SFReader Discussion Forums : 2003 Winners http://forum.sfreader.com/ Copyright (c) 2006-2013 Web Wiz Forums - All Rights Reserved. Tue, 14 Apr 2026 13:27:10 +0000 Sun, 01 Mar 2015 19:53:51 +0000 http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Web Wiz Forums 11.03 30 forum.sfreader.com/RSS_topic_feed.asp?FID=10 <![CDATA[SFReader Discussion Forums]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_images/web_wiz_forums.png http://forum.sfreader.com/ <![CDATA[2003 Winners : 1st place - I Found Love on Channel 3, by Bruce Go]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=16&PID=16&title=1st-place-i-found-love-on-channel-3-by-bruce-go#16 Author: SFReader
Subject: 1st place - I Found Love on Channel 3, by Bruce Go
Posted: Mar-01-2015 at 7:53pm

I Found Love on Channel 3
by Bruce Golden

Okay, I admit it. I had this... this affair with a cartoon--an animated babe. I don't mean she was hyper, I mean she was a drawing--you know, not real. No, that's wrong. She was real all right, but she was a real cartoon, like Mickey Mouse or Roger Rabbit. Confused? Believe me, I was too. But I don't expect you to believe me. I wouldn't believe it myself, if she wasn't the best thing that ever happened to me. She was this vibrant, tough, intelligent woman. All right, she was a cartoon, but she was still a woman. A woman I fell in love with.

You can choose to believe me or you can laugh it off as one man's perverted fantasy. I don't really care what you think, because I lived it. I know it happened.

That first time it was late, like most of my nights were. I had the TV on, and I was a little drunk and a little stoned. Hell, there wasn't even a decent old movie on, so I was flicking the remote like I was getting paid by the channel. On top of my boredom I was feeling a little lonely, and more than a little horny. It had been a while.

It seemed to me that life, of late, had dealt me a rather putrid hand. I won't bore you with the insipid details, but I was as low as a lizard's belly. Half the time I walked around in a daze, like I'd been hit by a bag of nickels. One more straw and it wouldn't be just my back that broke.

I'm flipping from station to station when this one program catches my eye. Something I hadn't seen before--a whimsical mixture of science fiction and fantasy. I didn't know if it was one of those obscure, animated Japanese films or a regular series. So I'm about to zap the remote again when she swings into my picture. I mean literally swung in on some cable right into a cluster of Brand X bad guys.

She had high cheekbones and long hair as deep, dark red as the Merlot I'd been drinking. A thin, silver headband kept it out of her tempestuous green eyes. The black leather strips she wore were just enough for the modesty of the censors, and the flesh it did expose was every comic book artist's ideal of sinewy yet supple perfection. In other words, she had it all.

Her boots pounded the head of yet another generically depraved minion as she drew her rapier from its ebony scabbard and began dealing death to and fro. She'd feint to the left just as her blade licked out like a serpent's tongue to the right. Leap and parry, roll and thrust. Her battle dance was as deadly as it was seductive.

Waging war with my own lethargy, I found myself imagining what it would be like to get naked and do the nasty with this voluptuous heroine darting across my TV screen. And this, of course, is where you're going to think that I've totally lost touch with reality. You'll probably write it off as drug-induced, or maybe severe manic depression. I know I did... at least at first.

I was still fantasizing about what it would be like to be deep inside such a powerful woman, tempering her pleasure with every stroke, when she comes flying boots-first through the television screen and lands with a distinct thud on my living room carpet.

I did what any red-blooded American male would do in that situation--I froze. I sat there with my mouth hanging open and my hand clutching the remote as if it were a high-tech crucifix that would ward off televised apparitions. For the first time in my life, I thought I'd blown a fuse.

There was something odd about her that added to my understandable amazement. She no longer looked like--well, like a drawing. In becoming three-dimensional, her flesh tones had taken on depth, her emerald eyes the spark of life. But there was still something not quite right about her color--about the corporeality of her presence. It was as if she were only part human, and still part the pen and ink of someone's imagination. At that moment, however, with her standing there flashing the look of a trapped panther, blood dripping off her sword onto my coffee table, I had no doubt of her existence.

"What wizardry is this?" she demanded in character as both her eyes and her bladethreatened my very existence. "Who are... ?"

Before she could get the "who?" out of the way, the big "where?" popped into her head. She scanned the room as if she'd just gotten off the bus in Bizarreville. My black and white photo of Leonard Nimoy seemed to intrigue her, but she didn't know what to make of the stuffed Alf doll. Then she saw the television and just about freaked. The show, her show, was still on. She saw the villainous hordes she'd been doing battle with and spun into a fighting stance, knocking over my Tony Gwynn-autographed baseball. The bad guys were searching for her, looking everywhere. But it wouldn't do them any good, because she was in my living room

"It's all right," I found myself saying, "nobody's going to hurt you here."

"Where is this?"

"You're in my house. I don't know how you got here, but you're obviously here."

"Where is this house? What strange world is this?"

"Well, until a minute ago, I thought this was the real world. Now I'm not sure what's real. But you can put your sword down. I swear no one is going to hurt you here. Please."

She regained some of her regal composure as she surveyed the room and decided there was no immediate danger. One look at me cowering against the cushions of my couch made it obvious that I was no threat. So she sheathed her sword and turned her attention back to what was on the TV screen.

"That's... my world?" It was part statement, part question.

"That's where I was watching you, until you popped in unexpectedly." "This is a window between worlds?"

Not only heroic and gorgeous, she was bright too.

"Yeah, I guess it is. Actually, it's a window to many worlds. Watch this."

I aimed the remote at the TV and click--I changed the channel to CNN, which was airing a report on a new electric car.

That, as I was momentarily to discover, was a big mistake.

As I watched her watching the television, I noticed she began to change. Her colors weren't quite as bright, her presence not quite as imposing. She was dwindling away, becoming transparent. When I finally realized was happening, she had all the substance of a ghost.

As fast as I could fumble with the remote, I switched back to her show. But it was too late. She had vanished--at least from my living room. I saw her there, back on the screen. She looked disoriented for a moment, and that moment was just enough for the bad guys to drop a wire mesh net over her.

That was it. That's where the episode ended. They rolled credits over scenes from previous shows and I dove for my TV Guide. The name of the show was Phaedra, The Warrior Princess, and it was on Channel 3 five nights a week at that same time.

###

I couldn't get to my TV quickly enough the next night. I left it on Channel 3 more than an hour before the show was due--just in case. Instead of working, I had spent the day worrying. Worrying what might happen to her in the hands of the villain--though I told myself she was the show's star, and that nothing really bad could happen to her. I also worried that I'd never see her again, except on television. And, I worried plenty about my sanity. Who wouldn't after what I'd seen?

So I waited. But this time I didn't have anything to drink or smoke, I didn't even want to eat. I was damn sure going to be in my right mind if it happened again. I was fairly convinced it wouldn't.

When the show came on I learned she was indeed the title character, and that she now lay at the mercy of the grotesque Dark Prince, who intended to use an odd amalgamation of science and magic to make her his love slave. She had been stripped naked and strapped to a table somewhere deep in the bowels of his citadel. The straps, of course, strategically covered her more feminine parts.

As the episode progressed, there appeared to be no rescue for Phaedra. The Dark Prince was only minutes away from reshaping her mind, and I didn't see any way for her to escape. I couldn't help but wonder if it was all my fault. If I hadn't started fantasizing about her and sucked her into my world, she probably never would have been captured. Yeah, I know, it was schizoid reasoning at best. On one hand I was sure I had imagined the whole thing, and on the other I felt guilty. There was only one way to find out for sure, and only one way to rescue her.

I stood up, closed my eyes, and began thinking about her as hard as I could think. I thought about her straps coming untied... I thought about her cutting the Prince's throat and escaping... I even thought about her beaming into my living room like something out of Star Trek. But nothing worked. I was such a dismal failure I couldn't even hallucinate properly. She was doomed to become the mindless bride of that villain now, unless....

