Monday, January 16, 2017

Red Velvet Rogue: The first appearance of characters from the Main Sequence Novels set in the Ebbverse

Red Velvet Rogue: (Word count c. 1560) Nov. 21st 2014 By Mickey MacMurphy
The Paladin and his horse were both very tired, dusty and worn from the long road behind them, knowing many miles still lay ahead. The soft canter of the horse was hypnotically lulling him into a strange state between sleeping and riding but not quite either. The bright sun was beginning to scorch the day, and not for the first time, he was grateful for the protection of his armor.
He suddenly jerked awake, his thumb automatically flipping of the rawhide catch that held his stemmschutt in its holster on the side of his mount. At first he wasn't sure what brought all his combat honed skills screaming to full alertness, right on the edge of Overclock, there was no obvious threat nearby. But then he heard it, up the road ahead, the unmistakable sounds of combat. From the vague sound of the jeers and taunts, a very one sided combat indeed. Perhaps a frail pilgrim needed his help. So, once more! Into the fray!
With that, he gave the huge charger some heel, and, probably feeling the same sudden rush of excitement he did, they were off, speeding up the low rise ahead. Nearing the top, the cries ahead turned from arrogant triumph to sudden pained surprise, and he idly mused if the peasant or pilgrim had scored a lucky hit against one of the bandits. Probably ex-mercenaries from down south, having overstayed their welcome, harassing innocent farmers or some such. No matter, the Paladin lived to stop the strong from destroying the weak; all part of an ancient oath he took.
So to say he wasn't prepared for what assailed his eyes upon clearing the rise wasn't any overstatement. To make out the chaos, even with his battle experienced senses, he had to stare at it for several moments to make sense of the scene. One bandit was down, looking (really, this was so strange) as if he had been run through by somehow falling on his own sword. Another was lying in the ground nearby, clutching his family jewels, rolling around in agony. Four left, circling obviously a woman from the strategic curves. Little more than that, could he tell, for she was covered from tip to toe in an exotic cam suit. He knew, even without overclocking, that it was a cam suit; normal leather armor didn't have hypnotic crimson patterns swirling all over its surface.
His senses started to Overclock, then strangely geared back down, as if no threat existed here. Face scowling in puzzled confusion, one hand resting on his spirit double dirk, the other still holding the reins, he watched as one bandit tried to circle around as distraction, while the other tried to angle behind the woman with the exceedingly rare armor, their faces cocky, overconfident, expecting an easy victim. The other two looked like they were close to tripping over each other to put distance between themselves and the girl, without trying to be obvious or cowardly about it. Did the fools circling in not know what she was wearing?
That armor would give her perfect 360ยบ vision, not to mention pretty good protection against their primitive weapons. He realized with a sudden start that she was just toying with them, a bored panthress outnumbered by a gang of particularly stupid jackals. He dismounted, and the horse, sensible about these things, wandered off to nibble some inviting grass. Both the horse and his senses agreed; there was no threat here. He drew closer, keeping one hand on the hilt of his zaber, the other on his double dirk, careful to not appear a threat.
The idiots assaulting her hadn't appeared to have noticed his quiet approach. He had to admit, the Touched Brothers, despite their wyrd, Ebb-touched ways, had done an amazing job retuning his armor; it barely creaked at all. The one behind her signaled to his chum and launched his attack, followed a second later by a frontal assault by his friend. Without his Overclock, he wouldn't have seen anything but an orangish blur, then two bodies drop. With it, he saw her stretch almost leisurely around the first sword, bat at the second, as the first slipped by her and into its companion's side. He couldn't help but wince, a possibly fatal and surely painful wound, a terrible piece of friendly fire. The other man bleated bloody foam and let go of the sword now lodged deeply in his friend, staring down in surprise at his chest where his dagger suddenly protruded, wondering briefly how it got there from where it had been, safely in its sheath, before falling dead.
The other two took to their heels, and the crimson woman stood defiantly in the middle of the road, one hand on her hip, the other defiantly shaking her fist in victory. He wondered if she was hurling triumphant insults after them, but his telecommunications gear had been ripped from his helmet as part of his De-Gracing.
As he watched this display, movement nearby caught his eye. The bandit on the ground had finished comforting his jewels and had sat up and cranked a hand crossbow. He was beginning to point it at the rogue woman's back, taking careful aim through the primitive sights. Her armor was good, but at this distance, with the armor likely slightly weaker at the back, that bolt would probably severely injure or possibly kill.
And she was seemingly unaware, still waving her fist at her retreating foes. He Overclocked and in an instant was beside the would be sniper. As the mailed fist crashed down, easily splitting skull, reflex action pulled the trigger, as well as the arms up and to the side.  Consequently, the bolt skittered and bounced harmlessly off her thicker, pointy shoulder armor. She felt the impact and instantly faced him, arms up, massive Pistoleros Ebbterializing in her hands, twin barrels of armor piercing doom daring him to blink. He calmly stared them down, not a muscle or even a nerve moving.
They stood like this for a few seconds, until, with a musical laugh on a human audio channel, she pointed both barrels skyward. She clicked their tips together, and they began to derezz into tiny plumes of colorful chaff. He finally recognized her armor up close. It was a rare suit made entirely out of a single gargantuan macrophage. The rare and hideously expensive, enormously,  beautifully lethal, Red Velvet. Designed specifically for the clandestine assassination operations of the Empire, he knew the sensor array in the tip of the crest of his helm wouldn't be able to find her unless she wanted him to. Impressive, very impressive. Not only did she have this magnificent rare set of armor, and the combat skills to make full use of it as evidenced by the bandit wreckage lying nearby, but was also an accomplished Ebb user. He wondered what else she could do.
"Thanks, I guess. Not that I needed your help. I was just teaching these dogs a lesson for messing with a helpless maiden." The sarcasm was strong and she made a noise and gesture like spitting. Then seemed to really see him for the first time. The crest on her helm, one he didn't recognize, bobbed as she looked him up and down. Strange, he thought he knew all of the various crests of all the multitude of various orders.  
"Well, well, a Paladin of the Church Militant. What is one of your kind doing way out here alone? One that has been DEG'ed, no less" She pronounced it Dee Eee Gee'ed and he could feel the sneer in her voice. Her laughter seemed to ring first from one side of the desolate road, then the other, a somewhat disturbing effect, he thought.
So she knew what the symbols on his armor meant, or rather lack of them, most of them having been alternately burnt or ripped from his armor and the uniform underneath. He merely shrugged at the unspoken question, the one everyone wanted to ask but none had the courage to.
"Politics." He grunted, then signaled for his horse. As the beast approached, resembling a traditional horse as much as a tiny lap dog resembled a magnificent timber wolf, her laughter rang again across the desolate road, populated now only by death and death's companions. She seemed to stare at him through the impassive faceplate of her armor. He couldn't guess at her expression, and watched without surprise as she snapped her fingers and vanished.  He merely grunted again and remounted, wondering if he would see her again.
"Politics, it always is," she said, with a more self effacing laugh this time. "Well then, oh noble ignoble, oh ex holy warrior, oh knight of this nightly afternoon, what are you going to do now that you have no more damsels in distress to rescue?" He could feel her smirking at him, making fun of him. "Perhaps then we'll meet again someday."
As he rode off, he vaguely wondered if she secretly followed at a safe distance. Of course, there was no way to tell, not with the stealth suite onboard her armor. Nothing but the empty frostcrete road, stretching off into the middle distance, where his objective lay. Perhaps they would meet again, and he found himself secretly hoping they did.
End


