Tag: science fiction

prompt: Start a story that begins with a character saying “Speak now.”

available at Reedsy

“Speak now.” The interviewer sat back in their seat, letting the camera run.

“It’s hard to describe. To paraphrase Dickens, it was the best time of my life, it was the shittiest time of my life. Maybe both and neither at the same time, like Shrödinger’s cat. I guess we can open the box now and see which way the waveform collapses.

“Not that I’d change anything. The lack of sleep, the shitty little room I could barely afford on my part-time wages, meals consisting of whatever I could scrounge from the kitchen at work. No one tells you how hard it is to live and pursue a doctorate at the same time.

“I might’ve been able to work more hours if I didn’t volunteer at the observatory to pay back the time I’d used up in gathering the data for my research. I mean, I didn’t have to, but it only felt right.”

The interviewer cocked their head to one side. “Perhaps it would be easier to start at the moment you became aware of the contact?” It waved a tentacle in a ‘carry on’ sort of gesture.

Ally brushed her straight, lank, not-quite-blonde hair back from a pink, sun-burned cheek. She stared at the camera with light brown eyes. “Yeah, I can do that.”

She took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I was on overnight duty at the radio observatory….”

#

Ally usually had plenty of time during her shift to work on her doctoral thesis. She was on her final revision; spelling and transcription errors solved, graphs and graphics finalized. It was down to making the language as smooth and readable as possible.

An alarm went off on the main dish. Not like the movies, with flashing lights and blaring klaxons, just a repeated chime like the dishwasher letting you know it was done.

She turned from her laptop to the terminal and turned off the chime. Scrolling back through the data, she found a spike in the 1420 MHz range. It continued for seventy-two seconds then stopped.

After checking the area of the sky the dish was observing, she picked up her phone and called her advisor.

“Very funny, Kelly. How much did it cost to rent a plane and fly a transmitter?”

“Huh?” Kelly’s voice was muffled, having been woken in the middle of the night. “Who is this? What is…Ally?”

“Yeah. You know I’ve been interested in the comet hypothesis on the Wow signal and tonight I just happen to get the same signal for the same seventy-two seconds?”

“What?” Kelly cleared her throat. “You know I wouldn’t prank the observatory.”

“Well, this looks an awful lot like the Wow signal. Same narrow band, same time, and…hold on.”

“What is it?”

“It’s starting again.” Ally checked for known air traffic, satellite overflights, any other possible cause. The signal stopped and she logged the time; thirty-six seconds.

“Well?”

“Sorry, Kelly. This one was thirty-six seconds, starting twelve minutes after the first…so 720 seconds…I’ve gotta go.”

“I’m on my way in.” Kelly hung up before Ally could respond.

Ally began to notify other radio telescopes around the globe, looking for verification. Within minutes, she had four others online that had seen the two bursts, one that had seen only the second, and three more coming online.

What she found most odd was that no two of the telescopes were pointed in the same direction. Whatever was making the signal, it seemed to be coming from the entire universe, in every direction at the same time.

As she had guessed, 720 seconds after the last pulse, another came in for eighteen seconds. She agreed with the others she was talking to online; this was not natural. That’s where agreement ended, though.

Ally wasn’t sure what she believed about it. Was it a simple “hello” or trying to encode some mathematical basis like we might do with simple counting or a Fibonacci sequence? Could it be a countdown? To what?

When the next signal came in 720 seconds later, every radio telescope she could reach was online and received the nine second burst. Kelly had entered just as it had started and took over coordination between the observatories.

Ally was glad for that, as it meant that Kelly could handle the call from the Department of Defense, and NORAD. The US wasn’t the only country to scramble their air defenses and air forces.

She imagined the hotlines between nations were burning up with chatter that amounted to, “It isn’t us, is it you?”

The 4.5 second burst was picked up by every radio telescope observatory and thousands of amateur astronomers with a 1420 MHz receiver. Ally found herself leaning toward the countdown version of the hypotheses, as, it seemed, did most of the non-professionals discussing it online as it happened.

Every major country had, by then, fighters in the air. Politicians were live on television trying to calm the populace and assure everyone they were not under attack, while at the same time putting their military on the highest level of alert.

The 2.25 second burst was live on every major network, while pundits gave their own theories on how dangerous or not the aliens would be. Ally heard her name several times on the television that Kelly had turned on. Nothing else they said caught her attention in the same way as the data she was seeing.

When the 1.125 second burst came, it was followed immediately by a voice transmission that began, sentence by sentence, in English, then Mandarin, then Hindi, Spanish, French, Arabic, Bengali, Russian, Portuguese, and Urdu.

“Greetings to the people of Earth. We do not wish conflict. We, the larger Collective of the galaxy wish to extend an invitation. You are invited to send representatives to speak for your world and people to the Collective.

“We have monitored your transmissions, and wish to speak to scientists, linguists, and doctors in addition to any political representatives you choose to send.

“Our science branch would like to extend a personal invitation to Ally Reeser to attend as well.”

#

Ally leaned back. “I mean, can you imagine how that felt? Not only did aliens contact us, they asked for me?”

The interviewer rolled a tentacle in a gesture of questioning. “I cannot imagine how that felt. What did you do?”

Ally cleared her throat. “I—I uh, acted rashly. I connected the test transmitter and sent a voice message back that said, ‘Pick me up, I’m ready.’”

The interviewer made a nodding gesture. “You were the first, right?”

“I was. Imagine how surprised I was when fighter jets started flying a pattern over the observatory and patched in their communications to the 1420 channel. I didn’t know the military could transmit on that channel, never mind that it’s reserved for radio astronomy.”

#

“Leuschner Observatory, this is Guard Alpha One. We have contact with ATC and the aliens who wish to land near your location, over.”

“Um, yeah, this is Ally,” she transmitted. “They can, uh, land here, I guess, if there’s room…over?”

“Ally, Alpha One, roger. Be advised, we have clearance to fire at any sign of hostile intent, over.”

“Please don’t,” she said. “Um, over.”

“We have our orders, ma’am. We’ll try to keep our shorts untwisted. Out.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she turned off the test transmitter. Kelly was busy flipping back and forth between channels, all of them showing live the news about the aliens.

The alien ship followed what seemed to Ally like proper ATC communication procedures, getting clearance to land at the observatory. They also communicated with the military aircraft, keeping them apprised of their position as the dropped from 72,000 feet.

When the military aircraft and ATC both said they had nothing on radar, the aliens turned on some sort of device that made them show up. The air traffic controller sounded relieved when their signal showed up, while the ‘Alpha One’ pilot kept a level calm throughout the whole thing.

Ally stepped outside, Kelly following close behind, filming with her phone. The fighters flew overhead before splitting off in opposite directions to make another pass.

Kelly filmed the jets, then turned toward Ally with the camera. “We’re streaming live. Ally, you’re about to meet aliens. Anything to say?”

“Uh, I’m fucking scared. And excited. Oh! My thesis is done, except for one paragraph that feels a little clunky, but at this point, I don’t even care. It’s on the USB stick plugged into my laptop. Just in case I can’t…I don’t….”

“You’ll have to come back for your defense. If anyone can convince the aliens that humans are okay, it’s you.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, Dr. Simmons, but I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s just nerves, or ga—,” Kelly cut off as she swung the camera up to film the descent of the alien ship. The size of a bus, and of a similar shape, it settled down on a shimmering pillar.

The closer it came to the ground, the larger the dust and stones that floated lazily up from the ground, only to fall back when the ship touched down and turned off its engines.

Overhead, the jets were taking turns overflying the location. Kelly kept the camera fixed on the blocky ship. A door opened, moving inward where there had been no visible seam and sliding to the side.

