Fiction Vortex - September 2014

Fiction Vortex

  A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

  September 2014

  Volume 2, Issue 8

  Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

  Copyright 2014 Fiction Vortex

  Cover Image by Sergio Suarez

  Cover design by Dan Hope

  Website: FictionVortex.com

  Twitter: @FictionVortex

  Facebook: FictionVortex

  Table of Contents

  Letter from the Editor

  Computer Girl — by Jon Arthur Kitson

  Just One More Walk — by Todd Honeycutt

  Tenbe's Bones — by Brenda Anderson

  Sometimes the Scenery Is Beautiful — Chloe Clark; Editor's Choice Award, September 2014

  Against the Dying of the Light — by Cyn Bermudez

  About Fiction Vortex

  Letter from the Editor

  Don't let us fool you; the following stories are all fictitious in nature. We recently received several lawsuits on behalf of people who claim we have left them bereft of peace and solace, simply because they couldn't handle the idea of killer robots featured in one of our stories.

  Of course, we take no responsibility for mental or physical discomfort of any kind resulting from the reading of these stories. To those experiencing physical discomfort, we advise you to stop reading in bed; you'll just keep dropping your e-reading device on your face as you doze off.

  To those experiencing emotional or mental discomfort, we advise you to begin a course of treatment that will help you come to terms with the fantastical nature of these stories. For instance, if stories about killer robots worry you, one need only to read news stories about the drone strikes killing dozens of people around the world every day. After a few doses of this, one inevitably becomes immune to science fiction and fantasy because the real world is already so dangerous and terrifying.

  At which point we'll gladly welcome you back to the caring embrace of our publication where you can read about things that are gloriously untrue in peace.

  Whirling Wishes,

  Dan

  Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

  Fiction Vortex

  (Back to Table of Contents)

  Computer Girl

  by Jon Arthur Kitson; published September 2, 2014

  The first thing Mr. Bradley did when he took over as manager eight months before was turn the desks in the bullpen so they faced away from his office. Now, looking out his window, Sheila understood why.

  Every few minutes, one of the Center’s two dozen women would stand, stretch away the strain of hours of running calculations, and fully display her rear-end. There appeared to be a hierarchy. The most shapely bottoms inhabited the closest rows. By the last row, the look was more pumpkin than apple.

  Apparently, Sheila wasn’t the first to notice.

  Suzanne, desk front and center of the first row, stood, arms reaching for the ceiling. She peeked a sly, painted smile over her shoulder. When she saw only Sheila looking, she quickly sat down.

  Sheila grinned until she noticed her own desk next to Suzanne’s.

  “Have you had a good look?” she said, then turned, hiding her rear against the glass.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Bradley turned red. His reading glasses pointed at the open folder in his hands, but his eyeballs leered over the top of the frames.

  “The equations?” Sheila, without turning her back, lowered into a chair. That morning’s Tribune sat unfolded across the desk. She had already read the headlines while waiting for the L: Trio of lights over Lake Michigan last week NOT Nazi spy planes; only weather balloons. And less prominently: Charred Remains of Unidentified Man found on Eastside, Police Have No Leads. “Did you go over them? I’m right, aren’t I, they’re off?”

  Mr. Bradley closed the folder and picked up a slide rule. He ran the cursor up and down the scale. “Sheila ... I don’t get why you care.” He eyed the cover of the folder, ran a finger across the word stamped in red. “Verify. If it doesn’t work out, mark it and send it on its way.”

  “I know the procedure.” She pulled up the folder. Mr. Bradley's finger stuttered against the cover. “The problem is...” She leafed through to the third page. “The calculations do work out.”

  “Then what’s the prob—”

  Sheila’s hand shot up. She pointed to the fourth equation down the page. Smudged notes and a question mark circled it. “The calculations work out, they’re just too big.” She pointed at the second number in the lengthy equation. “This is the catalyst material. Critical Mass could be achieved if it was, about, a quarter of that amount. The larger number — the greater material — works, of course, but seems unnecessary for a proof of theory test.”