Cattle Car: a very old story

MacMurphy Publishing
Cattle Car


Mickey MacMurphy
10/3/2013


Word Count: Approximately 2,700




Cattle Car: (Nov 13th/03)
          Another day, another fifty cents after taxes. That’s what I was thinking to myself the first time I saw him. Of course, at that time, he was just another face, just another person waiting for the train to arrive, to ferry us to our destinations, jobs and offices. It was a chilly, January morning and, as I stood and shivered on the train platform, the wind seemed determined to rob what little heat I possessed. I shrank into my parka, watching him whistling cheerfully, greeting people who passed close, and found myself vaguely annoyed. Anyone this cheerful, this early in the morning, must, by definition, be crazy.
          Shortly, but not soon enough, the train pulled up and I joined the crowd in jostling and pushing my way aboard. I wasn’t lucky today; I was stuck where I’d have to get off at every stop to let someone off, stuck between the door and a massively fat lady. Was this the modern equivalent of being stuck between a rock and a hard place? I didn’t know and wasn’t awake enough to care.
The man I’d noticed who seemed so cheerful, was standing nearby, wedged between a cold plastic railing and the teeming masses of humanity. He caught my eye and then winked and smiled. I looked away, shuffling my feet somewhat uncomfortably. What, was he gay or something? No one made eye contact on the crowded train, at least not deliberately. Instead, they buried their noses in books, magazines, newspapers. Instead, they gazed out the window at industrial wasteland, some even bringing pillows to catch those precious few moments of extra sleep.
At every stop, as I let someone out and forced my way back aboard, I cursed my bad luck. My car had pretty much gone completely wonky and to fix it was far beyond my meager price range. So I was stuck riding the crowded, uncomfortable train until I could save up enough money. With a sigh, I pushed my way farther into the train, ending up several people, but only a few feet, away from the whistler.
I studied him intently, wondering why he could be so upbeat before the sun had even risen. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing expensively conservative business attire with a strangely out of place brightly multicolored toque with a giant orange pom on top. He was clean-shaven, probably a few inches taller than my six foot, guessing a fit 200 pounds or so. One of those men women gravitated towards. I wondered what was with the crazy toque, and was surprised to find it annoyed me, in a highly irrational sort of way.
Before I could muse any further, the little chime sounded and my stop was announced. Pushing my way off, I felt relief that at least part of my daily ordeal was over. As the train pulled away, I looked over to find him watching me, with a completely neutral look that inexplicably creeped me out. With a shrug, I dismissed it and walked the few short blocks to the construction site I was currently working at. Of course, I cursed the brutal, shrieking wind the whole way.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I didn’t see him again for several weeks, perhaps a month. I recognized him partially from his whistling, this time recognizable as a 60’s song whose name I’ve forgotten, and the same garish toque. He was waiting on the platform, smiling and nodding good morning to cold, half-awake people as they passed. Some people smiled halfheartedly back, while others grunted and kept going, but most just ignored him completely.
          I watched him for most of the ride to work, my overactive imagination in full speculation mode. I found myself wondering what he was like, where he worked, and what his life must be like that he appeared so happy. Of course, this was just idle speculation; there was no way I cared enough to ask. This time, he didn’t appear to notice me. This, I mused, was probably a good thing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          Again, I didn’t see him for a couple weeks, but this time when I did, his toque was gone, revealing brown hair just beginning to thin. This time, he wasn’t whistling, although still greeting people with a hearty good morning. This was odd enough in the big city, for most people just didn’t seem overly friendly, especially on cold winter mornings. The guy must be crazy or something. By now my idle curiosity was raging; he must have a super good job with high pay, a super hot wife who gave him head whenever he wanted, a nice country club membership, and so on. How amusing, I thought as I forced my way off at my stop. Lucky bastard.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          This time when I saw him, it was only a week or so since the previous sighting. I wondered why I was seeing him more frequently. This particular day, I really couldn’t have cared less, suffering through the aftereffects of a night out hard partying. As I stood there wondering if I should just call in sick, I noticed he had a new toque, this one a rather drab gray and beat up.
          I also noticed, through the haze of the hangover, that he didn’t look quite so chipper. Perhaps if I hadn’t been feeling so rough, I might have been surprised, concerned even. But not today. Just before the train pulled in, I made the decision that I wasn’t going to work and used a nearby payphone to beg off with flu.
          As the train came to a stop, I passed him on my way to the exit and he tentatively mumbled good morning. I nodded back and kept going, watching him over my shoulder as he shuffled on the train. To my surprise, I found myself feeling somewhat sorry for him. He looked rather dejected, something I picked up even through the haze of my hangover.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          A few days later, it was quite pleasant out, unseasonably warm. I was in a great mood, even given the packed sardine can of a train I faced. I’d also nearly saved enough to be able to fix my car, something which greatly contributed to my peachie mood. So I was standing on the platform with a fool grin on my face, when he shuffled by.
          I say shuffled because it wasn’t the stride of a man who counted pride or happiness among his friends and allies. Indeed, I nearly failed to recognize him. Looking closer at what I’d mistaken for one of the broken down bums who dig in garbage cans around here, I realized it was the whistler.
          He trudged, apparently aimlessly, up and down the platform, looking dejectedly down at the ground. His classy, expensive business attire was gone, replaced by old, worn army pants and a dirty, ragged winter jacket that had definitely seen better centuries. It was so dirty and stained, I wondered if it had been retrieved from the dumpster. Everything in his posture, the look on his face, it all screamed that he had been chewed up and broken.
          The whole while, he seemed to be mumbling to himself under his breath. I found myself wondering if he was ok, but after a moment’s heated internal debate, I decided it really wasn’t any of my business. Who was I, a complete stranger, to interfere in this guy’s life? This kind of made me feel guilty, but I shrugged it off. After all, I had my own life and my own concerns to worry about.