Ally walked toward the ship, then found herself frozen in place. Curiosity kept her from running, and fear kept her from stepping forward, until a ramp extended from the door.

The creatures that walked out looked like a Hollywood invention. Four sturdy tentacles carried a roundish trunk, from which four smaller tentacles extended. They had four obvious eyes set aside and in front of a head that rose from the trunk and could be extended higher or brought almost entirely inside the trunk.

“Hello, Ally. My Earth name is Sarah, and my friend’s Earth name is Jack.”

“Hi, Sarah and uh, Jack.” Ally stood dumbfounded.

Sarah lowered their head nearly inside their body. “I’m sorry that appearance is frightening to you,” they said. “We mean you no harm at all. The atmosphere inside is tailored for you, and free of any microbes that might affect your physiology.”

Kelly was still streaming, and stepped forward to Ally and handed her a cold soda. “Take this and enjoy the ride.” She turned toward the aliens with a slight bow and said, “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you, and I hope we meet again soon.”

Ally boarded the ship followed by the aliens, the door closed, and it lifted off again. It rose so fast that the phone camera could only catch a blur of it. “I hope that’s anti-gravity tech of some sort,” Kelly said, “or Ally’s paste now. That was at least a thirty-gee takeoff.”

#

Ally chuckled. “Would’ve been paste for sure. I saw the end of Kelly’s livestream from within the ship. I didn’t feel any movement at all, but it did feel like the gravity within the ship was a lot lower than what I was used to.”

She leaned forward again. “As I’m sure everyone watching knows, I was whisked aboard one of your science vessels where Sarah and Jack took me to meet their peers.”

The interviewer raised a tentacle to interrupt. “Your peers, too, correct?”

“Well, I didn’t feel like it at the time. I felt like a kid with no education trying to understand advanced calculus being taught in Mandarin. At least, with all the ‘basics’ of gravity control they were showing me.

“I was floored that the wider galactic scientific community hadn’t even considered the possibility of Hawking radiation and black hole evaporation. When they looked at me every bit as confused as I had just been, I felt a little better about the place of humans among the travelers of the galaxy.”

Ally laughed. “When I finally caught on to what they were trying to explain about gravity, I saw how simple the solution to combining General Relativity and Quantum Field Theory was. Not that it was easy, but it was simple.

“Unlike the short and sweet formulae that Einstein and Shrödinger gave us for General Relativity and QFT respectively, the formula takes half of an A4 sheet when printed large enough to read.

“Faster-than-light travel and gravity control are two things that we long considered to be theoretically possible, but in reality, nothing more than fantasy. In fact, they both play a huge part in human fiction.

“Of the two, though, control over gravity has to be the biggest breakthrough in the galaxy. Need an engine? Not anymore…use gravity. Need a way to accelerate at twenty or thirty gees without killing everyone? Use gravity. Need to fly regardless of atmospheric density or shape of the vessel? Use gravity. My mind was blown.” Ally made a gesture like her head exploding.

“Anyway, that was the point where I decided I needed to move to the Galactic University and do some more studies.”

“Have you returned to Earth since then?” the interviewer asked. “You finished your doctorate.”

“I went to Earth for my oral defense, got my doctorate, then came right back here to the University. I haven’t left in the twelve years since.

“We’re currently working on determining the math behind a negative gravity well strong enough to put a camera inside the event horizon of a supermassive black hole and bring it back again.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to construct such a device?”

Ally laughed. “I’ll leave that to the engineering folks. We’re just trying to figure out if there’s a possible way the math can work without those pesky infinities popping up.”

The interviewer leaned forward and extended a tentacle. “Thanks for your time, Dr. Reeser.”

“Thank you, Jane. Xkrthzgnd, right?”

“Yes,” the interviewer said, “your pronunciation is very good.”

Ally waited until the light on the camera facing her was off before standing to leave, and gave a wave to the interviewer and the crew. Her colleagues were waiting in the hall outside for her, and she was eager to get back to work.

“I’m Xkrthzgnd — Earth name Jane — and this is ‘Galactic Leaders One on One.’ Next cycle we’ll be talking with the musical group My Name is Not a Slur, who have taken their music beyond Earth into the galaxy at large and have integrated the styles of almost every member species of the Collective.”

prompt: Write about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing.

available at Reedsy

Thomas “Big Tom” Wilson pulled strips of meat out of the smoker. The hard needles the trees dropped from time to time made an excellent smoke source, somewhat like applewood. The meat came from the small creatures he caught in traps around his garden.

He turned off the smoker’s burner coil and doused the still-smoldering needles in the tray above the coil. Satisfied that he wouldn’t waste any smoke fuel, he carried the strips of meat into the cabin he called home…or rather the emergency shelter he called a cabin he called home.

After a day spent smoking meat, the smoke smell had seeped into his clothes, his skin, his long hair, and his beard. He checked the shelter’s water level. It would do him for the moment, but he’d need to collect more water in the next couple days.

He stood in front of the mirror and cut his beard short with the one knife he had. He had tried to shave with the knife once…that was one time too many. Judging his beard to be somewhat even, he stripped and stepped into the tiny shower. A quick rinse, a thorough scrub, and another quick rinse and he was done.

Dressed in his second set of clothes, he put the smoky set in the decon/sanitizer. It was a quick way to clean them without using water. If there were spills, mud, blood, the yellow goo from the plants he called “snot-vines,” he’d wash that out with water first…usually…sometimes. The once white clothes were a dingy grey with a collection of stains of varying natural and unnatural colors.

He set up the camera facing the kitchenette and turned it on. “Hey, fans! Welcome back to Big Tom’s Cabin. Big Tom here on day 797. Today I’ll be making a bean soup with the snot-vine beans from my garden and the smoked meat of the snot-vine creepers.

“If you don’t like the common names I’ve given them, you’re free to call them anything you like. I’m still working on the phylogenetic tree of this planet, so giving anything a scientific name now is premature. They creep around the snot-vines with their soft-boned, thin-furred bodies and nip off the buds that will turn into the bean pods so…snot-vine creepers.

“Anyway, here’s the meat I smoked today, which will add that smoky flavor to the broth. Remember, stock is made from simmering bones in water, broth is made from simmering meat and/or vegetables in water.

“Because the critters’ soft bones turn to powder when trying to roast them and turn to gelatin when cooked in water, I’ll stick to making a broth. The broth will use the smoked meat and these flowers that taste like onion.”

After talking through the recipe and preparation techniques which were of no use outside the planet Big Tom found himself, he set the pot to simmer and sat in front of the camera.

“While that’s cooking, it’s time for another Big Tom story, I guess. ’Course I think I ran out of stories to tell…except maybe to explain how I ended up here in the first place. I don’t mean the lander crash, or dragging the shelter to the nearest flat ground, or any of that.

“Someone out there somewhere is probably wondering why I would volunteer to survey a planet so far away that it was a one-way mission.

“From Earth’s point of view, it took me ninety-six years to get here. From my point of view, it took seven. This message won’t reach Earth for another seventy-four years. How long after that the colonists would’ve come, I don’t know. This planet is damn near perfect for it, except for one thing.”

Big Tom heaved a deep sigh. “I’ve always been the DIY type and lived off the grid more than on it after getting my doctorate. Whenever there was a study that needed a biologist in a remote jungle, mountain, or desert, I volunteered.

“When the Eden Project said they needed a biologist, you can bet the first name on the list was Big Tom. I didn’t think I’d have a chance, though. You know how many astrobiology doctorates were handed out while I was focused on microbiology? Too many.”

Big Tom laughed. “Yeah. Imagine my surprise when I was the only biologist that signed up. I’m out here doing the first cataloguing of alien biology, and it’s awesome! I mean it.

