Escape Velocity: The Anthology Read online

  “These are the products; they are all unique. I think you will find them acceptable. Whichever you choose, we will, of course need an up-to-date scan of you to add to their life-memory imprint.” She turned and indicated the struggling Peter. “If I may?”

  Suki nodded and swung him towards the female android’s grasp.

  The female android grabbed Peter by the neck. He screamed as her hand clamped on his neck. She walked across to a large metal disc on the floor. With a metallic whisper, it irised open to reveal a dark void below. The female android positioned Peter over the hole. He sobbed in terror and his hands scrabbled at the female androids hands.

  “Stop,” Suki said sharply; she turned to observe the sobbing Peter.

  The female android froze with Peter swinging from her hand in midair.

  Peter suddenly quietened and swivelled his streaming eyes towards Suki. He lifted a shaking hand toward her. “Thank you,” he said, “I promise you, I’ll change, I really will. Just give me a chance.”

  Suki put her hand on her hip and watched him. She tapped her toe on the floor for a moment as she considered what to do. Then, decision made, she strode over to him, her short black dress swaying from side to side with each step. She stopped in front of his dangling body. With a big smile and a flash of her white teeth, she slipped her polished fingernails into his back-pocket and pulled out the book. “I haven’t read it,” she said. “It might be interesting.”

  She turned on her heels and nodded to the other android who released her grip on Peter’s neck. He clung to her arm briefly, but she shook it and he dropped down the black hole with a scream, his arms flailing wildly. There was a thump, followed by silence. The metal iris closed with a snick.

  For a moment all was quiet, but then Peter started to shout again; his voice just audible through the metal cover. “Suki, help me! Ple - ”

  A high-pitched, sharp whirring-sound cut him off, mid-sentence.

  Relaxing music drifted in to fill the void his screams had left, and somewhere close Suki could hear the sound of gently splashing water. “What happened to him?” She smiled and pushed some errant wisps of her long, blonde hair back, behind her ear.

  “He has been returned to a liquid state. We re-cycle at Biotech and his component parts are still useful,” the female android said.

  “Oh, good.” Suki smiled.

  They walked back to the gently revolving holo. Suki activated her preference systems and browsed through the newer bio-android models.

  Talos City had so much to offer if you liked to shop. Maybe she would get some new shoes after all, when she was finished picking her new husband.

  Hole Card

  Robert Blevins

  I was keeping track of the days for a while but they found the pencil stub hidden under my mattress. It was lying in a pocket of my jumpsuit and I tried to use it. Really stupid of me to keep it under the mattress, though. I should have known better. They find out everything in the end. They came in and scrubbed off the calendar I made on the wall and flushed the pencil stub down the toilet. You really have to give them an 'A' for persistence, the bastards.

  I try to keep mental notes of everything I see and hear, but they keep me half-starved and alone in this damned cell. I can't even think straight anymore. I've been here maybe six or seven months. Who the hell knows?

  I've lost track of time. Questions, nothing but questions. Every time they take me out of my cell for interrogation I want to leap across that table and break their necks; maybe make a run for it.

  It wouldn't work, of course. They always handcuff me to the chair.

  I'm locked in a cell about ten meters square. In the center of the door is a metal flap that drops with a clang every time they shove their slop in for me to eat. I find oatmeal in my morning bowl and soup with a bit of meat at night. I think they are putting drugs in my food because it tastes bitter and all I want to do is sleep after I eat.

  I can't even tell if it's day or night. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still alive.

  NO! I have to hang on to the sanity I have left. I have to think things out until they make sense. It's getting more difficult all the time. I'm sitting on a steel bed with a hard, thin mattress and no pillow. I keep a cotton blanket they gave me wrapped around myself for company. I hate the bastards.

  I haven't done anything wrong. If I did, I don't remember it.

  They'll be back in a while. They enjoy trying to confuse me. Coming at different times. Asking their ridiculous questions. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt. 'I have a family, boys'…I tell them. 'I want to go home.' They say nothing and move on to the next question.