          As I forced my way onto the train, dodging elbows, insisting on a place, I noticed that he too had boarded. I watched the people around him give him a surprising amount of space, as if he were somehow contagious. As if the bum they perceived would somehow infect them with cooties that would make them just like him. Thus, people crowded each other, packed themselves in more tightly, enduring much greater discomfort just to avoid being near him.
          To an extent, this horrified me. This man needed help, needed our compassion. But again, I shrugged this idea of responsibility off. It really wasn’t any of my business, something I kept repeating to myself like some absurd mantra. I needed to get my car fixed, I had a busy social life to consider, forms to fill out for my next courses at the trade school. I didn’t have time to help someone who obviously wouldn’t help themselves. So I kept silent, yet couldn’t prevent myself from watching him.
          He seemed to be still talking to himself. The people around him would occasionally cast furtive glances in his direction, as if to assure themselves he was keeping his distance. Then they would look around, catch someone’s eye and share a secret grin, as if to say I’m glad I’m not him. I’m glad I’m not crazy, like him. He didn’t seem to notice, staring blankly at the chill, bleak landscape as it rushed by.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
          The next time I saw him, turned out to be the last. He looked even worse, his once clear eyes now bloodshot, windows into a tormented soul. He was dressed the same, but his clothes were much more worn, much dirtier. There were several small holes and tears in his army pants, as well as several various colored stains. His jacket, threadbare and grungy already, was even worse now, grey-white insulation hanging like torn tendons from under one arm. On his head perched one of those old hats with the fold down ear flaps. It was so dirty and frayed that I couldn’t really tell what its original color had been. He was standing by the platform exit, and every few minutes he would suddenly violently twitch, like a dog shaking itself dry. After these little incidents, he’d look furtively around, fear and confusion written only too plainly on his face. He was, again, mumbling to himself and his hands, hanging at his sides, had a constant tremor. His boots, without laces and apparently held together by raggedy duct tape, were covered with mud, as were his lower legs.
          When the train pulled in, much to the dismay of other passengers, he forced his way on. With looks of distaste and annoyance, the space cleared was even greater than before. Several people glared at him accusingly, as if his very presence had ruined their day. But he ignored them all, staring intently at the ceiling, mumbling away incoherently.
          As the train pulled away, his head came down and his cloudy eyes met mine. For a second, they cleared and I glimpsed what he had once been. Then he looked away, mumbling louder. I began to force my way through the crowd towards him, surprising myself, for I didn’t know why I was doing this or what I would do if I got to him. I had nearly the length of the car to traverse and people were highly reluctant to make way. I pushed my through, heedless of toes stepped on, moving forcefully through those who refused to move.
Slowly, so slowly, I grew closer, but there was still such a vast gulf. He began to speak, quietly at first, staring at the ceiling, head inclined backward. Gradually, he became louder and louder, his voice clearer, like what it must have been before his misfortune. The people around him began exchanging worried glances, each silently begging someone else to deal with the crazy man.
“What is wrong with all of you?” he suddenly asked, nearly shouting. He looked around with strangely lucid eyes. “You pack yourselves in these cars like cattle. You go off, so many of you, to jobs you hate, marking time till you die. Where is your humanity?”
He gradually became louder still. People looked at each other with embarrassment, as if being embarrassed for him, he who obviously wasn’t at all embarrassed. They looked at each other or at the floor, none meeting his accusing stare. None, save me. He looked at me pleadingly.
“And I, the fallen. Am I no longer good enough?” He gestured to the empty space around him. “For fifteen years, I did this. Rode this same train with many of you, many of the same people. I worked a job at first I loved but began to hate, for all the hypocrisy. I saw millions of dollars wasted, left my office building and saw people homeless and starving on the street. But it didn’t matter, it wouldn’t happen to me. That’s what I THOUGHT! But it DID! It DID happen to ME! But none of you care! Where is your humanity?” He was nearly shouting, becoming more hysterical, gesturing wildly, people shrinking at each swing of his arms.
“But it wasn’t good enough. Not for my wife.” He buried his face in his hands, then looked up at all of us, rage burning in his eyes. “I didn’t make enough money, didn’t belong to the right country club. As if I cared. So she started FUCKING my BOSS! And do you know what happened when I caught them? I got FIRED!”
From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman whispering frantically into the little help box, begging the train operator to summon security. Save us from the non-conformist heretic who got fired. Because you’re something less human if you don’t have a job apparently.
“And you know what happened then?” He was shouting now, as loud as he could, demanding everyone’s attention. “She divorced me. Her lawyers took everything I had. EVERYTHING! Everything I had worked so hard for, for almost twenty years, while she did nothing. My house! My daughter! My car! Even my precious coin collection, the only nice thing that was really mine alone.” Here he paused, interrogating us with his eyes. “How is this just? How is this human? And all of you,” A look of disgust, of condemnation.
“You look at me, in my reduced state, and all you see is another crazy, just another bum. Not a man with two university degrees. Not a fellow human. A BUM!” He spat this last with such venomous disgust that I’m surprised those closest didn’t melt.
The train began slowing and we ground to a stop at the next station. Through the window, I could see a handful of rather burly transit cops ready to haul him off. The cars doors opened and they seized him. For a minute or two, he struggled, managing to free one arm, which he held up as if to ward off blows. But then, quite suddenly, his will to resist evaporated. He went limp, fell silent, a look of horrified defeat on his face. The cops began hauling him off the train, and seeming as one, there came a sigh of relief from the sardine packed humanity. He looked up and caught my eye, and a look of defiance suddenly bubbled up.
“You’re all cattle!” He shrieked, pulling against his captors. “And these are your cattle cars, taking you off to be slaughtered by industrialized corporations. Demand to be treated as human! Dare to be more than a number!”
With that, the doors closed, cutting him off from view. The train pulled out and I strained to get another glimpse of him before the monumentally ugly train station blotted him out forever.