“I’ve found things that could be classified as Eukarya: plants, animals, and fungus. There are single-cell and single-cell colony species that could be classified as Bacteria or Archaea. I’ll have to add a new one, though.”

He moved a small clay pot in front of the camera, with what looked like tendrils of glass. As he placed a hand near one side or the other, the tendrils swayed and bent toward the hand.

“These little guys convert heat to energy. They use that energy to build these long-chain silicates they use as cell walls for their specialized cells with organelles and no nucleus. They pull silicates from the dirt, leaving behind a carbon-rich soil, while pulling carbon from the air. Various fungus and bacteria rely on these guys to take hold before they can invade and make the soil fit for plants. Whatever we thought about the limitations of RNA stability versus DNA can be put to rest. These guys, unlike all the other life on this planet, don’t have DNA, they use RNA. They replicate by fragmentation, the root system breaking apart when disturbed.”

He pushed the pot back out of frame. “So far, every sample of this type of life is a variation on these heat-converter glass grasses, of which I have identified sixteen species so far. Oddly, every organelle contains a copy of the RNA.”

Big Tom stretched and groaned. “I have a lifetime of work to do here, and a lifetime to do it. I’m healthy, I’m happy, and I couldn’t have asked for a better life. That’s right, fans. I am the happiest person in the world…or out of the world, I guess.”

The timer dinged and Big Tom rose to take the beans off the heat. “I’m going to let these cool down before I dig in, but I will have a little taste. It smells like heaven.”

He dipped a spoon of the broth out and blew on it to cool it before tasting it. “Oh my god…this is the best batch yet. The onion flowers made all the difference.”

“My life would be perfect, except for one thing.” He moved to the camera and picked it up. He carried the camera outside, past the garden, to the well-worn footpath that led to the crashed lander.

He pointed the camera at the path. Along the edges of the path were freshly picked flowers of the type he had used in the soup. Following the flowers, the camera focused on a snot-vine creeper, tied in a plant-based rope. Beyond that lay a basket filled with snot-vine beans.

He zoomed the camera in to a footprint. It was small, and similar to an opossum’s rear footprint with five well-defined toes and an opposable thumb. “These guys do this every twenty-four days. Considering they have six digits on their hands?…paws?…whatever, it kind of makes sense.

“That’s right. It’s now been long enough since the first, encrypted message to control that if they haven’t made it public, I will. There is sapient life here. Our little crash-landing got their attention, and now there are two factions in this area. One leaves these gifts every twenty-four days. I only see them briefly, though. He zoomed the camera to a small quadruped that reared up on its hind legs and spread its fingers. There were symmetrical designs on its face and body in the bright yellow of the snot-vines.

“That’s one of the little guys there.” He waved and called out. “I’m not a god, you know. You could just come say hi.”

The creature disappeared into the brush without a sound. “I think they’ve taken to worshipping me or something. They started doing this every twenty-four days since I buried Karina, the geologist. That was on day 509. The other group—ouch!”

He turned the camera in a circle as small figures rose in the tall grass on the other side of the path and flung rocks at him with slings. “Knock it off!” Big Tom took a deep breath and let out a loud roar that sent the creatures running.

“These little shits take every opportunity to throw rocks at me. They know it doesn’t do anything except piss me off, but they keep it up.

“You may be wondering how I know it’s two different groups. I’m not an anthropologist, or whatever the equivalent would be, but I’ve seen enough.

“The first group decorates the trail and the graves of Karina and Hassan. They bury their dead there, too, and leave grave goods with them.

“The other group throws their dead into a cave a little further on after stripping them of any tools or weapons.

“Both groups live in shelters built from grass and have equivalent technology. The only social difference I see are burial rites and personal decoration.

“Both groups are tribal in nature and seem to be led by the strongest. Of course, the strongest of them can, at most, give me a little boo-boo. The rock-throwing group seems to be doing it to show off their bravery or something.”

He walked to the lander, showing the graves of his two former crewmates. Their helmets sat atop their graves, and fresh flowers and beans had been sprinkled around them. He rotated the camera to show the small mounds of the creatures’ graves, marked with round stones, about the size of their head, similarly adorned.

“I fear that I’ve inadvertently introduced religion to the little guys. At first, I was worried that the aggressive group would just wipe them out, but they’ve never come to blows. In fact, I’ve seen members of one group move to the other with no friction whatsoever.”

Big Tom sat against the side of the lander and pointed the camera at himself. “So, you’re thinking that the one thing I don’t like is being alone, with Hassan dying in the crash and Karina dying almost a year ago. That’s sad, but not it.

“You might think that if I could hear their speech, I might be able to communicate with the little guys…let them know I’m not a god or a devil or whatever. Unfortunately, their speech is all in the ultrasonic range. I’m not even sure whether they can hear me, or just feel the vibrations of my voice. That’s still not it, though.

“It’s not even that they figured out pottery by watching me. They can be incredibly sneaky. I realized they’d copied what they saw me doing when I saw more of the clay dug out by the river, and a new fire pit there with a few broken shards.

“One of them made a little lop-sided pot and painted designs on it with the goo from the snot-vines and left it just outside the garden. By the way, they’d already figured out gardening by themselves, both groups. I copied their design.”

He brought the camera closer, so his face filled the frame. “No, the one thing that gets on my last nerve is what will happen in the future.

“Long after I’m gone, the lander and the cabin will still be around. They aren’t going to deteriorate much in the next thirty or forty-thousand years. That will be enough that someday, they’ll be watching their tiny little TVs…and some nut with wild fur will be going on about how ‘Ancient Aliens’ were responsible for every great thing they ever achieved, and I’m the asshole that gave that fire fuel.”

He laughed and moved the camera back before doing a slow pan of the graveyard once more, before turning it back toward himself and the lander. “Well, that’s enough of that for now. Those beans are cool enough to eat, so I’m off to do that. Thanks for watching. Big Tom signing off for the day.”

prompt: Set your story in a cat shelter. 

available at Reedsy

Jordi held open the door. “Welcome to the cat shelter.”

“Knock it off,” Pen said. “I hear anyone, including you, refer to the Strallins as ‘cats’ again, they’ll be relegated to the loading dock.”

Jordi led Pen to her new office. “What about the Strallins that refer to themselves as cats — or as nekomimi?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When they first got here, a Strallin found an old manga somewhere. They thought it was some sort of prophetic thing that we would have drawings of them.”

Pen stopped in front of her desk and rubbed her temples. “What have I gotten myself into? I’m supposed to be overseeing humanitarian aid for alien refugees, not creating superstitions or religions.”

“I don’t think they’re getting religious about it. They already have a belief that future events will show themselves to artists, whether they know it or not.”

“Good, I wouldn’t want them to think we’re gods or prophets or saints or something.” She took off her overcoat and tossed it across the empty desk.

“Um,” Jordi looked uneasy, “I don’t think we need to worry on that front.”

“Why? They get here and the first thing they see is…wait a minute. What kind of manga was it?”

Jordi looked away. “Well….”

Pen groaned. “Great. We offer refugee assistance, and the first thing they see gives them reason to believe we have perverted motives for doing so.”

“I wouldn’t say they think we’re perverted, but they think we are strange, and they are…uh…curious.”

“About what?”

“Don’t be alarmed if one of them asks to see your body.”

“They what?!”

“They find it odd that we wear clothes regardless of the temperature. They only wear clothes when they need protection of some sort; warm clothes when it’s cold, camouflage or armor when they fight, and so on.”

“Have you—”

“Hey! Give me a break, here! None of us has done anything of the sort. These people are traumatized, and we’re here to help.”

“Sorry, that’s my own bias leaking through.” Pen took a deep breath and looked Jordi straight in the eye. “I apologize for equating young man with sexually irresponsible.”