  “You've had an accident,” is all I can get out of them about my situation. I want to jump across the table and choke the life out of the first one I can reach. Smart guys, though. They always handcuff me to the chair. They leave no openings for escape. All I ever do is answer their questions. They never run short of questions. They always place a recorder on the table and scribble notes like madmen…no…I can not think about it. I'll catch another headache.

  Catch a headache. That's funny. I have to get a grip. I squeeze my temples tightly to shut out the thoughts. There…that's better. I take a deep, slow breath and try to relax. Sit quietly, stay focused. Good.

  They watch every move I make. I'm not stupid, you know.

  The big box above the door obviously has a camera installed. They did not even try to hide it. Talk about stupid. You can actually SEE the damn thing. Probably some childish psychological maneuver. They want me to know I'm being watched. Big deal. They can all go to hell. All the questions. I'm tired of questions.

  I'm a damn question answerer. Put it on my resume, you sons of bitches. I want to jump across the table and bash your heads together. I can refuse to answer any more questions. I've pulled that one before.

  It really pisses them off good. The food always stops for a while.

  I have to check back into the Reality Hotel somehow.

  'Bellboy, can you take my bags to the penthouse suite?'

  'Certainly, sir!'

  'Let's hop to it, then!'

  'At once, sir!' The bellboy grabs my bags with a grin.

  Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell.

  It makes my brain hurt and I laugh. Push those temples harder! Squeeze your head together until your skull fractures. It's time to go home, and I mean now.

  Not a chance in hell.

  'No!'

  I slam my hands over my mouth. Watch it! You can't yell out loud or show any emotion. It just gives them more ammunition. If I shout, they always drop the steel flap in the door and stare at me for a few seconds. Check the monkey. Check on the monkey. Shall I dance for you, or sing perhaps?

  When I first arrived, I used to cuss a blue streak at anyone I saw. After a while, I gave it up. It's no good to cuss somebody right into the ground when they just stare at you with a blank expression. Only once did I get a reaction; a look from one of my guards resembling, well…pity.

  I never saw him again. He was caught showing emotion to the monkey and replaced. These guys don't miss a thing. I used to kick hell out of the door. No one cared. I did it for three straight hours once. They kept the food away for a couple of days, so I quit kicking the door.

  One thing I can't fathom is how guys so smart can be so ignorant at the same time. I mean, they ask the stupidest questions. Who were my parents? My grandparents? My great-grandparents, even? They ask about where I'm from, how I lived, questions about my everyday life. I'm always drawing things for them on these big white tablets. They ask …no, I don't want to think about it…makes my brain hurt.

  I wrap the cotton blanket around my body like a cocoon and fade down onto the mattress. I ate a few minutes ago and now I'm tired. Sleep is good. I close my eyes. Sleep is escape.

  It's time to go home. I want to go home.

  The tall, gray-haired soldier stared at the television screen on the console. He carried the insignia of a major general on his shoulder
s and several rows of ribbons across his chest. He shook his head. “He's not doing too well. We may have to move him to the new location, soon. At least the poor bastard will be able to get a little fresh air.”

  Dr. Jackson shrugged and switched off the black-and-white television monitor. “I'm just glad I'm not in his shoes. It might be more merciful to take the poor guy outside and shoot him in the head.”

  “That's not an option.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “No. Do you realize how much we've already learned from him?”

  “I don't like thinking about it, General.”

  “The best minds in this country are already researching the information we've gathered from him. We just leak it to them one piece at a time. A group up in Chicago is working on something called an 'integrated circuit.' I have no idea what it means.” He added quietly, “You wouldn't believe some of the things he's told us. It's going to change everything we know.”

  “Maybe, General. But it seems wrong, though. A cheat.”

  “Who's to say the whole thing wasn't meant to happen this way?”