END

A Good Samaritan: This story was one of the first to be set in the Ebbverse

A Good Samaritan:  (Finished Oct 20th/2013)(approx 5000 words)
 “What is it? Oh, speak into the tube? It’s not a tube? A microphone?”
<Sounds of muttering>  
“I may be from the backwoods, but I’m not stupid or backwards. I know what a damn microphone is, boy.”
<sound of clearing throat>
“Well I suppose this is where I can actually get away with blaming the dog”
<A pause>
“Well, so what, I know it wasn’t that funny. Trying to break the tension here and...”
<trails off into muttering. Faint voices in the background>
“Ok, ok, I’ll get to the point. Yes, so I said I could blame the dog and really, that is true.
We…who? Oh, we, as in me and my missus, were out walking the dog. The city? Well, that’s the dog’s fault too, you see. He likes the city, he likes the crowds, and he loves meeting other dogs in the park. So when we come into the city, we usually stop at the Shriner’s park by the mall at the edge of town.”
So yea, as I was saying, we were out with the dog when we found him. He was banged up good, but Missy, being a nurse, she’s a good one too, she looked him over and told me, ‘George, George, we’re taking this man home. Someone’s attacked him. We’re going to make this right’.”
Well, when my Missy gets something in her head, there’s no changing her mind, and well, it wasn’t like I was against the idea. The good book says certain things about this particular subject, so I felt the course was clear.”
<the sound of someone taking a drink of water>
“Well, no, I don’t want water, could you bring coffee? Double cream and double sugar. Yes, well, it’ll help me remember everything. You want that, accuracy, don’t you?”
<The sound of footsteps and a door. Some voices in the background, very faint. The door again, and footsteps.>
“Thank you, young man, that was very nice of you. Now where were we…?”
      * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The park was usually deserted at this time of night. At most, a few scattered teenagers, with their newfangled slicked back hair. I always laugh to myself about that, them thinking that hairstyle was new. I remember that style from the days of the Depression. It was a pretty normal walk in the park, for a pretty normal retired couple on a pretty normal evening. Until the dog smelled something strange. Well, the dog, he’s always all about the new smells, you know how dogs are, and he started acting weird, like there was something he didn’t quite like going on, but he didn’t understand what.
Now, you need to understand, this dog, Axel, is not like usual dogs. He’s very, very smart. A rocket scientist among dogs. He rarely barks, though he has his own little way of talking with grunts when he wants something. Don’t look at me funny, it’s true, he’s a very smart dog, that one. One type of grunt for when he wants a walk, another for a treat, and so on. The only time he ever barks is if it’s at someone he just really don’t like. Which in our little town, isn’t even the mailman. Rest of the time, that dog, he just makes his grunts and once in awhile, this little growly, rowrly noise. Anyway, he smelled something, that rascal did, and well, looking back, it really was out of this world.
But at the time what got my attention was his sudden “pointing” at magnificent specimen of a colossal pine with enormously long branches, tips stretching down to lightly brush the ground. He stopped and sat down and looked up at me and grunted. He stuck his face under the branches and started snuffling around. My first thought was perhaps someone was out there under the tree sleeping, just like they did back in the Depression.
What was really under there was different. Much different. At that point, I just wanted to move on, not disturb whoever Axel saw under there, and move along. And that’s when my Missy decided to take a look. Damn.
She had been trying to take a picture of some birds with her new fancy European camera. I remember thinking that I didn’t think she realized that with the daylight fading, she probably wouldn’t get any good shots. Funny how some details stay so sharp in one’s memory. It was that one that looked kind of like a little plastic accordion, and once she had got it she wore it nonstop on a little strap around her neck. I secretly disliked that camera, I just don’t like getting my picture taken, but don’t tell her that.
Anyway, Axel began whining, and trying to crawl under the tree. I tugged at his leash, getting equal parts concerned there might be someone hostile under the tree and anxious to get on with our walk. He usually comes right away when I give the leash a tug, but this time he was having none of it. I thought perhaps he saw a squirrel, he loved to chase them. He backed out and sat back on his haunches and poked my leg with his front paw. He stared up at me, clearly wanting me to look in there, something I was reluctant to do; bending down when you’re this old means not always being sure you can get back up. My Missy, being a few years younger, leaned down, poked her head between the branches and that’s when she saw him.
“George, George, there’s a man down here, and he looks hurt.” She disappeared under the branches.
Well, the old heart skipped a beat there. I didn’t want her to get hurt or anything. Who knows what had been going on under there. You hear all kinds of weird stories on the news these days, you know, Satanists and those druggies and stuff. So I got down on my knees as quickly as the old bones were able, determined to give any enemy the what ho and crawled in after her.
To my surprise, there was enough room underneath to stand up nearly fully upright. It looked like someone had tied the tips of the branches together, then pegged them down to the ground, but where they joined the tree was much farther overhead than it looked from outside. It was as if they had used the tree branches to make a cozy natural tent. Propped up against the base of the tree was a man, surprisingly well-dressed, in a fancy tuxedo of all things. Well, or at least it had been nice until he had gotten beaten up. He looked like he was in rough shape, large bruises and swelling all along the side of his face, obscuring his eye. His previously nice clothes were ripped in a few places and covered in dirt and pine needles, with a nasty, burnt looking hole on the side of the abdomen. Under the hole oozed strangely deep red blood. I didn’t think of it at the time, but looking back, his blood didn’t seem quite right; it was a lot darker red and it seemed more, well, more thick. Ya know, like them Hollywood special effects that don’t quite look right?
At the time though, all I thought was who hurt this poor man and why would they leave him like this?
“We have to help him George.” Missy said, checking him over, taking his vitals. “He has no wallet, no money, no nothing. Here, help me get him out.”
“We gonna take ‘im to the hospital?” I asked, grabbing one side as she grabbed the other.
“No, George, no, he won’t be able to pay them. And we certainly can’t afford to. We’ll take him home, I can take care of him there. I need my trauma bag though, so we need to hurry as best we can.”
Somehow, with much grunting and huffing and puffing and tugging and pulling, and I ain’t ashamed to admit, more than a couple rests, we somehow got him back to the car. Fortunately, he was incredibly light, much lighter than his size would indicate and it wasn’t that far from where we parked to that tree. Hell, I’d guess he was less’n half what a guy his size should weigh. Darndest thing. I’m sure Missy noticed too, but she never mentioned anything.  As gently as we could, we stuffed him into the back of the station wagon, and headed for home.
My Missy crawled into the back and began tending his wounds with the small car first aid kit as best she could. I headed for home, and as we passed the turnoff for the hospital, I wondered if we were doing the right thing. I had little time for that thought though.
“Step on it, George. This is no time to drive your age.”
Now I knew it must be more serious than she let on. She didn’t like it when I drove fast, no sir, not one bit. But I sure did, I loved it, and by golly, I took full advantage of this rare opportunity. I put that old wagon’s pedal right to the floor, I think likely only the second time in the 20 some years I owned her. The old beast hesitated for one, then two long seconds, jumped like a wasp stung horse, and then kicked forward with a good wallop. I buried the needle as deep as it would go, hoping we wouldn’t catch the eye of a cop.