“Apology accepted. And I apologize for immediately thinking you were a ball-breaker. It’s awful to say, but I should be honest with you; that’s what I thought when you first responded to my welcome. By the way, quite a few of the Strallin refer to the ORC as the ‘cat sanctuary.’”

“Ugh. Now that we’ve both embarrassed ourselves, why don’t you show me through the facility and introduce me to some of the refugees. I especially want to meet those with infants and young children to see what other resources we might need for them.”

“Through here.” Jordi led her through a door that opened to his badge. “I’ll get your badge to you in a bit. Got behind today’s schedule sending the supply truck off to San Diego.”

Jordi hadn’t exaggerated. There were a few Strallins wearing a light blanket wrapped around them, a couple wearing trousers with a hole cut out for their tail, and not much else in the way of clothing apart from what the humans wore.

They were shorter than the average human, and looked finer of muscle, yet the way some of the young ones jumped she got the impression they were stronger than they looked. She had to admit to herself that they were a near perfect match for nekomimi.

They had a semi-feline face, large, triangular ears that twitched and turned, a long tail they used for balance, and a covering of fine vellus hair in colors ranging from pale to deep blue, matching the skin color beneath. Eye colors ranged from pale gold to deep green. The females had visible mammaries, two at the top, two smaller below them, and pair of supernumerary nipples below those. The males, like earth-based mammals, had the same number of nipples without any mammaries.

Pen felt uncomfortable. She knew they were aliens, yet something in her mind was on the verge of panic.

“I know that look,” Jordi said. “Uncanny valley, huh? You get used to it.”

A Strallin woman walked toward them, waving.

“Who’s this?” Pen asked.

“Aritarila,” he said, rolling the r’s, “but she goes by Rita.”

“Aritarila,” Pen said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Penelope Watkins, but just call me Pen.”

“Good meeting, Pen. Please, calling me Rita.”

Jordi said something to Rita in her own language and she laughed. “Close. Riquat being early morning, now being raliat…late morning.”

“Who’s teaching us their language?” Pen asked Jordi.

“I teaching humans,” Rita answered. “Norman teaching Strallin Englishes.” She struggled with the pronunciation of the “r” in Norman, and with the “ng” sound in English. Her pronunciation of the word “Strallin” was difficult for Pen to wrap her tongue around, but she’d heard Jordi doing it, so she knew it was possible.

“I would very much like to meet with mothers and families with small children and infants. It is important that we get the supplies they need.”

Rita called out a what sounded like a chirp, and a young Strallin child ran to her side and hid behind her leg, standing only as tall as her knees. “This being my…parap…”

“Son,” Jordi offered.

“Yes, son. Peter, saying hi.”

He peeked his head around her leg. “Hi, miss. Hi, Jordi. Can I go play now?”

Rita knelt to his level and whispered in his ear. He bounded off to play with the other children. She stood and faced the humans again. “Sorry, he being shy.”

“That’s fine. He has no accent. You said his name is Peter? Is that just his name here? Does he have a Strallin name as well?”

Jordi cleared his throat. “Peter was born here. Rita was one of the first refugees.”

“He’s only six months old?”

“They mature physically a lot faster than we do. Not in size, but in coordination and the ability to walk, run, jump, and so on. At least in the first year. From what I understand, they mature on par with us after that. A one-year-old Strallin is equivalent to a five-year-old human in terms of physical development. Mental development is more equivalent, but Peter is…exceptional.”

“Peter saying Englishes and Strallin before Peter eyes opening.”

“I apparently have a lot to learn about the Strallin,” Pen said. “If it’s okay with both of you, I’d like to spend the day with you, Rita; get a feel for what works here and what doesn’t.”

“That’s fine with me,” Jordi said. “Rita, feel free to show Pen around, and don’t be afraid to complain about anything you don’t like.”

He turned to Pen. “I’ll get your keycard ready, and forward all the medical info we have on the Strallins to your comm.”

“Thanks, Jordi.”

“Yes, thanking.” Rita linked her arm with Pen’s. “Walking with me.”

“Of course.” Pen noticed how warm and soft Rita’s arm was, and how steely were the muscles beneath whenever she shifted.

As Rita led her to the area where the children played, Pen asked, “Are there toys from your world we don’t have?”

“We making toys,” Rita said, pointing to the pile of feathers, beads, sticks, and strings. The children were playing with a broad array of different sorts of toys, made from those same four components. Some flew their spaceships, others baby-talked or scolded dolls, others played a game that reminded Pen of a cross between hacky sack and badminton.

“Is that what you have always done?”

“Yes. We making own toys. Making-places…uh…facter—”

“Factory?”

“Factory making ships and armor and tools and dertilara,” she said, making a brand, dismissive motion. “Sorry, not knowing this in Englishes.”

“I think I understand.” Pen’s comm chimed and she checked the message. It was a long one, but she skimmed it and got the broad points.

“Rita,” she asked, “have you had any fresh fruit since you’ve been here? What about vegetables?”

“Sorry, not knowing those Englishes.”

Pen opened an image browser on fruits and vegetables. She showed Rita as she scrolled through them. “Have you seen any of these since you’ve been here?”

“They being foods?”

“Yes.”

“We eating this foods,” she said, lifting an empty emergency ration pack from the trash.

“Okay, that’s the first thing I’m fixing.” She leaned in close to Rita and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Do the children like sweet things?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try to have a surprise for them in the morning, early morning, what was it…riquat?”

“Yes.”

Pen sent a message from her comm:

FROM: Penelope Watkins, Director, Oceanside Refugee Center.
TO: San Diego Refugee Coordination Warehouse

Add to required provisions, in amounts to match ORC population:

Daily: Fresh, in-season fruits and vegetables. Eggs. Honey. Bread. Butter.

Weekly: Extra strawberries. Extra Butter. Maple syrup. Blueberry syrup. Waffle mix or base ingredients for waffles.

Extra requisitions, one time: Twelve double waffle irons. Lego classic 1000 pcs or more.

Any item unavailable from SDRCW, have driver comm ORC Director for purchase on the economy at Director’s expense.

prompt: Write a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go.

available at Reedsy

Maria Cointreau looked up at Indri, the tall creature hidden behind the wall with her. Standing on four legs, with two arms with odd joints, four compound eyes, and smooth, grey skin, she looked like a praying mantis from a fever dream. The human-made sub-machine gun she carried just reinforced the image.

“I’m out,” Maria said, lowering her assault rifle, “but if we can get to the warehouse by the river, we can re-supply.”

“We lost. It’s time to leave.”

“Bullshit!” Maria Owens spit on the ground, blood mixed with her spittle. “As long as we’re alive, we’ve still got a chance. We’re not giving the squishies your planet. We can take the drainage tunnels to the river, then climb the bank from there.”

Indri knelt, putting her compound eyes on the same level as Maria’s. “It has been an honor fighting alongside you and the other humans, but our world is lost. If we want to live, we need to head to the evacuation site.”

Maria grabbed Indri’s arm and leaned in close. “Until Terra command calls general retreat, we’ll fight. It’s not over, and it’s not just us, you’ll see. But….”

“But?”

“I’ll get you to the warehouse. There should be transpo to the evac site.” Maria loosened her grip. “I’m not leaving but I can’t ask you to stay; it’s only going to get more dangerous.”

Indri followed Maria from cover to cover, spending tense moments hiding in the alleys while scout drones walked the streets. Indri stopped her at one point to change the bandage on Maria’s head. The old one had soaked through, and blood was pooling and drying behind Maria’s right ear.

After an hour of careful movement, she found what she was looking for. Maria pulled the cover off a storm drain. The design was human, and as such, the ladder down was not something Indri could descend without difficulty.

Maria growled. “Ugh. This one hasn’t been fitted for timinids.”

“I could just drop down.”