  Mr. Bradley took the folder, closed it, and set it on the desk. He laid his glasses on the cover and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Catalyst Material, Critical Mass, Proof of theory... What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Well, they’re trying to create a self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction, aren't they?”

  Mr. Bradley’s eyes grew. “Nuclear chain reaction? How could you know that? The particulars of the project are nowhere in the folder. It’s nothing but numbers and long equations.” He grinned. “Frankly, I almost sent it back. Even I can’t make heads or tails of most of it.”

  “Some of the equations, at least primitive versions of them, have appeared in the scientific journals for the last few years.” She leaned back. “And it’s obviously not actuary tables or soil erosion predictions. Or even torpedo trajectories, explosion spread patterns, or wind speed compensations, our usual fare since the war started.” Now Sheila grinned. “You at least knew that.”

  Mr. Bradley’s face wrinkled. “You're the educated girl, aren’t you?”

  “All of us Computers are educated.” Sheila wondered why she bothered. They were always girls, not Computers — their actual job title — to Mr. Bradley and the other men at the center. Frustratingly, to most of the other women, as well. “We all have degrees.”

  “Yes, yes, in mathematics, I know. And thanks to the war, you’ve all been given a reprieve from becoming school teachers. You, however, weren’t satisfied with a mere Bachelor's degree.”

  Sheila held her eyes back from rolling. Even after over a year at the computing center, working with supposedly intelligent people, she still managed to be different. A creep, according to Suzanne and her court when they thought Sheila couldn’t hear them. “I was working towards a PhD, if that’s what you mean.”

  “In what?”

  “Physics.”

  “An odd choice for a woman. Why did you stop?”

  “Family issues.” She tried to leave it at that, but Mr. Bradley’s eyebrows raised for an explanation. “My mother passed away. I came home to look after my younger brother.”

  “How traditional of you.” Mr. Bradley grinned. “And how is the little lad?”

  “Dead. He turned eighteen right after Pearl Harbor and enlisted.”

  “I’m sorry.” Actual sympathy played on Mr. Bradley’s face. “How did it happen?”

  “U-Boat. On his way to England.” She picked up the folder. “As I said, the scientific journals have been speculating on nuclear chain reactions for years, it's only a matter of time before someone creates one. My calculations show it already should have happened. Unless I’m missing something. If that’s the case, to properly verify the results, I need to speak with Dr. Fermi. If I could just head over to the University of Chicago—”

  “Dr. Fermi? University of Chicago?” He snatched away the folder and squinted at the tracking number penciled on its side. He matched it to one of the index cards lining his bottom desk drawer. “How did you
know where this originated from?”

  “The messenger boys. They talk.”

  The poor peach-fuzzed, pimple faced messenger boys; after the girls in the bullpen, nearly all single, finished flirting and teasing, the young fellows’ tongues wagged like excited puppies. "Keeping in practice," the girls called it, for when the men, boys themselves only a year or two before, came home from war.

  “Really?” Mr. Bradley said. Sheila could see him filing that away for later action. “Regardless, you going down there would be highly inappropriate.” Another grin. “And besides, what makes you think a world-renowned scientist wants to be bothered by you?”

  “He sent the work for verification, didn’t he?” Now Sheila pointed at the word on the cover. “Sometimes even world-renowned scientists need a fresh set of eyes.” She met Mr. Bradley’s stare. “Even if they are a woman’s. Especially now, with the stakes so high—”

  “The stakes? It sounds to me like a bunch of scientists, yet again, wasting time on something with no practical purpose.”

  “The potential of nuclear energy is limitless. And now, with the war, a self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction is only the first step ... to creating an atomic bomb.”

  Mr. Bradley said nothing for two minutes. The first sixty seconds he stared at Sheila; the second sixty out the office’s exterior window. Finally: “I want you to switch projects with the big girl.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know,” he said, touching his upper lip, “with the hairlip.”