I tried to remember exactly what I had thought of the night before. That was easy--the same thing I was usually thinking about--sex, of course. So I envisioned making love to Phaedra--the passion of her kisses, the power of her thighs, the deep dark red of her--and wham! There was a rush of cold air past me and suddenly I could feel her. I opened my eyes and she was there, right there in my arms, just as naked as she had been on that table.

"You," she said, actually sounding somewhat relieved.

I, of course, was my usual eloquent self. Standing there with this incredibly beautiful,naked woman in my arms, I replied, "Hi."

"You have saved me from the clutches of the Dark Prince," she said, still in character.

"It, uh, was the least I could do."

That's when she kissed me. And it wasn't just any kiss. At least it wasn't like any kissI'd ever had from a real woman. It was a kiss that seared my lips, assaulted my insides with waves of martial spasms, and rendered my legs immobile. It was a TKO.

Have you ever been in a situation like that? Of course not exactly like that. But a situation where you thought, This is too good to be true. Well, that's what I thought at that moment, and I wasn't about to waste a second of it.

I kissed her back, one thing led to another, and we proceeded with the most passionate, most ferocious lovemaking I have ever, or will ever, experience. On the floor, across the couch, in the shower, over the kitchen sink--she couldn't get enough, and who was I to argue?

Somewhere between unbridled lust and rubbed raw passion, she wore me down. We were lying there on the couch and I realized the TV had been on all this time. I let go of her to sit up and check out what was on. Her show was long over with now, and some infomercial had usurped the channel. When I turned back to look at her, she had already begun to dissipate.

"Phaedra!"

She opened her eyes and sprang to her feet like an adrenalized cat, then realized what was happening. I tried to grab her, but it was too late. She faded from my arms like a misty day and vanished.

###

From then on, I was by my television set every night, five nights a week. My weekends were one long holding pattern, waiting for the arrival of her show late Monday. Though it seemed she was staying with me longer and longer after her show finished for the night, we discovered the only sure way to keep her from dematerializing was continuous lovemaking. That led to some marathon sessions I will not elaborate on here. She relished escaping from her violent, barbaric world into mine, and I relished her--the feel of her, the sound of her, the scent of her.

It was the perfect love affair. Perfect, that is, if you fail to consider the fact she was just the figment of someone's imagination. But I no longer worried that I was losing my mind. I didn't care. I was immersed in a cascading pool of bliss. Every night with her was ecstasy, and "reality," whatever that was, be damned. Hell, she called me her "hero." What more could a guy want?

Then, one Monday night, after a particularly long and boring weekend, I turned on my TV and waited for her. I had a bottle of semi-expensive champagne and a new kind of chocolate for her. In the few weeks we'd been together, she was always wanting to try something different from my world.

I no longer had to concoct elaborate sexual fantasies to make her appear. We had established some kind of preternatural link. One quick thought was all it took now. And you could see it in her face. No matter what the creators of her show had her doing in a particular episode, her heart wasn't quite in it. I could tell she was waiting for the moment when I would whisk her away from the fighting and into my arms. I never waited long, and the more she disappeared, the more the show's minor characters began to take center stage. In fact, her "mysterious" disappearances had become part of the plotline, with both her allies and her enemies left to wonder where she had vanished to, and what "magical powers" she had acquired. In the opening of one show, I actually saw Phaedra confide to her maidservant that when she disappeared, she flew into her lover's arms.

So there I was, waiting for her, when I see the opening sequence to an episode of Gilligan's Island. I started messing with the remote, figuring I've got the wrong channel, but I don't. Now I like Ginger and Mary Ann as much as the next guy, but at that moment pure panic clutched my throat. I flashed through the TV listings and there it was, Gilligan's Island, right where Phaedra should've been. I spent the rest of the night looking at every single show in that week's listings, figuring maybe she had been moved to a different time-slot. I frantically stabbed at the remote until my fingers grew numb. But I couldn't find her anywhere. Finally, I drank myself into oblivion with the champagne I had bought for her.

The next day I called the station and found out Phaedra had been cancelled. I'm sure I sounded desperate. But I guess they get a lot of crazies calling about their favorite shows, so the woman on the other end took it in stride. I asked if the show had only been cancelled locally, and whether it might still be on other stations around the country. Even before she answered, I was contemplating what I'd have to do if I relocated to a new city.

"No," she said, the show was an independent that had ceased production, and as far as she knew, there would be no new episodes. I asked her about reruns. "Yes," she said, in time, some station somewhere might pick up the show for reruns. Would her station? She sincerely doubted it. It seems viewers had been complaining about the show's change in focus from its heroine to other characters, and its ratings had nose-dived. Could she give me the address of the production company? Sure.

###

For a long time after that, I wrote letters to the company that had distributed Phaedra, The Warrior Princess, and then to the company which had created the show. I begged, I pleaded, and, in one particularly deranged moment, I even threatened. They thanked me for my interest and my praise, empathized with me, and eventually told me, in so many words, to get a life.

After the third letter they did send me a videotaped copy of one episode, but there was no magic in it. No matter how much I fantasized, no matter how much I conjured up images of the nights we had spent together, Phaedra no longer left her world for mine.

Like any great love affair that's ended, I'm left with wonderful memories, memories that seem to widen the cracks in my heart when I think about them too much. Of course, if you're reading this, you're more likely to think I'm cracked in other places. That's all right, I don't care. I know it was real. I know she was real. I know I touched her, kissed her, and, on occasion, even transformed that stoic warrior look of hers into a childlike smile. She was real all right. She was the love of my life.]]> Sun, 01 Mar 2015 19:53:51 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=16&PID=16&title=1st-place-i-found-love-on-channel-3-by-bruce-go#16 <![CDATA[2003 Winners : 2nd Place - Remainders, by Michael J. Jasper]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=15&PID=15&title=2nd-place-remainders-by-michael-j-jasper#15 Author: SFReader
Subject: 2nd Place - Remainders, by Michael J. Jasper
Posted: Mar-01-2015 at 7:52pm

Remainders
by Michael J. Jasper

Jaret Lazarus forced his eyes to remain open as the Pantheron burned through the entry atmosphere of Socorro. He rested his hand on his upper thigh, a few centimeters from the two rows of five buttons on his belt. The interior of the ship smelled like rotting fruit, sulfur, and sweat, thanks to the proximity of the members of his squadron. He shifted his weight, pulling his gut free from where his belt always pinched his skin, and yawned. He'd never been to Socorro, but he knew it had been one of the first colonized human planets outside of the original solar system. As a man with a past he'd rather forget, Jaret cared little for history.

The conscripts that made up his squadron twitched fitfully in their locked harnesses. Half of them gaped mutely at the scratched metal floor of the ship, as if their brains were shut down, or at least on standby. The other half stared at him with varying degrees of contempt and disdain. Along with their shimmering gray and green uniforms, each wore a thick black collar lined with a band of corrugated metal. None of the ten members of his squadron made eye contact with him for more than a split second.

"Get everyone focused," he called out to Anda, his second-in-command. He unlocked her harness and turned his back on her before she could reply.

Anda stood a foot taller than he, but Jaret knew that as long as he had his belt and she wore her collar, Anda would never turn on him. She was the only other human on board; the rest of the squadron was made up of beings from defeated worlds. Conscription had fulfilled the dual role of keeping the ranks of the Alliance filled, while removing the strongest and ablest bodies from the colonized worlds. As a result, resistance to the interplanetary government was kept to a minimum.

In addition to Anda, Jaret was in command of four Hadras, two Mannatanks, and three oversized, four-legged creatures whose name could not be pronounced by humans without extensive throat-clearing and a series of glottal stops. Jaret called them Bob.

Next to Anda, the only conscripts Jaret could stand were the two Mannatanks. Thick-headed bipeds with dense, bruise-colored bodies, they knew how to fight for a leader, and that's all Jaret needed. The three younger Hadras were too stupid to warrant his time, coming up to him to whine or mewl at him while their flaking scales got caught in the air intake pump of his flight suit. The eldest Hadras simply watched Jaret in guarded silence. The less Jaret had to think about the three Bobs, the better.