“And risk breaking a leg? No.” Maria stepped onto the ladder. “Climb on my back, I’ll get you down.”

They followed the tunnels, moving always down. When daylight and the river came into view, Maria motioned for Indri to stay put. She crawled out, her head on a swivel.

She was scouting for a way up the slope when she saw a human patrol. Maria raised her hands and stood slowly. “Friendly!”

One of the soldiers broke from the patrol and trotted to her. “Sergeant Pall. Where’s your platoon? Are you alone?”

“Lieutenant Cointreau. I’ve got a local hiding in the drain. She needs evac and I need re-supply.” Maria sighed. “My platoon was wiped out when a drone rushed us and self-destructed. Rescued a new friend, though.”

“I didn’t know they could do that. Shit. I’ll pass that info up the chain. Go get your friend,” he said. “The warehouse and immediate surroundings are secure.”

“The patrol?”

“They’ll continue their rounds; I’ll rejoin later. Backup is just a whistle away.”

“Who’s in command?”

“That’d be me, ma’am, unless you want the job. Our platoon was left to secure the site, and the Lieutenant and first squad were killed in a drone attack. We’ve got half a dozen wounded in the warehouse office waiting for evac as well.”

Maria returned to Indri. “Come on, they’ve got this area secured. We’re safe here.”

As they walked up the slope toward the warehouse, Indri put a manipulator on Maria’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to evacuate? I mean, it’s not even your planet.”

“I don’t leave a job undone. Besides,” she said, “we protect our friends.”

“Friends? We didn’t know each other until this morning.”

“The timinids and humans are friends. That’s what our treaties mean, and that’s why we were building this city and military installation…to provide protection.”

Indri followed along, her hand still on Maria’s shoulder. “Friends…. All humans and all timinids?” she asked.

“In theory, at least,” Pall answered.

The warehouse was cavernous, and Maria’s booted footsteps echoed. Where three days prior she’d seen shelves groaning under the weight of supplies, most were now empty. Shipping crates, long since pried open and broken apart, lay in a heap of scrap to one side. “What the hell?”

“Corporal Jimenez will see to your needs…at least as far as we can.” Pall motioned the corporal over and left to rejoin the patrol.

“Ma’am,” Jimenez said, “I take it you need ammo. How about rations and med supplies…well, bandages at least?”

“Whe—where did everything go?”

“What wasn’t used up was lifted out last night to a more secure rear supply area. All the blankets and most of the medical supplies were sent to the evac ships for the locals.” He looked at the weapons the two carried. “I’ve got plenty standard ball for the 6.8 but I’m out of 9mil for the SMG.”

“That’s okay,” Maria said. “Indri, you should get on the next shuttle out. It’s not safe, and it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell you.” Indri unclipped the strap that held the sub-machine gun and let it drop to the floor. “This is my home—was my home, but it’s not safe. Why are you staying?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. I won’t let my friends down, especially you.” Maria turned to the corporal who was lugging a case of ammo to them. “You said supply moved back. What about the front-line units?”

“We aren’t going anywhere, ma’am. We’re just holding tight until the cavalry gets here.” He set down the ammo box and motioned to the warehouse. “This is now the FOB until they clear out enough of the city to move HQ back here. That’s why we’re keeping the warehouse and the landing area clear.”

“Landing area?”

“We bulldozed a shuttle landing just off that side of the warehouse,” he said, pointing to his left. “The next shuttle should be here in about twenty minutes. They’re bringing more rations and I sent a comm to bring some 9mil as well. Unless you want to swap for a 10mil pistol?”

Maria waved him off. “I don’t think timinids can handle that kind of recoil, not to mention, it’d be hard to hold with their hands.”

Indri knelt again, to be on eye-level with Maria. “Please, come with me. You’re injured. You saved my life, let me save yours now.”

“I haven’t saved you yet,” Maria said. “Not until your world is free of the squishies.”

“Speaking of the squishies,” Jimenez said, “patrols haven’t seen any in several hours…just scout drones.”

“Maybe the Navy finally cut their supply lines. No methane for their breathers, no squishies running around.”

“Ma’am…uh…you don’t think they’re pulling out for orbital bombardment, do you?” Jimenez asked as he helped her load magazines.

“I doubt it,” she said. “Why does anyone risk ground combat?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“To save the infrastructure,” Indri said.

“Exactly. The only launch port that was destroyed was the one we blew up yesterday, before they could take it for themselves.” Maria packed her magazine pockets full to bursting. “I just wish the drones were as easy to take out as the squishies.”

“I might have something for you,” the corporal said. “Do you still have your 10mil sidearm?”

“Sure, not that it does any good against them. Indri’s SMG was only good for getting their attention, and the 10’s not much more oomph.”

“I have some 10mil electro rounds. Slightly lower muzzle velocity than standard ball, but it dumps thousands of volts into them on impact.”

“Why don’t we have something like that for the 6.8?” Maria asked.

“We only have a couple dozen left, and the patrol is loaded up with them.”

A deep hum resonated through the warehouse. “It sounds like the shuttle is early,” Indri said.

“That’s not a shuttle,” Jimenez said, “that’s reinforcements.”

“Personnel carrier,” Maria said at the same time.

“Oh, should I wait for—”

“No, they’ll take you back with the wounded,” the corporal said. “Now that we’re reinforced, we can catch our breath. Lieutenant, would you be willing to help offload and get the wounded loaded on before you go? I mean, you’re in better shape than most of the other wounded.”

Maria nodded. “Of course.” She put a hand up to touch the bandage on her head. It was starting to soak through, but it felt like it had slowed down. “Besides, it’s not that bad. Heads just bleed a lot.”

Indri put a manipulator on Maria’s shoulder again. “Will you come with me? Please?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Indri, I can’t. The Navy will see you get somewhere safe, until you can all come home again.” Maria turned back toward Jimenez. “Corporal, I hear you could use a platoon leader, and I could use those 10mil electro rounds.”

prompt: Write a story about two characters whose paths briefly cross, but are actually going in opposite directions — whether literally or figuratively.

available at Reedsy

During my second year in the academy, I was still trying to decide what I wanted to specialize in. At that point, it didn’t matter; I was going to do anything that got me into space and away from the outer colonies for good.

One afternoon, there was a test of a new vectoring thruster built by the engineering students. It was supposed to be super-efficient or some other thing.

There were several of us watching on the periphery; just something to occupy our free time. They were testing on the perpetually “Coming Soon” soccer pitch. It hadn’t ever been sodded in the fourteen years since the academy opened and was just a gravel field with stadium furniture. The thrust mount was in the middle of the field, and to one side, the empty trailer they’d brought the thruster in.

She stood near the trailer, and I was just a little past her from it. We had a decent vantage on the test, but not as good as the people in the stands.

It started out underwhelming and somewhat expected. The thruster sat in its stand and fired up, the big display over it showed the angle of vector, thrust in kilo-Newtons, and fuel consumption per second.

Then all hell broke loose. The bottom of the mount failed, and the thruster twisted parallel to the ground. The people in the stands were safe, as well as the testers, as the thrust was pointed away from them, straight at us.

I pushed her into the trailer and held the door closed as well as I could against the blast of the thruster. The pain was intense for just a moment, then I’m not sure whether it was nerve damage or shock that numbed me. It was then that the thruster exploded. The shockwave knocked us both out and ripped the door out my hand and off its hinges.

I woke up to someone holding and stroking my left hand. It was the girl I’d pushed into the trailer, but she was bald.

“Hey,” I said, “you were in the trailer. Your hair…are you okay?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m fine. My name’s Cora Martin. We didn’t get a chance to get properly introduced. Thank you for saving my life.”

“Hi, Cora. I’m—”

“Zephyr Langstrom. If it’s all right, I’ll just call you Zeph.”