  Jackson yawned and stretched. “Paradoxes. Right. I'm not a physicist, I'm a psychiatrist. Personally, I think he's on the brink of a total mental breakdown. Then, nobody will be able to squeeze anything more out of him. He's cracking already, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you believe his story? I mean, where he's from…and when?”

  “Yes. I think I do.”

  “It's true, then. You found him in that wreckage, with those…things?”

  “That's classified.”

  A long silence hung over the little room. A row of bulky control banks with analog needle indicators and big flashing lights kept a silent vigil on the prisoner. The vacuum tubes beneath their sheet metal panels hummed in unison.

  General Martin finally broke the nervous silence. “All right, yes. We found him at the site you're talking about. He calls himself an 'astronaut.’ He said those 'things' were ambassadors from another planet and he was their liaison. He was supposedly ferrying them to some type of meeting here on Earth. One of our scientists tried to explain how to me how they all ended up in our time. When he started talking about time warps, I made him stop. I don't really understand it all.” He shot Jackson a warning stare. “Say anything about this and you'll be the one going outside for a pistol shot to the head.”

  Jackson held up his palms. “Hey, take it easy, general. Who would believe me anyway?”

  “I don't care. Just take my advice and keep your mouth shut.”

  Jackson said nothing and turned back to the console.

  “I have a meeting now. I'll be back in a few hours.” The general exited the control room and headed for the elevator. He could see the prisoner's cell and the long interrogation table sitting a few feet away. When the elevator opened, he stepped inside and pushed a button marked 'surface.'

  A few minutes later, he was in a jeep and heading out the main gate in a cloud of desert dust. As he passed the guards at the box, they saluted smartly.

  The sign on the gate read: Groom Lake Test Facility. Area 51. U.S. Government Property. No Trespassing.

  Witnesses, General Martin thought, what a pain in the ass. Time to drive back to Roswell and straighten out a few more.

  Things were going to change, that was for sure. How much, and in what direction, he was not certain.

  Chester

  Karl Bunker

  I first saw that I had an alien when I got home from grocery shopping. It was clinging to the outside of one of the shopping bags I’d lifted onto the kitchen counter. About the size and shape of a chestnut, the alien was covered with dappled black and white fur, with six tentacle-legs splaying out from its body.

  “Blegh!” I said, jerking back. Then I leaned in for a closer look. It looked back at me with brown BB-sized eyes. An earless head blended into a round body without a visible neck, but that didn’t seem to impede its mobility. I entertained myself for a bit by shifting my body back and forth and watching it swivel its head to follow me.

  I figured I’d better catch the thing, so I got an empty plastic food container. I nudged the creature into the container with a spoon and snapped on the lid. I cut holes to give it air.

  The government had been sending out pamphlets for several years: ‘What To Do If You Find an Alien in Your Home.’ On the cover was a drawing of the thing I had bottled up. Mine was climbing up the wall of its prison; I could just make out the rows of little suction cups on the ends of its flexible legs. Page one of the pamphlet said ‘Step one: Don’t Be Afraid!’ in big letters. ‘These creatures, referred to as Hexapods, are NOT dangerous. There are no reliable reports of anyone receiving a meaningful injury from a Hexapod. Hexapods do NOT carry disease.’

  “Okay,” I said. “Not afraid. Check.” The Hexapod was now walking, upside-down, across the inside of the lid.

  “Step two:” the pamphlet continued, “Please call this number immediately. A local representative will then contact you.”

  Local representative of what? The Department of Funny Looking Little Tentacle Bugs from Outer Space?

  ‘Step three:’ Please do not try to dispose of the Hexapod. Please do not harm it. Your government and scientists all over the world are very interested in gathering information on each of these creatures as they are found.”

  My alien was crawling around the floor of the container. It didn’t look threatening. I dialed the number from the pamphlet and gave my details to a bored sounding man.

  My phone rang five minutes later. “Charles Paulie? This is Amy Saunders; I’m with the Department of Exobiology at Stanford University. We’re handling the interviews of people who have found Hexapods. I understand you have one?”