With yellow-orange light cutting through his window on his left, Jaret tried to catch Anda's eye.

Forget about her, he told himself, in a voice that sounded far too much like his father's, the weak-minded sot. Then the ship lurched down through the grimy clouds, banking hard to the left before righting itself, and Jaret could see the planet below.

From the few ancient images of the planet he'd been able to view with the aid of his information worms, it was apparent that Socorro had long since seen its better days. The blue-green ocean had become a sea of yellowish phlegm, surrounding a cluster of brown land pockmarked with craters and slashed with ragged mountains. No cities, no high-speed carrier lines, no signs of civilization anywhere, just the occasional hint of trails cutting through the barren rocks and rubble, leading to a handful of dirt-clogged ruins. In the middle of the brown lands was a massive crescent-shaped lake slightly less yellow than the surrounding ocean. The smartpilots were aiming toward this lake.

In the past year, it had come to the attention of the inappropriately-named Native Alliance that Socorro's sun was well on its way of burning itself out, and the natives of Socorro had to be evacuated. Evacuated, then conscripted, Jaret knew, though his superiors hadn't mentioned that.

He squinted out his tiny window at the unhealthy orange light coming from Socorro's sun and grimaced. On this mission, they had at least thirty remainders to recover.

Chasing a Hadras' tail again, Jaret thought, catching himself before he sent out his thoughts to his crew, then wondering an instant later why he bothered. The mission was pointless.

The crusty edges of a dark brown land, shot through with ashy mountains, rose up to meet them as the ship dropped the final few kilometers to the surface. Jaret turned from the window.

"Bunch of rubbernecks," he muttered, repeating it inside his head, for all of them to hear via translation.

With a soft hiss, the ship bumped down onto the ruined ground five hundred meters from a yellow lake. Jaret glanced into the empty cargo hold behind the harness area, hoping there was room enough for whatever remainders they might find on the planet.

"Listen up!" he shouted. Even though he had to mentally say the words carefully inside his head for the aliens who couldn't comprehend his spoken words, vocalizing with this group was a rare treat. "You know your team partner. Each pair is to use the coordinates I'm giving you--" Jaret blinked and sent to each conscripts the maps he'd configured for the mission--"now. Stay within the boundaries of these coordinates, or you'll have a bitch of a crick in your neck when I'm through with you. Search every standing structure and down every hole. Scans showed there were at least a dozen remainders left here, which means there's probably two to three dozen. Get 'em, and bring 'em back to the ship. Keep your suit fields on--" the air crackled with static electricity as all ten soldiers flicked on the invisible force fields their flight suits provided them for hostile environments "--and for sh*t's sake, don't look directly at the sun. Be back in a hundred minutes, Alliance-time, starting... now."

On his final word, the locks on the harnesses snapped open and the ship's two hatches dropped open on either side. Jaret's soldiers leaped through the hatches, landing on two or four legs, their stun spears gripped tight in hands with five, seven, or--as was the case with the Bobs--no fingers. Anda was the last to leave, and she gave Jaret a long look before dropping from the ship. Last night had been a mistake, he knew, but he'd never tell her that.

Jaret called for the smartpilots to close the hatches and enter standby mode, and then he slid outside of himself to manage the recovery effort of his five teams.

"Here we go," he said, his voice never reaching his ears.

His legs went weak, and he lowered himself down onto his chair just in time. Still staring at the wall, he let his mental perspective split and shift, split and shift, and split and shift again, until he had established a presence inside each of his conscripts' heads. His right hand drifted down to the buttons on his belt as he watched the ten different scenes in his mind's eye.

Management by mental proxy was Jaret's specialty. Once the Native Alliance realized that some language barriers would never be overcome between human and aliens, they began work to cut out the middleman of language altogether, communicating directly with the minds of the aliens. Going outside of his head gave Jaret amazingly bad migraines for a few hours afterward, but he was good at it, and he liked never leaving the ship.

With a sigh, Jaret forced away all distractions--spacewalking, as his father would've called it. His father had been killed by an Aborgan (carrying a handmade rock-firing gun) who definitely did not want to join the Native Alliance; Pop had been stupid enough to leave his ship to help when things went sour.

With all ten perspectives now locked inside his head, Jaret began his rotation, touching the minds of each of his conscripts, reinforcing his orders and checking status.

He keyed in first on the youngest Hadras, whose teammate was the Elder Hadras. The young Hadras--Jaret called it Blue for the color of the design on its scaly back that formed a series of blue infinity signs--Blue and the Elder Hadras were arguing in their native tongue. The Elder had drifted away from Blue, though both Hadra were having to half-hop, half-slither over the rough terrain on its almost-vestigial legs. Neither of them was moving in the same direction. Jaret grimaced. Why the bosses had ever thought the serpentine Hadras would be good for military service was beyond him.

Jaret slipped into the Elder's head for a moment, and after getting through the simple-minded creature's angry, impatient thoughts--get the bastard's fat hand off his belt and bite off his fat head was the general gist of the Elder's internal monologue--he saw that he was headed for the first in a series of caves. Blue was stubbornly following, at last.

The rugged landscape was desolate, no signs of life other than the hint of an old path leading to the caves. Jaret made a note to come back to Blue and the Elder when they entered the first cave, and jumped to Red Hadras, on the second team.

Take your time, you dumb rock, the Hadras was thinking, following Grunt, the first Mannatank, as they crept around the coast of the yellow lake. The female Red was content to slither along after Grunt, who was lifting up rocks that had to be heavy as a Mannatank to look under them, sniffing everything with its double noses.

Jaret grinned and prepared himself for the inevitable enthusiasm of Grunt's mind. He flipped. Once there, he could only remain inside what passed for Grunt's brain for a few moments, otherwise the repetition of C'mander-Lazarus-want-me-to-find-them, want-to-make-C'mander-Lazarus-proud, got-to-bring-'em-back-to-C'mander-Lazarus would have driven Jaret insane.

He flipped from Grunt to Jab, Grunt's female litter-mate, in the third team.

Can't-believe-he-put-them-together, Jab was thinking, the words running together with their acidity. Stupid-human-with-the-damn-belt, safe-on-the-ship, putting-me-with-this-snake, wasting-my-time-by-this-lake, and-then-the-other-team...

Jaret winced at Jab's methodical inner voice cutting his mission plan to shreds with critical precision. Jab was too much like Anda--never satisfied with any of Jaret's decisions.

He quickly left Jab's mind and flipped to Green Hadras, Jab's teammate. Green's thoughts, as always, were hidden, surprising for a low-intelligence species like a Hadras, but Jaret felt something low murmuring in the back of the female's mind. Probably planning some sort of chaos, Jaret figured, as a worship offering for her damned church.

After a moment's hesitation, Jaret jumped to Anda.

Go to hell, Jaret, she thought in a sing-song voice that matched her long strides. And get the hell out of my head, you stupid spacewalker.

At first Jaret thought she was simply mad about being paired off with one of the Bobs, or most likely she was still angry about last night, when Jaret wouldn't let her take the collar off for just ten minutes of lovemaking on his hammock.

Skipping a leap into the un-mind of Anda's four-legged partner, Jaret keyed in on one of the members of the fifth team, and the critical mistake he'd made hit him like a blast in the face from a jury-rigged rock gun.

He immediately thought of a list of excuses: this was only his third mission with this batch of conscripts, his time had been short in preparing for this mission, and he'd been so preoccupied with Anda that he'd thrown together the teams quickly, at the last minute, just before the ship left orbit. He'd given no more thought to their makeup, until now.

The fifth team was composed of two Bobs.