Because, really, an old guy speeding like a bat out of hell in an old station wagon was probably memorable, and for some reason, I had this feeling we had to keep our discovery and care of our new charge quiet. So I eased off a little bit, back into a more normal, but still much faster than usual, speed.
Fortunately, we weren’t far from home, and I put out the lights and killed the engine, letting the slope of our driveway kill the momentum. We rolled to a silent stop, and I slowly engaged the ebrake, then helped my wifey with our charge.
Again, his surprisingly light weight was in our favor, making hauling his damaged self up the stairs so much easier. We laid him out on the kitchen table, taking care to remove Missy’s favorite giant vase first. Emergency or no, I’d never hear the end of it if I permitted harm to come to that vase. Never much liked the thing, far too large and gaudy, but she loves ‘em, borderline collects ‘em. Ah, everyone’s little whatchamacallits, idiosynchronies.
So yeah, we got him up there, and Missy sent me running up the stairs to grab her proper medical gear. She had a large tacklebox, same as the one I had for my fishin’, set up with everything medical, and I grabbed her trauma bag too. My wifey was nothing if not prepared.
In quick order, I was left standing holding up a freezing bag of plasma in an oven mitt, watching as Missy did some emergency sewing. Well, I did say she was prepared. And quick order after that, he was all bandaged up, and put to sleep for at least a day with a little chemical helper, so he could properly rest and recover in the spare bed in our little extra bedroom. And that found us with time enough to think about what all just happened.
I made us some tea, and we sat around the bloodstained kitchen table. Staring over Missy’s shoulder, I realized her nice gaudy vase had a bit of bloody handprint on it, but you could barely notice among all the bright colors. Missy looked to see what I was looking at and gave off a high pitched giggle. I don’t know why, but this seemed absurdly funny to me, so I giggled too, and soon we were both laughing our fool heads off. I guess it was like, stress relief, or something, you know?
“Well, he should be ok, once he wakes up and gives it time to heal a bit. He’s stable, which is the most important thing. It wasn’t as bad as it looked.” She stared at me, as if she was debating something.
“So tell me,” I said, knowing my wife.
“Ah, George.” She sighed, knowing I knew and still not wanting to really say but both of us knowing she had to. “Ah, George. I don’t know. You know, those wounds. Ah George,” She put down her teacup and rubbed both temples.
“Those wounds weren’t created by nothing human.” There. I said it.
I had been an engineer in the war, and I’d seen plenty of what human weapons could do. And I could damn well say confidently that this was no human weapon. Because it had been a burn, as well as some kind of projectile that caused the hole. Missy hadn’t been able to find any traces of the projectile however, and to further add to the weirdness, the wound had traces of both a high temperature burn and what looked like some kind of acidic burn.
And she knew, although without my experience of human weapons, after years as a nurse, often in the ER, that no human weapons did this either. And we were no hippies, we weren’t tripping or stoning or whatever those kids do. This was truly a weird thing. We both must of thought it at the same time but she said it:
“Twilight Zone, totally and completely!”
I didn’t want to meet her gaze, so I got up and retrieved a cloth and some soap. Set to cleaning up the mess of the table. She was a big fan, and while I didn’t care for it so much, it was tolerable, that Rod guy or whoever wrote it, he sure had an imagination. So I occasionally watched it with her. Well, we didn’t have any other proof, and he sure looked human. Well, on the outside.
“Of course, the weirdest thing, at least to me, is how come he looks so much like us. He has to be an alien, George, never did I ever see a hide quite like that. It’s so human, but not quite.”
I was more dismissive. Mostly just because I didn’t want to admit that perhaps the whole Roswell thing had really been a thing. And I didn’t like thinking that perhaps our government wasn’t truthful with us like it should be. So I scoffed a bit, and tried to change the subject. She just gave me “The Look”, and let me yammer on about getting the brakes on the wagon checked.
“George, it’s getting late,” She pretended to yawn, giving me another Look. “We should probably turn in. I’ll be up early to look in on our unfortunate guest and make sure he’s ok.”
I knew when I was beaten. It was no big thing for us though, after all these years, I mostly got to have my way. She rarely put her foot down on anything, but then, I rarely gave her reason to. I still had a bit of a foreboding feeling about our guest, but the good Christian thing, well, we were doing it. And we wouldn’t stop, just because of any old foolish feeling of doom and gloom.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next morning broke bright and early, as it always does. But I wouldn’t normally notice it, because our house is well shaded by the trees I planted, oh close to 40 years ago now, I guess.
But I sure noticed it this morning. It was so bright, the sun streaming into my bedroom, bouncing off the floor and seemingly directly in my eyes. I resisted, turning over, stuffing my head under the covers. But it was too late, I was already awake. And say, what was with all this light?
I rubbed my eyes, and grudgingly got up. My body told me it was pretty close to my normal reveille anyway, and I rubbed my old muscles as I made my way to the window. Blearily peering outside, it took my old brain a few moments to figure out what was odd about what it saw.
All my trees, the bushes by the mailbox, and the neighbors trees on both sides, severely trimmed. The lawn looked so short from here that it might as well have been just dirt painted green. The bushes were pruned back so far that they were just forlorn remnants of their former leafy glory. What was going on here?
Quickly I dressed, and rushed downstairs, only to find Missy putting the finishing touches on my breakfast.
“With all the extra light, I figured you’d be up a bit early, love.” she said, standing on her tiptoes to give me a quick kiss. “He’s outside, he’s built a marvelous device. His name, or rather his Earth name, is Roger, he was very clear it was only his Earth name. He said we couldn’t pronounce his real name without injuring our vocal cords. He had to use the trimmings from the trees and whatnot as, how did he put it? Raw material, I think he said. Anyways, he was so grateful to us, that he built us some things. He wanted to show you himself, so when you’re done, go out and see him.”
I could tell she would brook no argument, as badly as I wanted to rush out and see what was going on, I sat my butt down at the table. She laid out my food for me, and busied herself with the dishes, tapping her toe to the radio. I tried to eat as fast as possible, curiosity burning intensely, and paid for it by almost choking to death on my toast.
“He’s out in the garage; he said he didn’t want any of the neighbors seeing.” Missy told me as she took my dishes. “He gave me a brief demonstration, George. His machine really is out of this world. And his recovery!” She looked at me sharply, eyes flashing. “It was so fast, he’s practically completely healed, never seen anything like it. But he insisted on repaying us for our kindness, and well, he’s really eager to please. So be nice to him, George, be nice. Now run along outside, and see what he’s built for you.”
With that, I was gently shooed out of the house. This really made me stoked to see what he had been about in the garage. He built me something? This, I had to see. Maybe it was a hot rod, I always sort of wanted one, I like to go fast, ya know?
When I walked into the garage, I nearly had a meltdown. I’m not really the emotional type, but this damn near made me blow up. I haven’t lost my temper since the war, and I’m proud of that. But this was the closest I’d come since then. And do you want to know why? That bugger, after we saved him and everything, had taken apart a pretty large chunk of my engine. I mean, sure, the wagon was a little bit old and a little bit beat up, but she was lovingly cared for and I just loved to drive her around.
And here was this, this, alien, messing around with her internal parts. It was almost as bad as if I had walked into the kitchen and he was doing the same to my wife. I love my car, is my point. And he was deep in the engine, well, more or less sitting in the damn thing, the only thing visible was the back of my green work coveralls he was wearing.