“Why are you bald?” My voice was weak and croaky.

“I didn’t want you to be the only one.” I started to reach for my head with my right hand but was stopped by the intense pain. I looked down to see a ruined arm and hand under translucent burn bandages.

I reached up with left hand and felt a bandage on my head. She held up a mirror so I could see. It looked like the right rear quarter of my scalp was bandaged like my arm but didn’t look nearly as bad. The rest of my head had been shaved and a standard bandage covered what I later learned was where a piece of shrapnel had almost pierced my skull.

“How long was I out?”

Cora helped me drink some water while she answered. “You’ve been out for two and half days. I’ve been here the whole time.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I think I did,” she said. “It’s the least I could do. You’d better get used to it, as I’m moving you into my dorm room so I can help out.”

“Help with what?” I asked.

The doctor came into the room, then, and Cora gave my hand a squeeze. Before she could leave, though, I stopped her. I don’t know why, but I wanted her there. “You can stay. If you’re helping out, it might be nice to know what’s going on, right?”

The doctor explained my injuries and what it would take to recover. I’d need several muscle and skin grafts to repair my arm, repeated surgeries to free up the scar tissue to maintain mobility, and constant physio. He guessed about nine to twelve months for recovery up to sixty-percent mobility.

Tears burned my eyes. Without hope of a full or nearly full recovery, I could forget a career in space.

A gentle hand wiped my tears. “I’m here for you, Zeph. You held that door against the blast of the thruster and saved both our lives. You’re tough enough to push through this.”

The doctor nodded. “Not every position requires full mobility,” he said. “In fact, my son is a pilot even though he lost his left hand in an accident in childhood. He was recently promoted, too.”

“What you’re saying is, if I get at least as much mobility as a prosthetic, I’ll be okay?”

“Exactly.” He made some notes in his tablet. “You should get some rest. Ms. Martin assures us that you have care available at home, so we’ll be releasing you in the morning. You’ll have to come in each morning to change your dressings and physiotherapy, and we’ll start laying out a schedule for your surgeries.”

The year following was an exercise in overcoming pain. Cora provided constant support and encouragement. If it hadn’t been for her, I never would’ve been able to keep up with my coursework, and probably would’ve dropped out of physio due to sheer hopeless frustration.

She even kept me going in electives, even getting me through philosophy, which she wasn’t taking. Studying Nietzsche while undergoing daily physio and six surgeries seemed impossible, but Cora made it happen by reading the material to me and making sure I could paraphrase. By the end of the term, she hated the course, and especially old Friedrich.

Contrary to the doctor’s estimate, I recovered more than eighty-percent use of my right hand, and by the time I’d recovered from the last of twenty-nine surgeries, I didn’t notice any impairment. I did however, end up being decently ambidextrous after spending most of a year doing everything with my left hand.

Some fields were unavailable to me due to my injuries. Some things require fine motor skills and two hands, other things involve working around extreme heat or cold, both of which cause me a great deal of pain.

My choices for specialization were limited to combat, pilot, loadmaster, and any of the paperwork jobs. I chose to be a pilot. Of course, what you end up piloting depends on what’s needed when you’re nearing graduation. In my case, it ended up being interdiction patrol ships.

The last year of academy, I received my license to pilot most every ship flown by law enforcement, as well as law enforcement training. Cora had chosen to specialize in interdiction combat, combining law enforcement, close-quarters combat, and ship-to-ship action. She’d told me, “I want to board pirate ships and take ’em all down. Maybe I’ll be on the ship you’re flying!”

Once we had graduated, we received our badges and first assignments. The last few days at the academy we bid farewell to our fellow cadets that were heading off to careers in the military, commerce, law enforcement or government. Since then, I’ve been piloting the Vicious Rabbit, a.k.a. LIV 39-Z-434.

I never saw or heard from Cora again, at least until I stood behind the captain this morning, looking at the report on the screen. It didn’t make sense.

“What’s wrong, Zephyr?” the captain asked.

“I spent most of my time in the academy with her. I thought I knew her.” I rubbed the scars on my arm and hand, feeling the difference between the lumpy burn and graft scars, and the smaller, straight scars from surgeries.

“Is this going to be a problem?”

“No, sir. You get me close, and I’ll put us in boarding range.” A dark thought floated through my mind. “Be careful, she’s trained in ship-to-ship combat. She’s had all the same training our guys have.”

“We know, we have her records.”

“Is there a reason we can’t just…let her do her thing?”

The captain stood and sighed. “I’ll be honest. I would’ve recommended leaving her alone when she first went rogue and was only targeting pirates. Yesterday, she attacked a commercial freighter. She’s made the transition from vigilante to criminal.”

“Cora hated Nietzsche, but she should have listened. ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’”

prompt: Write a story about a family (biological or found) coming together for Christmas.

available at Reedsy

I should’ve listened when the union rep told me I should wait for another navigator — any navigator — as long as they weren’t human. “Too much trouble,” they said. Noooo, I was in too much of a hurry and hired on the human.

It is important to me that I am good captain. To that end, I’ve accumulated a set of rules, guidelines, if you will, to keep me moving in that direction. I’ve written them all down in a tablet; sixty-eight rules so far.

Rule thirty-one: Allow the crew to express themselves when it does not interfere with the operation of the vessel or the morale of other crew members.

Now there were multicolored lights that served no purpose strung up through the passageways, decorations of giant ice crystals on the bulkheads, and one of a fat human in some sort of ceremonial garb on a bulkhead in the mess.

The human’s cabin had been piling up with small, brightly colored boxes. At every station she left with another of the crew to “go shopping” and would return with more stuff that got piled in her cabin. At the last station she’d been ecstatic to return with a replica Terran tree.

As soon as the human’s contract expired, I’d let her go and hire another navigator…even one fresh out of academy. Perhaps then, my life could return to some semblance of normal.

I absentmindedly groomed my mandibles with my forelimbs. Not exactly good manners, but I was never known for that.

“Hey, Cap, you alright?” the human asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that when you start grooming your mandibles it usually means you’re moody or thinking hard.” She turned toward me with her strange face. 

Humans were in that weird place between predator and prey, sharing features with both. When they looked right at you with their binocular vision, though, they felt like complete predator, tickling some long-forgotten part of my hindbrain.

“Navigator Katerina, what is the meaning of the lights and water ice crystals?”

“Cap, I told you before, just call me Kat. The lights and snowflakes and Santa are decorations for Christmas.”

“Nav—Kat, what is it? Some human thing, I assume. The way you’re hoarding in your cabin, I’d think it was a nesting display, but I haven’t read of any such thing with humans.” That gave me a disturbing thought and I did my best to keep my forelimbs and antennae from giving it away. “Is it a nesting display? Are you going into heat?”

“Why, Captain Hintoolia of the Creela, Hin — you don’t mind if I call you Hin? — I think you’ve embarrassed yourself.” She laughed. While it might be taken by some as a threat display, I knew it was a gesture of mirth.

She regained her composure and ran one of her fleshy hands across my shoulder cap carapace. “No, Hin, humans don’t have a season to go ‘in heat’ like some. I’m not hoarding, just storing presents away until Christmas.”

“Again, what is it?!” I’d just broken one of my rules for being a good captain.

Rule twelve: don’t raise your voice in anger or frustration.

She shrunk down in her seat. “Sorry, Captain.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, Kat. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” I settled my wing carapaces and calmed myself. “Please tell me what Christmas is.”

“Christmas is a mid-winter festival,” she said. “It started out with pagans that worshipped the rebirth of the sun, got picked up by a few other religions, then a really popular religion picked up on it as the birth date of their messiah.