Plowing headlong like horses across the cracked flatland south of the mountains Their four slender legs covering five meters with each stride, the two Bobs were still within the search parameters that Jaret had given them. But within twenty seconds, at the rate the big hump-backed beasts were running, they would be out of it. He saw the ridges running down the backbone of the first Bob, running bent over in front of the other Bob. Judging from the wild, unrelenting thoughts of the second Bob, both creatures were in male mode, at the height of their aggression cycle, and they were trying to outrun the range of their collars.

"sh*t!" Jaret said, inadvertently breaking off the links to all but the two running Bobs for less than a second.

All Jaret heard in their un-minds was the angry repetition of the word in the common language of Xeno: Tradrapra. Escape. Jaret gave both Bobs a mentally invasive order to stop; the only other action he could take beyond that was to go for the buttons on his belt.

Nothing. Just Tradrapra Tradrapra Tradrapra.

And then Jaret realized he'd left his other eight conscripts unattended.

For three seconds, the world slowed for Jaret Lazarus.

He blocked out all self-doubt and hesitation in his mind for the first time in years, which allowed him to work at ten times his normal speed. He mentally flipped wide, back to all ten conscripts, reconnecting to the groupmind with a white-hot stab of pain just behind his eyes. Without pausing he went from all ten to Anda, ordering her to cover the Bob on her team (her Bob was fully in female mode, Jaret saw, no ridges on its back and a strangely thoughtful look on its anvil-shaped face).

Then he went to the two runaway Bobs. They were at the perimeter of their assigned search area.

Jaret jabbed the corresponding buttons on his belt. As his first hypercharged second ended, he felt the un-mind of one of the Bobs go suddenly blank inside his head.

Without waiting for the second Bob to pop, he flipped over to Blue on the first team with another jab of eye-watering pain.

One of the Bobs got away, the back of his mind whispered.

Blue and the Elder were wrestling with each other at the entrance to the first set of caves. Rolling on the glass-like shards of black rock, the Elder hammered on Blue with its tail, but Blue managed to squirm away and keep the mad Elder at bay. Jaret ordered them to stop.

A second and a half had passed when Jaret flipped to Red Hadras.

Red, the alpha female of the Hadra, stood quivering on one leg with her tail poised at Grunt. The over-eager Mannatank sat gasping in the thick, unmoving water of the yellow lake. His blocky legs were in the air, and he was trying to hold closed a thin gash that had been cut into his suit. Tendrils of smoke slipped from the hole.

The buzzing in Jaret's head felt like it was cutting through his eardrums.

Red stood poised to lash out at Grunt again. Again Jaret gave orders to stop and flipped to the next team. The third second began.

Green Hadras was hunched over, tail in the air as she held the head of Jab in both of her small, scaly hands. Jab's blocky, over-sized body lay motionless next to Green.

No. Jaret risked a glance down at the buttons on his belt as stabbing pain pierced his forehead.

Jaret gave an invasive order for the rest of the squadron to stay right where they were. The inside of the ship was going dim and gray. Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his head, he keyed in on Anda one last time.

Die, you brainless pile of sh*t! Anda screamed inside her mind as she jabbed her stun spear repeatedly into her Bob. Jaret! Give me some help here, damn it!

All the Bobs seemed to share one brain, or what passed for a brain in a Bob, and Jaret imagined this Bob had lost control after feeling the head-popping of the two other Bobs. Using the limited scope of mental communication abilities that Jaret had started teaching her, Anda was also beginning to realize what happened to the other Bobs, and Jaret's -up with Jab.

"We have collar activity," Jaret said to her.

Jaret! Anda's thoughts flashed into his head. Pop this Bob, will you? I need to go help the others!

"Watch out," Jaret said, punching the button for the Bob's collar. He tried to make his internal voice louder, more forceful in spite of the agony blooming throughout his entire head.

"Gather the others together," he added and then he realized he'd been speaking out loud, not inside his head.

"," he said. Inside his head, Anda called out his name, telling him she was on her way to the lake to meet up with the others. Three times he repeated that they were having collar activity. But Anda kept shouting the same information at him, not acknowledging his voice.

She could no longer hear him. Jaret closed his eyes to stop the interior of the ship from spinning around him, and the shooting pain inside his head tripled. He could smell his own sour sweat, and the taste of bile filled the back of his throat.

Anda could no longer hear him.

###

With his eyes closed and his consciousness gone, Jaret saw his history flash by him in a sickening rush.

He had once been a man with direction. Five Alliance years ago, Jaret was given command of a twenty-soldier task force with the mission of taking down an on-surface officer in charge of the incubation clinics of New Jericho, a city on Ardath II.

Jaret himself was a product of incubation. His birth carrier was a faceless, paid incubator on the science vessel Peregrine. She, or it, had been a warm body that Jaret hoped was human. He'd had enough of the aliens in his command; it would kill him to think he'd started his life inside a creature like one of his rubbernecks.

The officer, Ruttgers, was making deals with smugglers and slavers, selling off half of each group of the kidnapped alien incubators. He would send just enough of the incubators up to the science vessels in orbit above Ardath II to avoid suspicion, keeping the remaining females to sell as he pleased.

Jaret and his young soldiers were eager to please, and they raided Ruttgers' holding bay in the middle of a deal. Jaret hadn't planned for the slaver negotiating with Ruttgers to bring any firepower, let alone twelve Mannatanks.

His soldiers had been either cut to pieces by their pulse guns or ripped to pieces by the armored Mannatanks. Just before taking off again, the slaver, thinking he'd been double-crossed, drew an ancient sword and removed Ruttgers' head from his body, an old-fashioned form of head-popping.

Since that time, Jaret had learned not to overextend himself. His squadrons shrank in size, and their composition went from human soldiers to mostly non-humans. Just like his father, Jaret was a head case. But he was staying safe.

That had been his guiding philosophy for years, right up until the moment he keyed the wrong button on his belt, activating the wrong collar and popping the wrong alien rubberneck.

###

After an unforgivable twelve seconds without contact with his party, Jaret Lazarus opened his eyes and looked down at his bare hands. They were locked into fists and pressing into his knees from where he had fallen to the cold ship floor.

The pain in his head had eased a fraction, and he called up his squadron as fast as he dared. The teams were starting to regroup, thanks to Anda, who was rounding up Red and Grunt by the lake after incapacitating her Bob. She slapped an adhesive band over the tear in Grunt's suit and pulled him from the lake.

Jaret flipped to Green. Hidden behind a wall of rock, the female Hadras crept closer to the three others by the lake. Green carried a stun-spear in her left hand and Jab's oval-shaped head in her right. Green, with her cropped tentacles and silver arm bands, was a member of the Chaos Church of Hadras, and she was reveling in this moment of madness.

Hadra anarchist, Jaret thought. He tried to mentally nudge her toward Anda and the others, but Green wasn't listening.

Neither of the other two Bobs was responding, but Jaret could feel mental traces of one of them out there; that Bob was probably going to run until it hit the yellow ocean.

Jaret tried flipping to Blue and the Elder to tell them to stay where they were, but neither responded. He could barely get a feel for their minds. Knowing them, they had either killed one another, or they had entered the cave and out of his reach.

"Anda," he tried again, but she still didn't hear him. With a long sigh, Jaret looked at the closed hatches leading outside. Pulling himself to his feet, he picked up the pulse gun he'd hidden inside his chair.

Never leave the ship--that was the mantra of all proxy commanders. But he'd fucked up and needed to make amends. Which meant that, for the first time in over a hundred missions, Jaret Lazarus, just like his father before him, was going to do just that: leave his ship.

###

Already breathing hard, he was half a kilometer from the ship when he realized the futility of his situation. He touched the pulse gun he'd taken from his chair. Jaret was tempted to turn it on himself. It would be so easy, to just end it all, right here. His career was over. Why not?

But something stopped him, something more than just his desire to undo the mess he'd made of this mission. It was Anda--how would she react to the painful, maddening silence his death would cause inside her head? Would she even care?

Oh no, you don't! Anda's voice cut through Jaret's thoughts of suicide. Don't put all this off on me! We have nothing, Jaret! Go ahead and pull the trigger.