“Oh good, you’re up. Could you pass me that wrench there?” A hand snaked its way up and out of the guts of the car and beckoned. “I’m almost done here. You’ll never have to change the oil or put in gas, or well, do anything really, she’ll run almost forever now.”
I grudgingly placed the wrench in hand and considered what he said. It might as well have been gibberish for all the sense it made to me. How was any of that possible? What was this guy really? Some mechanical sounding noises and a high pitched but fortunately brief screech came from somewhere inside my wagon. He stood up and reached for one of the rags I keep on the workbench.
Wiping his hands, he climbed out of my car and looked up at me. Although he looked very human, I’d say he was shorter than the average man, although built about what you’d expect on a guy his size. From here, he looked as human as me or you. But I already knew that couldn’t be.
“What...what did you do to my Bessie?” I somehow managed to sputter.
“Just fixed her up good. Your wife said you like to drive fast, and you’re always complaining about the gas prices going up. So I fixed that. You never have to put gas in her again. And don’t tell Missy, but I made it so you can go real fast. I mean, real fast, like blow the doors off any hotrod you see. Also I built you this.” He gestured to the workbench where something was hidden under a small towel.
He had no trace of his accent, and as he looked me in the eye, I got this feeling that he was really desperate to please me. And to still be mad at him would be like kicking Axel when he was a puppy. With a slight sigh, I deflated, anger draining away now that I knew that my wagon was a-ok.
“So technically, I’m violating all kinds of interstellar laws by giving you this, but well, you saved my life and helped me out when I had nothing. So I built this for you and I also made a, well, you could call it a list of instructions, for some other cool things. Course, this is just for you, don’t be going out busting economies with this stuff, is what I’m saying.”
With that, he reached over and pulled the towel off his gift with a swoosh. Underneath, well, it looked like a bizarre high-tech gramophone, like the one my granny got 40 years ago. It basically looked like a large polished walnut box, oh about the size of those new fangled plastic milk crates you see popping up all over. On the top, mounted in one corner, came a large brown horn, painted to match the box. Well, it sure didn’t look like much.
“So, um, not to sound ungrateful or anything, but what is it?” I asked, moving closer for a better look.
The impression of a bizarre gramophone was only strengthened with the closer view. I wondered where the turntable was, and if my old records would sound nice on it.
“No, no, that’s not it. But I can see how you’d make that mistake. I remember when Graham Bell first showed up in my laboratory. I was doing ‘experiments’, mostly just trying to make a few simple patents that wouldn’t catch any interstellar attention, but make me a few coins. I never understood you humans and your obsession with money. It sure is a pain, I’ll tell you that much. He got his idea for his famous invention from my original version of this. Course, I had to destroy that one once Edison found out. The man was a bastard, but I can say one good thing: he was sure tenacious.”
He looked up at me and blinked. Something seemed a little weird. Then I realized that when he blinked, two sets of eyelids had blinked. Strange, that.
“So uh, does it play records real nice or…?” I ventured, lightly caressing the top of the box.
He laughed, no, threw back his head and let out a huge guffaw and slapped his knee. I’d never actually seen anyone really do that outside a movie.
“Oh, you guys! I always forget how backwards you are! ‘Does it play records’ he asks. “Yep, real nice!” I felt vaguely insulted, but wasn’t sure why or what was so funny. “No, it’s ok, I shouldn’t laugh, you go ahead and look sour. I just sometimes forget that this is an Interdict planet and you guys don’t have the usual stuff I’m used to. Um, yea, so no, it’s not a record player.”
“So what is it then?” I raised my eyebrow at him.
“Well, it’s a UURGLED, but again, you have to be really careful you don’t bust your planetary economy with this thing.”
I wondered if that was some kind of alien word, and when he saw my expression, he laughed again.
“Not an alien word. It’s an acronym. I know how you humans love your acronyms. It stands for Unlimited Universal Goods and Limited Entertainment Device. Basically, you put raw material in here,” He opened a small, previously invisible drawer on the bottom of the unit. It looked strangely much larger on the inside, almost seeming to try to suck my eyes into it, a very weird effect, let me tell you. “Then it strips the raw material down to its component molecules, and you tell it what you want, it has voice recognition or there’s a holomenu should you prefer. You pick what you want, and presto quick-o, alakazam, it builds what you wanted, atom by atom. Cool huh?”
He looked up at me with such a desperation, obviously needing my approval, so I nodded my head. I felt a little out of my depth though, not really too sure what he had just told me. The confusion must’ve shown in my face.
“A demonstration, that’s what we need,” he said, looking grateful to have something to do to break the suddenly awkward silence.
He had piled up a medium sized stack of sticks, stones, grass clippings, and old leaves from the mulch pile just outside the garage. I had been planning on giving him a stern talking to over the mess, but it looked like it wasn’t going to last long. He just stuffed big armfuls of this litter into that tiny looking drawer, and it just kept accepting it, accepting far more than could obviously fit. How odd. But he just kept stuffing more and more into it, giving me a look that seemed to say, ‘how tedious this part is, but you just wait’.
“It takes a decent amount of raw material sometimes, it really depends on what you want to make. What do you want to make? What should we make? What do you like, good sir? Any requests?” He grinned at me expectantly.
“Well, I did have my eye on this one toolset from the hardware store. That new chromium vanadium one. It looks nice.” I have to admit, this made me a little wistful.
“A new toolset it is then.”
And it was. And it was good. It didn’t take long either. He pushed a few buttons on the front panel of the machine, and it gurgled and burbled for a few minutes and then a little chime sounded that it was done. Roger opened the top cabinet door, and lo and behold, a brand new set of wrenches, screwdrivers, several pairs of different types of pliers and a small socket set. I stood amazed, agape and questioning the veracity of my eyes. This technology could truly change the world! That really was my first thought too. He must’ve seen it on my face, because suddenly his eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t I just tell you? Don’t go busting your planet’s economy with this thing. I mean it.” He frowned at me, hands on his hips. “Anyway, you won’t want for much with this thing. Just to show you my gratitude and stuff. Ya know?”
I nodded, not sure what to say. This was far beyond gratitude. This could be world changing. Which meant that the government would be getting involved at some point in the near future. I sighed.
“Well, I have to get to my shuttlecraft. Um, I hate to ask, but do you think I could trouble you for a ride? It’s actually not that far.”
Well, I wasn’t about to turn him down. And that’s how we got to that field where those nice young men from the FBI found us.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
<Inaudible voices in the background. Silence.>
“So that’s my story. The story of how I came to meet an alien, save his life, and get some fascinating devices. That’s how I know electronics are the future, boys. Roger told me all about things like transistors and what they lead to. I don’t know what else you want to know. He left all the technical data on the hololearner he had the UURGLED build. Now can I see my wife?”
<A muted question that isn’t caught by the recorder>
“Yes, yes, I already gave you everything he gave me. And there’s no reason to seize my damn car. You better give it back.”
“Thank you for your services, Mr. Smith. The American people will be forever grateful for the advances this will bring us. You will be suitably compensated. We shall return you to your wife and home shortly. That is all.”
<Protesting argument and static, then end of recording>
The End