  “Loraine?” Her desk was the furthest from Mr. Bradley’s office. “But why? I’ve already done the work—”

  “Just do it.” When Sheila didn’t get up, he added, “And I want to remind you, you are not to discuss anything about your projects with anyone. Anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Bradley smiled. “Good. Remember, there’s a war on. The last thing the Center needs is one of you girls arrested for treason.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Sheila did as directed, trading folders with a confused Loraine.

  “From big brain to big butt,” Sheila heard when she sat at her desk; Suzanne’s whisper was a little too loud to stay contained by the woman whose ear she spoke into.

  Sheila spun.

  “Excuse me.” Suzanne’s eyes grew, cracking the ring of makeup around them. Sheila smiled. “Could I borrow your slide rule? I’ve misplaced mine.”

  “Um, of course.” Suzanne handed over the instrument. Before letting go: “Don’t let Mr. Bradley get you down. He’s just an old pervert.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” Sheila opened her desk drawer. The notes she had made on the Fermi project, sitting beneath her slide rule, filled five sheets. She slipped them into her purse and looked at the wall clock. Half past two. The work day ended at four and, if she remembered correctly, an L for the University of Chicago left at 4:15.

  ~~~~~

  Sheila followed the first soldier she found on campus. She stayed back, blending with the crowd of students coming from their last classes, but it was still the closest she’d been to a serviceman since...

  Since seeing her brother off.

  When the soldier descended the steps to the racquet courts beneath Stagg Field she waited ten minutes, then followed.

  Two soldiers sat at a desk pulled into the hall. They stood, displaying pistols strapped to their sides.

  “The courts are closed, miss. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the soldier she had followed said.

  “I’m just here to see Dr. Fermi. I’ve brought some paperwork he asked for. Is he still in?”

  The second soldier pulled a clipboard off the desk. “Your name?”

  “You won’t find me on your list. I’m new.”

  He looked up from the board. “I’m sorry, then, I can’t let you in.”

  “If you could just call Dr. Fermi.” She pointed to the telephone on the corner of the desk. Its long cord snaked down the hall, disappearing under a side door. “He really needs these papers.”

  The soldier hitched himself up. His free hand hovered over the holstered gun. “This is a restricted area. Please leave.”

  “Oh well.” Sheila shrugged. “I guess the doctor will have to wait until tomorrow.” She turned to leave, went a few steps then stopped. “Could you fellows help me,” she said over her shoulder. “I think I may have sat on something on the L; they’re so dirty. Is there anything on me?”

  She pushed out her rear.

  Both soldiers came around the desk. They looked at each other and at the presented posterior.

  “Um...”

  Sheila peered down her back. “I think it’s here.” She patted her bottom. “But I can’t tell.”

  The soldier with the clipboard advanced. “Um ... um, I’m not sure.” He gave a sly smile to his partner. “Could you lift your coat a bit?”

  “If you think it will help.” Sheila looked forward and raised the hem of her already short jacket. “Those trains are so nasty. I know there’s a war going on, but if we let the country get filthy—”

  She spun. The soldier stuttered to a stop, almost falling against her. She rested her hands against his uniformed chest.

  “—then the Germans may as well win.” She looked into the soldier’s eyes. “Well, is there anything on my ... behind.”

  The soldier’s eyes darted around. “Um, no, nothing at all, miss.”

  “Thank you so much.” Sheila stepped back. The soldier slumped a bit as her hands lifted off his lapels.

  “Just doing my duty, miss.” Behind him, his partner snickered. “All in the service of Uncle Sam.”

  Sheila grinned. “About that.” She removed the notes from her purse. “Are you sure I can’t just pop back and give these to Dr. Fermi?” Her fingernail found one of his shirt buttons. His chest puffed. “It really is so important.”

  “Um.” His eyes darted to her finger. It moved down a button. “Sure. Dr. Fermi is still in. If it really is important—”