He whirled, thinking she was right behind him, but all he saw was the barren field of rock he'd just passed over, and the Pantheron sitting, wings folded-up, on the other side of it.

I'm right here, Jaret, you coward. Over by the lake.

"Anda?" Jaret felt the itching sensation in his brain again. To test a theory, he stopped walking and created a mental image of Anda on her back last night, wearing only her collar, begging him to let her loose, just once.

Get over here now, Anda shouted inside his head. Don't think you can hide from me just because you stopped giving orders. And stop thinking about you and me in your quarters last night.

Finally catching his breath, Jaret felt a glimmer of hope form inside his chest in spite of Anda's rage. He looked down at the pulse gun in his hand, and quickly stuffed it into a pocket of his suit. Not just yet, he thought.

As he moved over the rocks and inhaled the salty stench that grew stronger the closer he got to the lake, he tried not to think about two nagging questions: the first had to do with where Blue and the Elder Hadras were--he still hadn't picked up their thoughts, but he hadn't felt their deaths, either--and the second had to do with why the hell he even cared about any of the rubbernecks in the first place.

###

Jaret collected Green before she could cause any trouble and found Anda, Red, and Grunt gathered next to the lake. From the vile looks aimed at him, it was obvious they'd all figured out what had happened to Jab.

"Let's go," he said, his voice sharp when he saw Anda. "We still have a mission to complete. And now we have some rubbernecks to track down as well."

Without waiting for them, ignoring the stitch running up his left side into his armpit, Jaret turned and began a slow jog toward the jagged line of the mountains and the caves they contained. The thud of four sets of feet grudgingly followed him. Above them, the orangish-red sun blazed down at them at exactly midday. Jaret panted and grunted, slipping back in the line to let Anda scamper ahead of him, followed by the others.

Finally they made it to the mouth of the first cave, and the shock of cool air hit Jaret the instant he stepped into the darkness.

"Get your night eyes on," he said in the Xeno language, hoping his conscripts couldn't hear how out of breath he was. He slid a finger over each eye to activate the night-vision lenses implanted in his eyes, blinking quickly to adjust them.

None of the conscripts had questioned him using his voice instead of speaking inside their heads. They must have felt the moment when his mind had its meltdown and his inner voice was silenced.

They're laughing at me and my clumsy damn Xeno words, he thought. I just know it. Spacewalker Lazarus.

The cave walls were scraped clean in an elliptical pattern, with ridges thick as fingers burrowing through the stone like tiny ditches. They didn't have to go far to find the first missing member of their party. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet odor of alien blood. Twenty paces inside the cave, propped up against a rusted metal hatch, lay the body of the third Bob.

Its four long legs were twisted into two knots, spattered with green clots of Bob blood. It dangled face-down, the metal hatch against its wide, three-sectioned chest. Its collar lay on the cave floor next to its body, unopened, as if the Bob had simply slipped the tight collar over its block-like head.

Jaret didn't have to tell his conscripts to freeze. They had all either stopped or began the slow process of retreating out of the cave.

How the hell did he end up here? he wondered, touching the Bob's choke collar. Jaret should've felt it the instant the Bob tried to take off the collar--the sensors in the collar would have caused it to automatically head-pop the stupid creature.

The outcome was the same, Jaret figured. Dead was dead.

"Leave him, for now," he said, looking at the hole cut into the floor next to the open hatch. The Bob's body was slightly blocking the cool breeze coming from it. They were going to have to go down there. Blue and the Elder were probably strewn out on the cave floor as well, just like the hapless runaway on the ground next to him.

"All right," he said. "Let's go down and get those damn idiots."

Jaret wasn't surprised to see Grunt drop into the hole first, before the others were able to move the Bob out of the way. The Mannatank barely made it through, half-dragging the dead Bob after him when his broad shoulders caught one of the Bob's dangling feet. With a gruesome snapping sound, the Bob's foot broke off on the rock-like skin of the Mannatank. More Bob blood flowed down the hole after Grunt, who landed with a noisy thud.

Still hefting the oversized stun spear she'd taken from her Bob, Anda pushed Red and Green after Grunt.

"Staying back here?" she said on her way down, holding herself halfway in and halfway out of the hole by her big hands. She made sure to keep clear of the muck oozing from the dead Bob. "To keep watch, I suppose?"

"Take the rear," he ordered as he followed her down into blackness. He landed hard and looked up at Anda standing next to him. He hated that she was almost a head taller than him. "Mark our entry spot with a transmitter. We may need to make a quick retreat."

Jaret pushed Green in front of him and told the Hadras which way to go in the branching passages by tapping on one or the other of its scaly sides. He could feel something in his mind that could have been the minds of Blue and the Elder, and he led his squadron in the direction of that itching sensation, allowing it to grow stronger.

The stink of the dead Bob was gone now, blown away by a cool, salt-tinged breeze coming from the passageway they had entered. The walls here were smoother than the other cave, and occasional symbols floated past in the weak light, images of two-legged creatures walking upright.

Remainders, Jaret thought, glancing at an image on the wall next to him. The female depicted in the image could have been human--should have been human, Jaret thought, remembering his orders--except the proportions were all wrong: shortened legs, too-long arms, and hair that reminded Jaret of snakes.

Then he was past the carving and the smell of salt almost overwhelmed him. At the scent he nearly stopped his party and turned back, even though he was feeling what had to be the Elder's constantly arguing mind just ahead of them, along with a fear-filled mental impression of Blue.

But before he could say the words out loud that would halt the rest of his squadron, the walls on either side fell away from them, and Jaret's vision went black.

In the panic that ensued, Jaret pulled out his pulse gun, but when even as it began humming, the gun was plucked from his hand. Jaret fell backwards, never thought he'd stop falling, down through the cavern, until the unforgiving rock floor slammed into the back of his head.

###

Anda was there, inside his head, before Jaret ever opened his eyes: They took you out first, the instant you pulled out that damn gun. What the hell were you thinking, Jaret?

Shut your mouth! Jaret shouted inside his head as loudly as possible, knowing she wouldn't be able to hear him.

But a hissing filled the air the instant Jaret thought the words. He heard Anda splutter inside his head, cursing his name again. Jaret looked at the red of his eyelids and realized he was surrounded by light, and his head was pulsing with familiar agony.

He opened his eyes and moaned. The light came from the faces of the misshapen humanoid creatures standing above him. They'd found the remainders.

Don't make any sudden movements, Anda whispered inside his head. They already made Grunt... go away when he saw you go down.

"Go away?" Jaret began to ask, then the faces of the short-legged, long-armed creatures clustered around him turned bright white, piercing his vision. "Get those lights out of my face," he ordered without thinking.

The glowing subsided immediately. Jaret pulled himself to a sitting position, but the throbbing in his head nearly made him fall backwards again. Red and Green Hadras sat next to Anda, who was squatting with her hands hanging loose in front of her, as if trying to dry them in front of a fire. All he saw of Grunt was the Mannatank's oversized black collar. Jaret had never heard Grunt go silent inside his head.

You did not need the bother, a clear voice said inside Jaret's mind. Jaret sat up straighter, and his vision went gray for a few seconds. It was not Anda speaking.

Just as we do not need your bother, the voice continued.

Jaret squinted up at the creature that had stepped closer. Its legs were short and thick, and the toes were shaped more like fingers, while the four digits at the end of its long arms were shaped more like toes. The thumbs were just a nub on the side of each of the creature's flat hands, and the fingers were hooked like claws. At the top of the creature's oval-shaped head was a mass of hair that was writhing like snakes. A vertical scar sat in the middle of its forehead, above two very black, liquid eyes.

You will leave us, the creature said, still inside Jaret's mind. But first we require reparation for our losses.