Friday, January 13, 2017

Science Vs. the Four Horsemen: Another story written many years ago. Stay tuned for a sequel!

MacMurphy Publishing
Science Vs The Four Horsemen
Wordcount: Approx 2,350

Mickey MacMurphy
9/30/2013







Science vs The Four Horsemen (Dec 16th/01)
Agen Sperrer was sitting at his lab table, pondering. As usual, the lab was deserted this late at night. The object of his intense thought was a small round glass petri dish sitting on the table in front of him. It contained the last sample of Sequence X, the last infectious disease known to man.
Humanity had come along way over the last few hundred years. The first to go had been famine, after the advent of cheap and safe mass genetic engineering. This had led to cheap nutritious food for all. He looked up at the block of wood hanging over his table. It was a 15th Century portrayal of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse riding off to conquer humanity.
But their days were almost over. War had been next to go when science  was finally allowed to help humanity to master its innate aggression and anger and phobia. There hadn’t been a war for over 75 years, major or minor. One of the major causes of war, overpopulation, had been dealt with at the beginning of the last century, with a combination of colonization of space, and the worldwide dropping birth rate caused by increased worldwide education. Nuclear fear was a dinosaur of the past, all remaining nukes stationed on Mars for use against threatening asteroids.
Death was only a shadow of her former self. Whereas in the past, people had tended to die violently by the hands of other people, or if they were really lucky, perhaps quietly in their sleep. Now death was a rarity, thanks to the wonders of modern research medicine and longevity treatments. Only the most severe of accidents took any lives now, and those were fortunately exceedingly rare.
Agen smiled. And now his life’s work was almost complete. Sitting in front of him was the last of the scourge known as Disease. It had taken him many years of frustration, long tedious hours and much hard work, but now it was so close. His one and only goal was nigh upon him.
The lab had finally finished the last of the exhaustive research concerning this particular nasty bit of bacteria. Now all that remained was to place this last sample in the incinerator and the specter of everything from the common cold to the nastiest sickness would be confined to history. He grinned again, pleased that the powers that be had chosen him to dispose of the last sample. {Expand?The very last sample of illness known to man}
At first, he failed to notice the tiny figure, draped all in green, desperately waving its arms, running back and forth on the table. He was so lost in thought that he realized he had been watching it for several seconds now, before properly noticing. He blinked and looked closer, refusing to believe his own eyes. The figure was a three inch tall man covered head to toe in flowing green robes. Greens of every shades, from the most putrescent to the most brilliant. The only explanation was that he had pushed himself too hard over the last few weeks and the result was this peculiar little hallucination.
But no, that couldn’t be right. The close Agen looked, the bigger the figure appeared. It had already doubled almost, and now he could hear a tinny voice, speaking insistently in a helium flavored tone. What was going on? He couldn’t possibly be that tired, could he?
By now, the figure was just over a foot tall, jumping up and down in what looked like frustrated impatience. But this seemed to be the limit of its growth for it suddenly stopped and looked up at him, beady eyes peering out from the darkness of its cowl.
“Que dera mokan che?” it finally asked, tilting its head inquisitively.
Agen was at a complete loss. He had a momentary impulse to run, but his scientific curiosity got the best of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of wondering about this the rest of his life.
“Are you an alien or something?” He tentatively asked, adjusting his spectacles.
“My how things change. English is it? It’s ok, you don’t have to adjust, I can do English.” The voice was still so oddly pitched, still with that flavor of helium.
“What are you?” Agen’s curiosity was starting to far outweigh his fear and uncertainty now that he could understand this creature.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Of course, I’d normally be much bigger, more your size-ish. But things haven’t been going too well for me lately. And of course, that’s a lot your fault.” It drew itself to its full, impressive foot and a bit height. “I am Plague. One of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” It paused to glance around the room, taking in Agen’s woodcut.
“And I see by your charming if inaccurate artwork that you already know about myself and my associates.” Plague continued. “Funny thing, that. It always pissed war off, that particular portrayal. He said it didn’t capture his likeness at all.”
“Uh, no,” Agen stammered, somewhat flummoxed. “No, I must’ve fallen asleep. Dreaming. Overworked and all.” He paused and rubbed his eyes then peered over the rim of his glasses at this strange hallucination.
He pinched himself, hard enough to wince, but Plague was still apparent.
“No, I assure you, you’re quite awake. I’m quite real. For a little while more, perhaps. Imagine that. I’m here to beg a favor. Imagine that! Me! Plague! Reduced to begging favors from a lowly human beast. What has happened to the world?”
The figure, Plague, it had called itself, paced small circles into his table, mumbling about the horrors of modern conveniences like sewers and medicines, staring down at its feet almost wearing grooves into the surface. Agen rubbed his temples. I don’t have time for a mental breakdown.
“Well, what is it you want?” Agen finally asked, determined to be rational about losing his mind.
“Right to the point, aren’t we? I like that. Not like War, not at all. Just beat around the bush, constantly, that guy” Plague trailed off darkly mumbling again, before brightening. “What I want? Quite simple, really. Simple and to the point. What I want is don’t destroy that sample. You’ll be the death of me. Death of me. Get it? Death of me.” Plague giggled a little manically at his own arcane but somehow twisted little joke. Agen got the distinct impression that he had missed something.
Agen rubbed his eyes again, much harder this time, digging the heels of his palms into his sockets. His whole life had been a battle against death and disease, since watching as a young child his once strong father die in front of him. His father had died of a very rare cancer, months after the more common versions had been entirely cured, and mere months after his version had finally been cured. He had despised that feeling of helplessness he had got watching his father die, and now he suddenly felt that same despair again.