“From there, it turned into a more secular, commercial holiday. A decorated tree, like the pagans, a saint turned into a symbol of commerce, stuff like that. Mostly, it’s an excuse for everyone to gather in the dark of winter, eat too much, and exchange gifts.”

“A religious holiday, then?”

“For some. Not for me.”

“As the only human aboard, are you giving all those gifts to yourself?”

She straightened up and her face brightened. “No, silly. Those are everyone’s gifts. The rest of the crew are excited for it. I was going to loop you in at the next port. You’re the last one to join in.”

“Why would you want to celebrate a human midwinter festival on a ship where you’re the only human and there is no winter or summer or even days and nights?”

“Well, I’ve been on the crew for half a cycle, and everyone’s made me feel like part of the family. It just seemed right.” She placed her hand on my shoulder carapace again. “I’ll make you a deal: join us for this, and if you don’t like it, we’ll cancel the plans for the other holidays.”

“Other holidays?” I asked. I hated to admit it, but her fleshy hands felt good on my carapace; warm, smooth, and I could feel her heartbeat.

“We decided that we’d celebrate one holiday from everyone’s home world once a cycle. That’s currently seven holidays per cycle, unless we hire on someone from another world.”

I thought about it. The human hadn’t been nearly as disastrous as I’d been led to believe they were. She was a competent navigator, even finding us a path around a border skirmish that let us get to our destination on time with the fuel we had.

“Deal,” I said, holding out a manipulator for the human “handshake” gesture.

The next station we stopped at for refueling, she invited me to go shopping with her. The experience was at once unnerving and relaxing somehow, as she walked me through the hustle and bustle of the station’s shopping quarter. She pointed out trinkets and knickknacks, naming which crew member each was perfect for.

It was fun until she said, “You should decide who you want to give a gift to. Nobody is forced to participate, and no one will take it badly if you don’t get them something. But if there’s anyone you feel you should give a gift to, now’s the time to get it.”

That sounded fine and well, but I couldn’t, as a “good captain,” only give gifts to specific crew members.

Rule twenty-eight: Never allow favoritism to affect your actions or choices.

I would either need to get everyone a gift, or no one.

Rule sixty: Anything that improves morale without jeopardizing the ship or the mission is a Good Thing.

“Gifts for all it is,” I said. “But, um….”

Rule one: Never be afraid to admit mistakes.

Rule seven: Never hesitate to ask for help when you need it.

“Kat, I’m very sorry, but I wasn’t paying close attention when you were pointing out which items were a good choice for specific crew members. Could you…help me?”

Her face brightened. “Of course, Hin! Let’s do it!”

I worried that her sudden exuberance might cause an issue in the crowded shops. I needn’t have worried; she navigated them as though she had an innate sense of where the crowd would part and where it would compact. Maybe it was one of those mythical human powers I’d heard about. I decided I’d ask her about it another time.

We were finishing up at the last shop and she was so excited I thought her skeleton would jump out of its meat…or however that human saying goes. She’d found the “perfect” gloves for the engineer, a four-armed creature with six grasping digits on each manipulator that could move in ways that would make one think they didn’t have an endoskeleton.

After paying for the gloves, she bounced out of the shop to wait for me on the promenade. The shopkeeper totaled up my purchases and piled them into a disposable tote. “Humans, huh?” he asked.

I just clacked my mandibles once and caught up to her on the promenade. “We’re done, right?” I asked.

She pointed to a small shop. “One more stop,” she said. The shop had human goods; mugs shaped for human manipulators — although the size of some of them made me think that some humans must be gargantuan — shirts made for a body with two arms on level with the head opening, and a host of trinkets, gadgets, and snacks that I didn’t begin to comprehend.

We carried our goods in, and she walked up to a side counter and waved over a human working there. “We have a bunch of gift-wrapping to do.”

“No problem,” the human male said. “What’s the occasion?”

“We’re declaring it Christmas.”

“Nice! If you fill out those slips there and put each one with the item we’ll get ’em wrapped and tagged for you.”

She filled out the slips and laid out the gifts, fifteen in all, including the gloves for the engineer. How she could remember what gift went to which crew member was beyond me, but she did seem to have a sharp mind when she applied herself.

“I’ll ping your comm when these are ready,” the human male said.

“Sure,” Kat said, “let me give you my con—”

“Contact me, instead,” I said. “Most of these are my fault anyway.”

“You sure, Cap?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Can you check with the courier office and see if there are any priority packages we can pick up for Sigre-7 station? It’s not much, but a little extra cash doesn’t hurt.”

“Sure thing, Cap. When you’re done you can stow all that in my cabin. I don’t mind, since it’s just until the next jump. We’ll celebrate while we’re in the lane with nothing else to do.”

Navigator Katerina was not the only person capable of sneaky planning. I don’t know what got me so in the mood, but as soon as she left the shop, I caught the male’s attention.

“What would be a good gift for an adult human female, class one navigator?” I asked.

“Tell me some more about her,” he said, “and we’ll figure it out together.”

I left the packages on the pile in her cabin, save one that I hid in my own cabin. Something made me want to surprise her with it. I wasn’t sure whether it was a dominance thing or a predator thing or something else entirely.

True to her word, as soon as we jumped and were in the hyperlane, she set the small artificial tree on a table in the mess and piled the packages around it. She asked me to wait for everyone in the mess while she gathered them all.

On the way, I snuck the package out of my cabin and hid it at the bottom of the pile of packages. Just in time, too, as the entire crew piled in in a rush.

Kat entered, wearing a hat like the one in the picture of the fat human, and called out, “Merry Christmas!”

We all returned the greeting, curious about what would happen next.

She pulled a tray of snacks out of the galley, along with mild-intoxicant drinks. The snacks and drinks were all different for each species’ specific metabolism. Guessing by the sweet-grubs and prathjuice she supplied for myself and Loadmaster Misteel, they were all special occasion dishes and drinks.

“Now,” she said, “while we all sit around and get fat and happy, I’ll play Santa and pass out the presents.” With that, she began picking up the packages and delivering them to the person on the tag.

After she’d delivered three or four, she stopped and looked at us. “Well, go ahead and open them! Half the fun is discovering what you got!”

It soon turned into a frenzy of ripping open the brightly colored paper, being pleasantly surprised by the thoughtful gift, finding the tag, and thanking the one that provided the gift. Kat laughed and sang some silly song in a human language that was peppy and bouncy.

At Kat’s suggestion, I had gotten Engineer Gr’flktn a multi-tool with a knife that seemed to fascinate her to no end. Even as she opened other gifts, she kept manipulating the tool in one hand, opening a tool, feeling it, then closing it.

“Cut-proof gloves?!” Gr’flktn called out. “Kat! How did you know?”

Kat put an arm around her and pointed to the bandages on three of her digits. “I’m observant.”

It seemed as though every one of the crew bought me something. Some were decorations for my admittedly sparsely furnished cabin, some were treats from my home world, and one, from Kat, was an antique navigation calculator.

It was beat-up and of no use for modern navigation, but it was the same make and model as my brood-mother’s brood-mother had used so many cycles ago. It looked just like the one that sat on the shelf in my brood-mother’s home.

I turned it over, and there it was, the markings my ancestor had made on it when she received it brand new.

“How…how did you get this?” I asked.

Last time we were on Krola station, I called your brood-mother to find out what would be a good gift for you. She said she wanted to pass it on, and had it couriered to one of the stations on our route. So, I guess it’s really from your mom.”

“My brood-mother may have supplied it, but you were the one who thought to reach out to her to ask. And that was only a few ship-days after you boarded.”

“Well, you were willing to take a chance on a human, so I thought I would get you something that showed I appreciated it.” She went back to handing out the gifts until the only one left was the one I’d placed there.

There were murmurs and apologies from the crew for not getting her something, when she’d done so much for everyone. The general consensus was that they’d make it up to her next time.