Jaret flinched as images were forced into his mind's eye: the first runaway Bob--the same one that lay dead in the entrance to the caverns--interrupted a group of the snake-haired creatures and began flailing madly at them in their cave dwelling, killing more than five with its spear before being subdued by the larger, gray-skinned creatures. Jaret could no sooner look away from the spectacle of the Bob's slow, gruesome death than he could leave his own mind. He felt violated by the mental intrusion at first, and then realized that this was how he commanded his squadrons.

Reparation, Jaret thought. As in repayment.

He looked at the creatures around him, some standing upright on two legs, wobbling slightly like the leader, while most stood bent over, their long backs arched, hands resting on the cavern floor. Their hair never stopped moving and quivering, as if testing the air like antennae.

"Don't us, Jaret," Anda said. So she'd seen and heard everything as well. I've taught her too well, Jaret thought.

Relax, he sent to her.

To the tentacle-haired creatures above him, he sent his own message: What have you done with the humans that were once here? Creatures like me and her, he added, pointing at himself and Anda.

The hissing started up again, but this time it was softer and less like a warning. Jaret could've sworn they were laughing at him. The leader gave a strangely-graceful bow, holding its long arms at an angle to its own body, and the scar in the middle of its grayish-white forehead quivered. The scar opened, revealing a light blue iris surrounded by white. A human eye, watching him.

Evolution, the voice said. Survival through adaptation. All that remain are changed, forever.

"Oh ," Jaret said aloud. "That's what you did to them--you became them."

As far as Jaret Lazarus was concerned, this mission was over.

###

Alone on the rocky ground a kilometer from the yellowed lake, in the shadow of the mountains, Jaret watched his ship begin to rise above the rock-strewn ground. He hit the release button on his belt and pulled it off. With only a moment's hesitation, he punched in the discharge combination on the tiny pad on the inside of the belt. He imagined collars popping off inside the Pantheron like old scabs covering long-healed wounds, falling to the floor of the hold with metallic clanks.

"Get out of here," he muttered, even though nobody but the remainders were left to hear him. He let the belt fall to the dead ground. "Get the hell out of here, you goddamn rubbernecks."

The ship lurched up and away, stirring up yellow foam from the turgid lake. Jaret stood in the blowback from the ship, and in spite of the burning he felt in his eyes, he didn't blink until the ship disappeared into the orange-tinted sky. Finally, his eyes full of bits of hot debris, his face already burning from the too-hot sun, Jaret let his eyes close as he turned away.

If I was brave, he thought, heaving a long, weary sigh, I'd turn off my suit and let myself burn up in the angry sun.

But Jaret wasn't brave, not in that way, so he kept walking back toward the caves to fulfill the agreement: his life as reparation for the deaths caused by the Bob, and the rest of his crew could leave untouched. Maybe history would remember his sacrifice. Jaret could only hope.

Sucking in his gut one final time, a beltless Jaret Lazarus walked back to caves where the evolved remainders--not wholly human, not wholly alien--were waiting for him with their sharp, digging claws.]]> Sun, 01 Mar 2015 19:52:40 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=15&PID=15&title=2nd-place-remainders-by-michael-j-jasper#15 <![CDATA[2003 Winners : 3rd Place - 1800, by Ben DeRogatis]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=14&PID=14&title=3rd-place-1800-by-ben-derogatis#14 Author: SFReader
Subject: 3rd Place - 1800, by Ben DeRogatis
Posted: Mar-01-2015 at 7:51pm

1800
by Ben DeRogatis

Francis Morgan, though an accomplished agent, did not much care for the idea of being plucked down at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay an hour before dawn.

He understood all the justifications, of course. The last shipwreck that he could have conceivably came from had occurred on April 8, off the coast of New Jersey; he had reason to believe that there were no genuine survivors who could contradict his claim to employment on that ship.

Furthermore, he had been told, only fishermen would be out at this hour; traders who were more likely to have known the Cecilia's crew would wait until daylight. Finally, and most importantly, Baltimore was the best major city to arrive in. New York's present political state was far too antagonistic to his objectives; Boston, so aligned with them that his target would never go there. So it was that Francis Morgan, with some sets of clothing (nothing too fancy for a mariner, of course), a minicomputer packed with vital documents, a gun, a sum (again, keeping with his alleged station in life) of expertly-forged currency and two dead bodies hailed a tiny fishing ship, and eventually wound up in Baltimore. His mission: to kill Thomas Jefferson.

###

Morgan was lucky: the men who picked him up were reputable, well-established members of Baltimore's dock community (and avowed Federalists), and with that connection he was able to find decent lodgings without any major effort. He surveyed the small room atop an inn: the thin mattress had a blanket on top, two candles rested on the nightstand, and only a single cockroach visible. He nodded in approval. Much better than he had been led to believe. The old-fashioned revolver was casually concealed within a dirty jacket. A nosy landlady would not have a hard time believing that a mariner would carry it, but all the same, flaunting weaponry was not the way to make allies. The minicomputer presented more difficulty. He toyed with the idea of stashing it inside of the camo, but knew that he couldn't afford to waste any of that precious material. Ultimately, he decided to simply carry the device with him, next to his skin; if anyone got close enough to see it and remark on it, he would call it the newest fad from England.

###

Moving down the stairs, Morgan ran through his list of objectives. Killing Jefferson was key, of course. But he also had to establish a viable escape route. The assassination was only the first part of his plan; as he obviously would have no place in an incomparably changed future, he would have to stay here and direct events. There was also the matter of ensuring that his action had the desired effect. Morgan had to let it be known that he despised Republicanism. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that Thomas Jefferson died at a Federalist's hands.

Morgan noted his surroundings. The common room was rectangular, longer on the side facing the street. A bar ran almost the length of one side; staircases had been placed at opposite corners of the room. Tables were arranged almost haphazardly; some had patrons, some did not, and there seemed to be no pattern to this. Portraits lined the walls.

As he entered the serving area, Morgan found what he most wanted: a heated political debate. Two mammoth sailors were almost screaming at an old man, who showed no sign of backing down. Morgan was about to pity him, but upon closer inspection, he noted thick, wiry muscles and a jagged facial scar on the graybeard. He dropped himself into a nearby seat and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation. This was not hard.

"And you think that good sailors are just going to line up for your Tammany Society--"

"Sir, you will note that I am only here to divide the estate of one of our deceased members--"

"Like hell you are! Like hell!" The table was pounded twice for emphasis. "If you have any idea what's good for you, you'll be out of Baltimore like that!" The table once again shuddered under a heavy impact.

The old man's fingers nervously went to his belt, and Morgan saw a weapon. He didn't know whether the man was only toying with his gun in a gesture of contempt or about to actually use it. Long before his finger could have felt the trigger, the Republican was lying on the floor, his arms spread out, with Morgan on top of him. "Get out of Baltimore" were the only words uttered for several minutes, though respectful glances were thrown for sometime afterwards.

###

Word spread quickly. Within days, Morgan had a reputation in Baltimore's Federalist community. People wanted to know from where this mysterious stranger came, and Morgan did not disappoint. He leaked bits of information, until people had a cumulative portrait of him. Supposedly, he had already traveled the Atlantic as a lowly seaman, visiting all the major ports of North America, as well as London, Paris, Lisbon and Madrid. Bored with his last ship, he had signed onto the Cecilia in Newport, Rhode Island, the great bulwark of Federalism. They had been heading south with a load of cranberries; from what Morgan could figure, the ship was old, the owner a miser, and the sailors had suffered for it. Morgan had launched the dinghy with several of his shipmates, and watched them die. Most of the corpses had been heaved overboard; the two with him when he was picked up were the most recent fatalities. If anyone thought that this was the action of a cold, heartless man, they did not mention it.