What should I do? I swore to do no harm. Agen thought miserably. After getting so close to completing his life’s work, he was now being told that he would essentially be committing murder by ridding civilization of disease. He had sworn during medical school to never take a sentient life. But did Plague, seemingly a living, sentient being pleading for his life, really count? Especially after being responsible for so many miserable deaths over the years?
But murder was Wrong. There were no two ways around that. But really, was it murder? Agen didn’t know and he could feel the stirrings of a vicious headache. Automatically, he reached in his pocket for his omnipresent bottle of aspirin. Briefly, he wondered if Plague was responsible for his headaches, a burden for as long as he could remember.
“So let me get this straight. You are a Horseman. You and the other Horsemen actually exist. And now you’re claiming I’ll be responsible for your death?” Agen stared hard around the lab. “This must be some kind of cruel and bizarre practical joke. All right you guys. This isn’t funny, you can come out now. Where’s the projector? Seriously, this isn’t funny.”
“Yes, we do actually exist!” interrupted Plague with an indignant squeak. “Well, not exactly so much anymore. Famine and War just kinda faded away. Right before my eyes! They’re gone now and Death is almost insubstantial, a pale shade of what she used to be,” he continued, rather very sardonically, Agen thought.
Plague strode up to him and seized his lab coat and violently shook it, or rather tried to but barely had the strength to dislodge Agen’s ID badge.
“I don’t want to die!” he wailed. “I’ll be gone to, if you destroy that sample!”
Ironic, thought Agen, that something responsible for so much death and suffering was so fearful of meeting the same fate. He struggled with whether it would be murder to destroy that last sample. He looked down at the petri dish, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The very last sample of infectious disease. In the Whole World. Agen felt crushing indecision, and mentally cursed Plague for forcing this upon him. He almost felt like losing his mind would’ve been easier.
Plague followed his gaze, and releasing his coat, bounded over to the dish. He (Was it even a he?)wrapped his arms around it, much like a protective mother and looked up into Agen’s eyes. This allowed Agen his first good look at Plague’s visage, and he recoiled when he realized it was a hideous patchwork of poorly healed scars and open sores. It resembled very much the late stages of leprosy Agen had seen once in a textbook many years ago. Plague’s nose suddenly fell off, and landed with a sickeningly wet splat on the table.
“Don’t mind that. Happens all the time.” Plague said dismissively, bending to scoop up his lost proboscis. As he bent, a wiggling mass of slimy maggots fell out his nose hole.
“No, I can’t and won’t do it! You can’t stop me from finishing my life’s work! From avenging my father!” Agen had to struggle to control his disgust and bile, and a sense of rising panic. “I’ve worked too long and too hard! Too long to let you continue in this world! You killed my father!”
This seemed to only enrage Plague. Puffing himself up to his full height, he much resembled some sick toy designer’s idea of the perfect Christmas present for little Billy. Agen had to stifle a nearly insane giggle at this mental picture. I wonder what Christmas in the crazy house will be like?
“You think you’re so high and mighty, Mr. Scientist? I’ll haunt all your relations and descendants with yeast infections, cold sores and measles. I’ll cause you lupus and leprosy at the same time. You’ll enjoy it when all your extremities turn black and fall off.” Plague suddenly deflated, as if only now remembering he was entirely at the mercy of his scientific adversary.
With that, his rant was over and he slumped over the petri dish, caressing it like a lost Romeo mourning his lost Juliet.
“Well, at least I’ll be able to give you a horrid combination of jock’s itch and athlete’s foot. That’ll never go away.” Plague moaned out, stroking the dish, cooing to the bacteria inside. “Please don’t do it. Please don’t destroy the sample. I don’t want to fade away.”
Plague was suddenly very still, so much so that Agen wondered if he was ok. The irony was not lost on him. Agen got up and began to pace up and down the length of the little laboratory. He seemed to be stuck on the horns of a dilemma, between his conscience and completing his life’s work of ridding the world of disease. He could see no easy solution and again, felt that dreadful helplessness. What to do, what to do?
Plague watched him, looking very listless. If Agen did what Plague asked and did not dispose of the last of Sequence X, he would be failing his father. If he disposed of it, he would be murdering another sentient being. Take no life or save humanity from disease?
The headache was well on its way to developing into a full blown migraine. Agen fumbled in his pocket for his pills and quickly popped a large handful. He had a sinking feeling they wouldn’t do any good.
“I don’t cause headaches, just so you know.” Plague murmured, rather sullenly.
Agen paused in his pacing to look down at the green clothed figure responsible for so many sleepless nights. Plague seemed to have shrunk somewhat, as if his rant had taken some of his substance. Agen rubbed his temples, suddenly wishing he had chosen a different field of research.
“Well, I don’t seem to have convinced you. I guess I’ll just leave then, off to fade into obscurity. By the way, your woodcut is also wrong because Death is female, and she rather fancies a big ax, rather than a scythe.”
With that, Plague was gone in a little puff of miasmatic green smoke. Agen was left to ponder in his empty lab, empty save for that little petri dish. To incinerate or not to incinerate, that was the question. Agen imagined a game show host, listing all the prizes for incineration.
The next morning, the first technician came in to open the lab, and found the incinerator cold. Not stopping to wonder, she just began readying the lab for the day’s work. Removing the samples for the day’s study from the lab refrigerator, she failed to notice, however, one small petri dish, way up in the back corner. It was nearly hidden behind numerous jars, dishes and packages. It was very simple, unadorned save for a small neat label that read “Sequence X. Extreme Biohazard.”
End