“Really, don’t worry, guys. Everyone here has been so helpful. I told you, you didn’t have to get me anything, and I meant it. Giving gifts is the best part for me, anyway.”

There was a great deal of conversation going while she looked at the package. I got the feeling that she’d be getting special treatment from most of the crew for a while.

Finally, she opened the package, and her eyes began leaking liquid. I’d heard this was a bad thing. “I—I’m sorry,” I said, “if that made you—”

“No,” she cut me off, “there’s nothing to apologize for.” She lifted the tea mug with built-in strainer out of the box and showed everyone the picture of her as a child with her parents on the mug.

“I guess the guy at the gift store helped you find my socials,” she said, “but it’s just so thoughtful of you. It’s been ages, but I still miss them every day, and now they’ll always be by my side on the bridge. Thank you so much.”

Gr’flktn tested the cut-proof gloves with the very sharp blade of the multi-tool, then turned to me. “Captain, have you decided whether you’ll extend Kat’s contract, or are you still thinking it will be just the one cycle?”

Rule fifty-four: Good crew members are hard to find, so when you find one, sign them for as long as you can.

“I think we can negotiate a long-term contract with the union, if you are so inclined Kat? I mean, this is only my first Christmas, and I wouldn’t want to mess it up next cycle.”

prompt: Write a story about two or more characters who don’t speak each other’s language (literally or metaphorically), but still find a way to communicate.

available at Reedsy

When she moved in, I knew nothing about her; even her species and sex was a question to me. Sure, there are a few non-humans on this back-washed mining planet — mostly running away from the law on their home worlds — but she wasn’t even one of the recognized member species of the Combine.

News of the war was always slow to arrive out here, but we all knew that it was going well for the Combine, not so well for the invaders. We knew them as the Skags, their proper name replaced even in serious news with the pejorative-sounding pronunciation.

The last news we had was that one of their colony worlds, home of one of their “client species” — known in the rest of the galaxy as slaves — had been liberated by Combine forces led by the Terran Union Navy and TU Marines.

She was small compared to most species of the Combine. Humans are short and compact, sure, as we come from a relatively high-gravity planet, but she was as short as me, at 150 centimeters. Despite that, she moved as though the gravity was in the perfect range for her.

I mean, I got used to it after a few months, but I don’t know how many times I banged my head on the ceiling trying to run. Moving gracefully in one-third gravity is something that takes practice for a human from Earth.

She was bipedal, with a long, slender, prehensile tail, and four long arms with four-fingered hands. Her legs and arms had one too many joints, but she moved as though she was made of water.

Her head was positioned somewhere between a straight-ahead gaze and an upturned gaze as a quadruped would have. She was covered in a rust-orange fur with a pale ridge of bristle running from between the dark spots above her eyes — which I would later learn were heat pits — to the back of her head, like a mohawk that was longest at the crest; about ten centimeters. Her eyes were bright yellow and round, with no sclera that I could discern.

Of course, having heard nothing of her species, I looked it up on the ’net. She was a klimarti from what the Combine knows as Haverun-Beta two. So far, little was known about their native language, but they also spoke a broken form of Skag due to being unable to voice many of the complex vowels of the language.

They were known to be primarily herbivorous but opportunistic omnivores, the males all displaying complex patterns of black and orange and the females being a solid color. When they had just begun to build cities, the Skag moved in and made them a “client species,” putting them to work in massive agriculture projects.

As the Combine had freed their planet and driven the Skags out, it was odd that she’d be here. There must be more to the story, but as there were no translations yet built for her kind, there would be no way to ask her.

Regardless, I thought she might feel isolated in a sea of aliens. That wouldn’t do. I would have to do something to let her know she wasn’t alone, and that she was welcome here, a simple gesture.

Sneak rubbed against my legs and let out a plaintive meow. I looked over and saw that his bowl was still half-full, but the bottom was visible in the middle. I picked up the bowl, put it on the counter and smoothed the food out with a spoon so the entire bottom was covered.

That seemed to placate him and gave me an idea as well. “Sneak, that’s a wonderful idea,” I said. With the information I had on their diet — at least as far as we knew — I had the perfect plan.

After a short trip to the market, I set about making a mess of my cramped kitchen. It wasn’t often I got to do things like this, even though it always put me in a good mood.

So it was, later that afternoon, that I knocked on her door, a fresh apple pie in hand. I could hear movement on the other side of the door, then nothing.

I wondered if she could see me through the door with her heat pits. Just in case, I raised a hand and waved. “Just wanted to say welcome to town…and, um…the planet.”

The door opened a crack and a bright yellow eye peeked out. She said something that sounded like music played on an oboe, soft and sweet and plaintive.

I offered the pie and she looked at it with what I took to be confusion. I mimed eating it and offered it again.

The door opened a bit more and one of her hands came out and touched the pie where the filling had bubbled through the cutouts in the crust. Seeing the sticky bit on her finger, I mimed tasting my own finger.

Her hand disappeared behind the door and a moment later her eye opened wide, her pupil dilated to an uncanny size, and the door opened the rest of the way. She eyed the pie and spoke in her musical language again.

I took it to be a question and held the pie for her to take. “Yes, for you.”

She took it carefully in her upper hands while her lower hands reached out as if to steady my arm at the elbow. Her touch was gentle, but I could feel the rough callouses of hard work.

Once she had hold of the pie, her lower hands moved to cradle the tin from the base, and she carried it into her flat carrying it as though it were a precious, fragile thing.

I stood at the open door, unsure of what to do until she set the pie on the table and motioned me in. At least I understood that.

Once I was in the flat, she rushed to shut the door after ensuring the hallway was clear. I didn’t know what she’d experienced, but it must’ve been traumatic.

She offered to help me into a chair. Her every action was subservient. This won’t do, I thought. I moved past her, pulled out a chair for her and motioned for her to sit. She looked confused but sat anyway.

Knowing how these flats were kitted out, I went to her kitchen and pulled out two forks, two plates, and a knife. I set out the plates and forks, and cut two slices from the pie, placing hers on her plate first.

After I sat, she was still looking at the fork and slice of pie unsure of what to do. I picked up my fork and showed her by example. In just a couple tries she got the hang of it.

With every bite, she savored it, making a high-pitched tweeting sound I took to be giggling. I shared small talk with her, and she responded in her own language. Neither of us understood what the other was saying, but we got the context: just two friendly neighbors enjoying a chat.

She’d finished her slice of pie and looked at the remaining pie in the tin. I winked at her. “Help yourself,” I said.

I guess she understood, because she forked another bite out, directly from the tin. I chuckled and followed suit and she made her musical giggling noise again.

Continuing that way, we demolished half the pie between the two of us before I pointed at myself and said, “Kara.”

She caught on right away and after some practice could sing my name in the most beautiful version I’d ever heard. She pointed at herself and sang, “Zille-e.”

The pitch changes were pretty close to the singsong I use when I’m looking for Sneak, singing “Here, kitty kitty.” I sang her voice that way and she patted my shoulders with her upper hands, making the melodic giggle sounds.

I managed to teach her “yes” and “no” with much miming and example. She taught me how to sing a greeting. I’m not sure whether it’s just “hello” or “good morning” or what, but I learned it.

We spent a while longer just enjoying each other’s company. I think I’m starting to get a read on her expressions. She sang something and looked at me as if waiting for an answer.

I said, “Uh, yes?”

She squinted and let out the giggle sound again before patting my shoulder. I think she made a joke at my expense. Felt good. I joined in the laughter.

As the afternoon wore on, I could see she was starting to fade; sugar crash, I guessed. I excused myself after exchanging an at first awkward, then quite warm and friendly hug as she caught on to what I was doing.

I think I found a new friend.

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.