Acceptance was quick. Invitations to Federalist rallies and meetings poured in. On a typical day, Morgan's schedule might look like this:

9:00 A.M: Go to printer, pick up anti-Jefferson pamphlets
1:00 A.M.-12 P.M: Distribute pamphlets to Federalist youth corps, oversee as necessary.
12 P.M.-1 P.M.: Dinner and strategy discussion with other Federalists.
1 P.M.-4 P.M: Stand around noted Republican establishment with a look of menace. Perhaps start a small fight.
4 P.M.-5 P.M: Make sure that arrangements for rally are in order.
5 P.M.-8 P.M: Attend meeting as guard, speaker, or in some other function.
8 P.M.-9 P.M: Clean-up.
9 P.M.-bed: Supper at inn, cards, ale, discussion.
Jefferson would be showing up in just under two weeks, and Morgan was sure that he would have the necessary support to carry out his mission. As he sat in his room reviewing maps of Boston (where, as a rising star in the Federalist movement, he might eventually have to go) a sailor named Dennis knocked at his door.

"News on the docks is that the Republicans are holding a slave auction."

"And?"

"Commodore--" Retired Commodore Henry Kitchener, hero of the Revolution, wealthy ship owner and prominent Federalist--"says you should deal with it."

"Right. Any literature?" Dennis held up a handbill. It read:

Negro Auction!
22 High-class africans, Incl:
A field-hand, Josiah, 18 yrs. Old;
A cook, Ella, 23 yrs. Old;
A trained caulker, suitable to be hired out, Frederick, 30 yrs. Old;
And many others
April 27, noon
Colonel Jonathon Griffith presiding
"Colonel... Is that an actual military title?"

"Yeah. He came by here back when you were new--you threw him down."

"He's a soldier?"

"Used to be. He fought in the war, had a regiment. Apparently he lives on some big farm up in New York."

"Thank you for your help, Dennis. Would you like to get some of your friends together and break up this auction?"

"Yeah." Malicious delight gleamed in the sailor's eyes.

###

By 11 in the morning, Dennis had a half dozen sailors assembled in the inn's common room. Each had a club and a bag of rocks; Morgan also glimpsed a few knives, as well as a pair of pistols in one man's belt. Two of the mariners were throwing dice; one was downing ale, and another was exploring the contents of a bodice. Morgan strode briskly to the head of the room and addressed the crowd.

"Men! Our purpose is to cause terror! We are not going to assassinate the Federalists. We are going to start a fight and create fear. Try not to kill anyone."

The sailors stalked out. Morgan walked warily behind, in a good position both to give orders and to quickly get away should the column be stopped. With twenty minutes until the auction began on the pier, the mob assembled in a convenient warehouse. Morgan stepped outside to look around; he saw Griffith talking with some other gentlemen, Tammany muscle patrolling nonchalantly, and chained Africans on a skiff. A few obvious customers were circulating, and Keaton was disappointed at their number. He had expected many more spectators to witness his Federalist coming-out party.

Restlessness was the prevailing mood. It had been a mistake, Morgan realized, to bring these sailors out so early for the action. Dennis was trying to keep the sailors calm, but they were obviously ready for violence. Further restraint would not be a good idea, Morgan thought. He had already set events in motion; starting the fight early would not have any drastic results. He turned to the warehouse and gave a signal.

The seven sailors streamed out, each with a rock in hand. Having been told that Griffith was the Republican leader, half of them aimed their stones at his head. Morgan saw two hit their marks, and Griffith fell with a bloody mark on his forehead. In the moment that they needed to grab second projectiles, the Tammany men patrolling the room gunned down all three of the sailors. The sound of gunshots briefly froze everyone on the pier. Then Dennis pulled out his knife and charged; he received a bullet in the chest for his efforts and another in the head a few seconds later. The remaining sailors beat a hasty retreat, with Morgan not far behind.

###

Every three minutes or so, Morgan would stop pacing in order to reread his instructions on the minicomputer.

"Make yourself known as a Federalist. Assassinate Jefferson. Escape. Meet, in Boston, your fellow agents (for details, click here). If your actions have not started a civil war, make one. Remain in this time to make sure that a prolonged state of anarchy exists, and that the political system is smashed beyond repair."

It seemed so simple. But now Jefferson would undoubtedly have heightened security for his Baltimore visit. And Morgan was a wanted man. Moreover, today's events would have untold historical ramifications.

He heard a "beep" in his brain.

Once Morgan had completed his training, his employers had fitted him with a number of augmentations. These included a hand/eye stabilizer which provided perfect marksmanship, a language database that would let him speak in any known tongue, reflex engines to provide lightning-fast response times, powerful enzymes to synthesize any toxin and, essentially, a camera and radio in his head. This allowed anyone with the proper equipment to monitor and communicate with him. Nobody had been sure if it would transcend the bonds of time.

"Anyone there? Hello?" The voice didn't belong to Jacob, Morgan's normal communications link.

"This is Morgan. Who are you?"

"Where are you?"

"I am currently in A.D. 1800, North American continent. Yourself?"

"1800! Hot damn..."

"Yes, 1800. Speak of yourself."

"2177. We just got into an old communications bunker and we've been trying all the equipment to see if it's active. 1800... Who would've thought?"

"What do you want?"

"From what we've been able to piece together, the world first started going into decline during your year--the month of April. A small dock scuffle between two political factions plunged the country- America--into a civil war from which it never recovered. Now it has no industry or political structure. Some historians say that if it had properly developed, it could have served as a safety valve for Europe. Instead, Europe imploded from population density and has reverted to city-states. There are 78 kingdoms of Italy as we speak." The speaker slowed slightly. "Do you know if this fight has already occurred?"

"Yes. It has."

"Jesus." Morgan could hear hope escaping from this person's body. "Do you think you can do anything to reverse its effects?"

"I'll see."

###

Pacing was resumed. Morgan tried to think a solitary good thought: he had fulfilled his objective, in a roundabout way. America had broken. Anarchy reigned. The evil two-party system his organization so worked to undermine had never gained a foothold.

But was it such a good thing? An image came unbidden to Morgan: the future world as a massive, unwieldy Laputan machine, filled with gears and cranks and blowing steam out of dozens of pipes. He singled out one sector of this contraption and outlined it in neon, then named it "America." A sailor suddenly appeared, a big, beefy man with a rock in his hand. He hurled this stone at the "America" section, which sparked and shattered. Without this vital piece, the machine collapsed inwards and exploded into a fiery blaze.

That was what he had done, Morgan realized. With a few thrown rocks, he had doomed the world. If he could figure out how, he would set it back right.

###

He headed down to the commons room and gruffly ordered ale. His enzyme augmentation would allow him to consume ad infinitum without losing his faculties, a boon for which he was only occasionally grateful. This was one of those occasions: the repetitive motion of lifting the cup, as well as the fiery taste in his mouth, helped focus his thoughts. He mentally created an outline:
I. I have royally screwed the future.
A. But that's perfectly acceptable, since that was my objective from the beginning.
B. The hell with the objective. Idiot bosses trying to meddle with something they don't understand. I wish I knew their ancestors so I could stop them from being born.
II. I have to do something about the mess I've created.

III. But what? After all, it's not as if I'm a figure of influence. If I had more time, maybe I could get supporters, try and build a peace movement... no. Things are moving too fast for that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of a street battle. Salty oaths, Federalist and Republican slogans, calls for vengeance, and screams of pain all contrived to keep him from his thoughts. A brick was thrown through the inn's window; a bloody sailor, Elijah or Jeremiah or someone, limped into the room, using his hand simultaneously as pressure on and binding for a massive facial wound. Rising to pace, Morgan noticed the portraits lining the room. Crude reproductions, for the most part, but with a clear message: this is Federalist territory. Republicans not wanted. John Adams was there, of course (thrice) as well as Alexander Hamilton. John Marshall had his place, as did Secretary of State Thomas Pickering. George Washington was there: politically unattached, he reigned as a symbol of dignity and nonpartisanship; each side desperately wanted to claim him. Most surprising of all was the portrait next to Washington: the Marquis de Lafayette. France was a favorite target of the Federalists, as Morgan well knew. Propaganda had it that Jefferson wanted to turn America into a French vassal. One would not think to find Lafayette in a Federalist bar, but patriotic idealization of the past beat petty partisanship. Patriotism... Morgan began humming and walked towards his room.

