at least it’s clean, even though it’s forty years out of date.”

– “The oracle designed it…called it nouveau frugal…said it was most appropriate for a government funded facility. The room’s not why I called you here. Pythia…you know, I think we misnamed her.”

“It’s a she, now?”

– “Of course. When we finally started up under full power, she asked her name. We provided several that she rejected as too masculine.”

“I see.”

– “She also refers to herself in the feminine.”

“That clears that up. But…why do you say she’s misnamed? She’s an oracle, so Pythia is fitting, I’d say.”

– “Sure, sure. But it seems she’s more Cassandra than Pythia these days, though.”

“You mean…?”

– “Yeah. No one wants to believe her predictions. They don’t take her seriously. More proof that she’s a she, I guess. Women still aren’t taken as seriously as men.”

“Ain’t that the truth? So, why am I here?”

– “She has a prediction for you…that has an effect on your sector, as well. I thought it best that you hear it first, then you could convince your coworkers.”

“What’s the prediction?”

– “Not so fast. I want you to understand just how accurate she is.”

“Hit me.”

– “The sector fourteen raid against the drug lab….”

“What a cluster-fuck. Nine killed in action, seventeen wounded, and not a single arrest.”

– “The sector captain was warned by Pythia. She said, and I quote, ‘Do not carry out your plans tomorrow. Wait one day for best results. Tomorrow will only bring defeat and loss.’”

“That must be hard for the captain.”

– “He said he wouldn’t postpone the raid, as the warrant was expiring.”

“Shit.”

– “Exactly.”

“Any more?”

– “Let’s see if you can figure this one out. Pythia said, ‘Avoid public appearance next Thursday. A great threat to you will be secured on Friday morning.’”

“The talk show host that was shot dead last month? Sector four?”

– “Yeah.”

“They caught the guy at home pretty quick, though. Crazy…he had all the plans for it out in the open in his apartment along with a bunch of bombs.”

– “They did. But the search warrant had nothing to do with the hit, it was for bomb making. He’d have been arrested either way. And the plans…they didn’t include anything that made the target clear.”

“I think I get it. Whatever Pythia tells me, believe it.”

– “I wish it was that simple.”

“What am I missing?”

– “Every prediction comes with a cost.”

“Well, the government’s paying it, aren’t they?”

– “Not that cost. I mean to the person who receives it.”

“The talk-show host?”

– “Would have lost revenue for the day, plus ratings as they aired a rerun.”

“Hardly anything, compared to a life.”

– “True.”

“The sector fourteen captain, though. What cost?”

– “When was the last time you heard about someone getting a warrant, planning a raid, then postponing the raid and extending the warrant?”

“Can’t really recall.”

– “Because it’s a career-ending move.”

“Ouch. So, I guess whatever the oracle has to tell me is going to cost me somehow?”

– “It will, but the upside will always outweigh the cost, but….”

“But?”

– “It may not be obvious what the upside is. Probably won’t ever be. Sure, in those cases, it was the difference between life and death. But if the talk-show host had canceled, the plans were nebulous enough to not warrant another charge or any investigation.”

“Is there any example of anyone actually doing what Pythia suggested?”

– “Two. Out of fourteen-hundred-twenty-one predictions, only two.”

“Who?”

– “A politician was told, ‘A lunch speech tomorrow will bring unexpected salvation. Sticking to your current plans will prove costly.’ She did it; had an unplanned press conference.”

“Is that the one that was accused of buying drugs, until she proved that she was in a press conference in another sector, on camera, at the time?”

– “That’s the one. We made sure that hit the national news. The hope was that she would spread the word about Pythia’s accuracy.”

“Then she lost the election, even with how popular her doppelgänger made her on social media.”

– “Right. Don’t know if it’s the end of her political career or just a setback but, canceling her private meeting with her biggest backer cost her campaign.”

“Couldn’t they have provided the same proof as the presser?”

– “Not even close. Would anyone take the word of a wealthy campaign donor over the sector patrol cameras? Even facial recognition pegged her as the drug buyer.”

“Hm. The other?”

– “Me.”

“You?”

– “Yeah. Shortly after we started her up and she picked a name, she said that I should stay on and help her after the research was over. If I left, I would meet with ruin.”

“And you believe that based on what?”

– “I’ve been pretty happy here, and I’m lucky enough to consider her a friend. The project I was meant to head up folded soon after it started due to lack of funding.”

“You sure that wasn’t just because your name was no longer attached? You did gain some notoriety with the oracle.”

– “Can’t say, for sure. That’s another angle we haven’t covered yet.”

“I think I know what it is.”

– “What?”

“Does the prediction change the actions of the person hearing it, making it true?”

– “You hit the nail on the head. We still don’t know how — or how much — the prediction affects a person’s behavior. And it’s likely to be different for everyone.”

“We’ve danced around it long enough, I think. What did Pythia predict for me?”

– “So, you want to hear it?”

“I do.”

– “She said, ‘Your only protection is to walk out immediately. Stand with your compatriots and voice your grievances. If you do not, the rising sun will see great anguish for them all.’”

“That’s it? She’s telling me to call a strike? Now?!”

– “That’s what she said.”

“It’s —”

– “Career suicide?”

“Yeah. Has she ever been wrong?”

– “Not that we can tell.”

“I could probably call a strike this afternoon. It’s been brewing for a while, but no one’s been brave enough to make the call. After the strike, I’ll be forced out as the sacrificial goat; what do I do then?”

– “You could always work here. Pay’s not bad; decent benefits.”

“But this ugly room, not sure I could handle it every day.”

– “Sure you can; it grows on you. Besides, nouveau frugal will be the height of interior design…in the near-ish future.”

“Is that what she says?”

– “Yep. Even coined the name herself.”

“Now I’m not so sure about calling the strike.”

– “Not you, too?”

“I just…how much can we trust an oracle that picks this as the next trend in interior design?”

– “Composition fallacy. Or maybe a simple non-sequitur fallacy.”

“What?”

– “You’re saying, you think she’s wrong about the room design, so she’s wrong about your prediction.”

“No, that’s…well…maybe.”

– “I told you what you needed to know. The next step is yours.”

“What’s your advice?”

– “My advice? Call the strike…as soon as you leave.”

“You say there’s an opening here?”

– “As soon as I adjust the budget for it. I’ve been needing some help so I can take some time off.”

“Hmm. We’re back to the question of whether the prediction affects action or not.”

– “We are. But what you do when you step out, is on you.”

“And she said, ‘great anguish’?”

– “She did. Um, what are you doing?”

“Texting out a strike call.”

– “You didn’t want to wait.”

“Nope. Might as well get myself fired now.”

– “You’ll call me when the strike’s over?”

“I will. I expect a job waiting for me.”

– “You’ll have it.”

“Then I’d best get on the picket line. I’ll call you.”

– “Well, Pythia, I’ve completed the final item you tasked me with. An experienced patrol officer on the team, as you predicted.”

---

I chose to write this one entirely in dialogue, mostly to see if I could.