  “Yup.”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes. Is the Hexi safe?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good,” she said, and hung up.

  I looked at the dead phone and said “Okay, no problem, see you soon, bye.” Then I looked at the Hexapod. It was squeezing itself through one of the triangular air holes, a third the size of the creature, but it had somehow oozed halfway through. Its torso was grotesquely pinched in the middle, and it looked hopelessly trapped.

  “What are you doing, you idiot?” I yelled. I thought its little body would be sliced open at any moment, a shower of blood and tiny alien guts spraying out. I pictured the perky (I imagined) Ms Saunders arriving just in time to catch me wiping the remnants of her precious alien off my shirt. As I watched, it kept pulling itself through the hole. Three, then four of its tentacles were outside the lid, gripping the plastic and pulling. Finally it popped free and sat on top of the lid.

  “Damn,” I said.

  Now that it was free it seemed contented to sit, pivoting its head to watch me.

  I was putting away my groceries when Amy Saunders rang my doorbell. I buzzed her in and opened the door to see a lithe young woman coming up the steps two at a time.

  “Mr Paulie?” She was wearing jeans, a snug knit blouse and a felt beret. She looked like a graduate student, or young faculty.

  “There it is!” she exclaimed, seeing the creature on the desk. Ignoring me, she picked the little thing up and lifted it to eye level. “Hellooo, little one. Hellooo, hellooo.” With a deft forefinger she rolled it over on its back. Its boneless legs wriggled in the air. She tickled its belly, and it gripped her finger with all six legs. Then she lifted her finger so it was hanging suspended upside down over her palm. “Ooh, you’re a lively one, aren’t you?” she cooed.

  I shifted, and she turned to me. “Hello, I’m Amy Saunders.” She casually plunked the creature down on my desk and held her hand out. I shook it, making a mental note to wash before eating. She turned away from me and bent over my desk to look again at the Hexapod. “Oh, it’s so funny to see a baby again. For months now I’ve been doing behavioral studies with adults.” She held her hands about two feet apart. “You know, big, twenty-five pou
nd guys.”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” she continued, shrugging out of her backpack. “Let’s get started. Where did you first see it? And do you have any herbal tea?”

  The second question threw me. “Uh, for you, or...?” I pointed at the Hexapod sitting quietly on my desk.

  “She laughed. “For me. I try to stay away from caffeine.” I tried to imagine a caffeinated version of Amy Saunders and decided she had the right idea there. “That reminds me,” she said. She snatched up her backpack and got a few green pellets from a pocket. “Here you go, little fellow; you must be starving.”

  It picked up a pellet with its two front legs and started munching. “As they mature, they need certain amino acids that are very rare in Earth plants. That’s why they don’t reproduce in the wild. They don’t reach sexual maturity because they’re malnourished.”

  With the word ‘reproduce’ a suspicion was confirmed: She had a slight r-w speech impediment. I was surprised to realize that I found this immensely attractive. I didn’t have any herbal tea, so I poured some white wine for both of us.

  Between sips, she put the Hexapod onto a piece of graph paper and photographed it, weighed it on a little scale, took a drop of its blood with a little hypodermic (“Ouch ouch ouch” she said in sympathy with the little thing), and took a swab from inside its mouth with a sliver of cotton-tipped plastic the size of a pin.

  “So,” she said then, sitting back in my desk chair and holding her wine glass with both hands. “Are you going to keep him? Please say you’ll keep him. I know you’ll be happy with him.”

  “What? Keep it? I thought you were going to take it.”

  “We don’t need him; we get all the specimens we need from laboratory breeding. When one shows up in the wild we like to document it to keep track of how many of their eggs are falling from space and where. But you’re welcome to keep this one. As long as you have him neutered it’s legal for you to keep him as a pet.”

  “Uh... I haven’t had a pet since... I mean, I wouldn’t know how to... I don’t think I...”