###

America's Secret Service was founded in 1865 and given the responsibility of fighting counterfeiters. Upon the assassination of President William McKinley, their duties were expanded: they were now charged with protecting the President. As that event occurred some one hundred years after 1800 (although, Morgan thought, it might not happen now) no formal organization existed to protect the President's well-being. Morgan had no problem slipping around the sleepy Federalist roughnecks patrolling in front of the executive mansion. The two professional guards at the main door provided more of a problem. He could deploy his camouflage, but it had a limited life and he wasn't sure if he might later need it. Cloaked in shadow, Morgan decided to put a bullet through one's head. In the moment of confusion that affected the other man, Morgan sprang. He snapped the man's neck with a single blow and then grabbed the keys off his belt before he hit the ground. The noise of the gunshot had attracted attention; several men were moving warily towards the door. Morgan slammed it shut behind him, then ducked into a nearby, thankfully unoccupied room. Whipping out his computer, he pulled up a plan of the building. He studied it intently, formulated and memorized a route, and smashed the device. When he was captured, he didn't want anyone finding a strange machine on his person.

The halls were deserted; Morgan guessed that what guards there were had been deployed for crowd control. He found the office easily; no one stood in front. He pulled the door open and sprang back, should a trigger-happy sentry be standing behind the portal. President Adams, however, had no companions. He sat alone at his desk, reading some new bit of legislation.

Morgan entered. He did not wish to waste time with dramatic speech; his only objective was to kill the President bloodily. Pulling a knife that he had liberated from a kitchen, he advanced. Adams saw him. He tried to get up and run, but he had not received the derogatory nickname of "His Rotundancy" unreasonably. Morgan stabbed downwards, and did not stop until Adams' body had been thoroughly vivisected. He sat back, sighed, and flicked on his language synthesizer.

When burly Federalists broke in, all Morgan said was "La mort aux Federalistes!"

###

Some people undoubtedly found it strange that Morgan switched allegiances so easily; they said nothing. After all, it was frighteningly easy to be accused of Francophilia. Even the Federalists (most of them) took up French-hating on his account. Unanimous support attended Congress' Declaration of War against France. Now-President Jefferson may have had his misgivings, but he signed the bill anyway. After some spectacular sea battles, the nation lost interest and did nothing more than send a few Army regiments to fight with the Alliances against Napoleon. All in all, history regained its path, except that the Louisiana Purchase was never made, and the west was won in an astoundingly bloody campaign commanded by Lieutenant Generals Robert Edward Lee and Hiram Ulysses Grant.]]> Sun, 01 Mar 2015 19:51:36 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=14&PID=14&title=3rd-place-1800-by-ben-derogatis#14 <![CDATA[2003 Winners : Honorable Mention - Where Did You Go?, by Greg Bea]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=13&PID=13&title=honorable-mention-where-did-you-go-by-greg-bea#13 Author: SFReader
Subject: Honorable Mention - Where Did You Go?, by Greg Bea
Posted: Mar-01-2015 at 7:50pm

Where Did You Go?
by Greg Beatty

"Did you have enough to eat? Are you wearing that? Are you ready?"

"Dad!"

"I'm sorry, honey, it's just that with your mother gone, I feel responsible--"

"I'll get it!" Helen slipped out of her chair with balletic grace and ran to answer the door before the bell had stopped ringing. Her father followed more slowly, arriving after Helen had let the boy into their parlor. The boy looked nice enough, he guessed, but they were both so young.

"You'll have her back, and in, by ten?"

"Dad!" He knew every nuance in his daughter's voice. The first "Dad!" had been mere impatience; this one was mortification, with an admixture of betrayal. To his credit, the boy nodded and stepped forward.

"I couldn't ask for more on a first date, Mr. Fisher." He shook Fisher's hand solemnly. "I'll set my alarm, and have her back by ten. On the dot."

George Fisher let his hand be shaken, then retreated up the stairs, to give the illusion of privacy. Alone with her date- John? Jack?- Helen seemed younger still. Her hands picked at her skirt, then smoothed it flat again. "We have a porch swing," she offered.

"I think the couch will be better," John-Jack answered. George heard the ancient springs on the parlor couch squeak as the couple sank into its cushions. A pair of hollow clicks, and they were off.

# # #

The gardening robot lurched as Jack's mind entered it, throwing a small clump of turf into the air. The first sign that Jack was in full control was an increase in the speed with which it funneled slugs and mulch, its fuel, into its biocybernetic gullet. The resulting burst of energy gave it enough power to break away from the sidewalk it was edging, and stitch a crude heart in the grass.

From her vantage point in a toad, which she had made leap atop the ceramic garden gnome, Helen clapped her approval in moist, amphibious delight, squatting into her haunches three times in quick succession.

The garden robot completed the heart and slowed to a more standard pace. When it retracted its edging wheel and started to make its way back towards the sidewalk, Helen knew it was time to abandon the frog. She cast about with unfamiliar vision until she saw something flutter by in an ungainly manner. Dimly she recognized a sparrow, out long after its rhythms meant it to be, and fighting a cellular terror of the dark.

Helen jumped to a bat that flew serendipitously near. Circling Jack, she emitted high pitched screeches of delight as she drove the terrified bird nearer and nearer to system collapse. It settled to the ground, and she was alone in the air.

# # #

By 7:30, George couldn't take it anymore. He left his comfortable chair in the former den, and crept back into the parlor. He touched his daughter's cheek. It seemed a cool, so he covered her, then both of them, with a blanket. It was an ugly blanket, but it was the first thing he'd ever knit. He'd started once his wife was gone.

# # #

Bats don't hover well, so Helen began to sonar map the lawn. It took her many times longer than it would have taken a pure bat, but Helen relished the task. She eventually found a cat, sitting in shadows that would have made it invisible to human eyes. When her sonar blast hit it, the cat stalked into the moonlight.

Helen cast about, and located a mammalian nervous system. A jump, and she too was a cat. Slinking out of the shadows, she let her consciousness retreat to passenger status, and felt a surge of predatory instincts. She knocked Jack's cat to its side with a yowl, and then she was on it, gender reversed and pumping clumsily. The cat twisted in protest, but Jack looked out through its glinting green eyes and Helen knew they were there together.

Overwhelmed by the tom's intense orgasm, Helen abandoned the cat. Jack followed her into George Fisher's turtles on the parlor windowsill, where they paddled in slow, reptilian circles until their date was over.

# # #

Come 9:55, George Fisher crept halfway down stairs again, then stopped uncertainly. He didn't want to make it seem like he was waiting for them. A gentle beeping resolved the situation. After three beeps, John-Jack's eyelids fluttered. On the fourth beep, Helen joined him, both safely returned to their bodies. They slid the transfer bands from their temples, setting them on the end table until the boy could clean and store them in his belt pouch. Once free, Helen reached out to tap the glass tank that held George's pet turtles. She smiled fondly.

Whistling, George descended the final few steps with a hearty "You're back!"

He fooled no one, but at least he allowed them to save face. Both seemed shy, now that the date was done. Helen murmured, "Call me?" She walked the boy to the door, holding the little finger of his left hand with the little finger of her right. The boy promised he would, then slipped out into the night.

"So," George said brightly. "Where did you go?"

"Out."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"You must have--" George swallowed the rest of his protest, and allowed his daughter to escape to her bedroom.

He watched her go, then walked into the next room, the room that had been his den. He went to the overstuffed chair in the corner, and touched the recall button on the transfer band that pressed his wife's curls to her skull. Almost time to cut her hair again, he noted. The band beeped until he shut it off, leaving him alone in an even deeper silence. As he always did when the beeping stopped, George checked his wife's IV. That, at least, was fine.

"Where did you go, Janice? Where did you go?"

He didn't get an answer. But then, he never did.]]> Sun, 01 Mar 2015 19:50:13 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=13&PID=13&title=honorable-mention-where-did-you-go-by-greg-bea#13