  “Oh, it is.” Sheila slipped by the soldier and breezed passed the desk. She would have to thank Mr. Bradley, maybe, for making her aware of an asset she hadn’t known she had. “Just down here?” she asked the second soldier. He nodded, slack jawed. Sheila hurried down the hall, heading for the first corner before either could change their minds.

  The sound of a toilet flushing came from the last door in the hall. A third soldier stepped out, drying his hands against his pants. He was older than the first two, still in his twenties, probably, but heading up. His collar displayed three chevrons, as opposed to the others’ one.

  “Who are you?” the sergeant asked, stepping in front of Sheila. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Who is this woman? I don’t recognize her,” he barked at the privates. “Is she on the list?”

  “Um,” Private Clipboard stuttered. He looked at his partner, who studied the ground. “No, but—”

  “No? Then what is she doing here?” He looked at Sheila. “Where are you going?”

  "I ... I have something for Dr. Fermi." She held up the sheaf of notes like a shield.

  The sergeant's eyes pierced through them. "How do you know..." He looked at the privates. "Did you ask her how she knows Dr. Fermi’s here, if she's not on the list?" They didn’t respond. His eyes rolled back to Sheila. "I'm going to need to see some identification."

  "Is that the time?" Sheila looked at her wristwatch, stuffing the notes into her purse as she did. "I've got to catch the L." The sergeant started to protest, reaching out a hand. Sheila ducked under his grasp and rushed past the desk, up the stairs and onto campus.

  She went five blocks, well off campus, before stopping.

  The sun was a yellow smudge barely peeking through the tall buildings. Wind bit from the direction of the lake. The light sheen of sweat under her coat started to evaporate. Shivering, Sheila ducked into a diner. A young blonde girl took her order of coffee and, why not, chocolate pie.

  She watched the st
reet through a plume of steam.

  Two soldiers, neither from the racquet courts, rounded the corner. A forkful of pastry hung halfway to Sheila's mouth.

  The two uniformed boys — and that's what they were, boys, no different than her brother had been, maybe younger — paused at the diner door.

  Sheila scanned the back of the room; swinging kitchen doors and a hall to the restrooms. At least one would have an exit to the back alley. She slipped her purse over her shoulder.

  One of the soldiers, a freckled redhead with cheeks still retaining a bit of baby fat, opened the door.

  Sheila slid to the end of the booth.

  A civilian, bald with waxy skin, stepped in. He gave a thankful nod to the soldier holding the door and took a seat at the counter. Sheila watched him pick up a menu in the reflection off the mirrored back of the pie cooler.

  The soldier closed the door, moved half a step down the street, and continued an animated conversation with his partner. Sheila took a bite of pie and relaxed into the booth, dropping her purse on the seat. She pulled out the notes and leafed through them while sipping coffee.

  I am right, she thought, while tracing the offending equation with a nail. But was Mr. Bradley right, too? Would Dr. Fermi care to hear it from her, regardless of how important it might be? They certainly weren’t inviting just anyone in off the street.

  When she glanced up, her eyes met those of the waxy-skinned man.

  He turned away, quickly swiveling the stool back to the lunch counter. His eyes, gray and peering from sunken pits, met Sheila's in the pie-mirror before burying into the menu.

  An involuntary tremor traveled Sheila’s spine. She stuffed the notes in her purse, pulling a dollar out in the processes and dropping it on the table.

  It didn't take much effort to not look at the Waxy-Man on her way out the door.

  ~~~~~

  The apartment always felt emptier at night. The doors of the other two bedrooms, formally her mother’s and brother’s, gaped like sinkholes in the streetlight shadows, threatening to suck her in. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to close them.

  It seemed too final.

  Sheila heated the last of her milk ration and carried the steaming mug to the window. She sat on the frame and looked down at the street. Four in the morning and already active.

  People, mostly women, shuffled toward the L station, bent against the wind. A few carried or pulled bundled children behind them. To the east, the Radio Flyer factory huffed smoke over Grand Avenue. Instead of red wagons, it now churned out fuel canisters.