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  Mike bolted forward. As he reached the lip, the misshapen box hung a few feet up and before him, silhouetted against peals of smoke. He sprung, arced through the air, and smacked the base of the cab, snatching a tenuous handhold on a slender pipe just before falling into the HARM’s churning treads. His bare flesh sizzled against buffed metal, the machine’s polarized armored skin. He held on. Twisting, jerking, shoulder screaming in protest, Mike endured the torturous carnival ride up the other slope before hauling himself onto the narrow catwalk underneath the rear service doors.

  Almost home.

  An embossed UDA logo decorated the pair of doors facing him. The “D” split in half as he threw the release lever. He staggered into the cramped service alcove. Outside, the HARM unleashed fresh spectrum pulses, escalating the wanton carnage of its rampage.

  “Time to shut you down, robot,” Mike muttered through clenched teeth. Aching fingers flew across several panels, entering confidential override and security disengagement codes.

  As the last was accepted, multiple amber strobes flickered, accompanied by a siren’s warble.

  “Cry all you want, it’s over.” He reached for a pair of switches, thinking of the woman’s face he loved and the two tiny faces he adored. “This is for you guys,” he announced as he slammed home the knobs. “Your world just got a little safer.”

  The pair of service doors slid shut behind him as the HARM ground to a halt. The cab began quaking, escalating to violent shakes as suffocating heat built around him. At the edge of tolerance, he heard muffled screaming resonating within the HARM’s rattling walls. Then, the screams cut off and the chillers quieted. The trembling stilled. Indicators winked out.

  Something was horribly wrong.

  Before him the control panels parted, revealing another, deeper alcove. The stench of burnt flesh gagged him as he glimpsed an empty, man–shaped, padded cocoon. Something smacked his back. He fell into the cocoon’s black caress, which constricted like a second skin. Tubes probed and invaded. A thousand needles burrowed under his flesh. Tingles shot from toes to brain stem before obliterating all conscious thought from the man once called Edwards.

  ***

  “Readings?” Yancy demanded.

  “Nominal,” Pritchard replied. “At least for stage one of rehosting.”

  “Do we have control?”

  “Too soon to know, Colonel. Let the rehosting complete.”

  “Ready destruct command. Issue on my order if control waivers.” Yancy stood back and waited for the HARM to finish engaging its new operator.

  Three months ago in response to cryptic intelligence of some unspecified threat to Washington, DC, Yancy’d ordered the first soldier into HARM 00000001. The reported threat to the nation’s capitol never materialized. Instead, the manned HARM created a new menace. Absolute power indeed conformed to the ancient adage, especially in the clutches of a human mind invaded, occupied, and subsumed by a specialized, war–fighting machine. The subsequent loss of life and property was unfortunate, but the unit’s emergency operator replacement capability gave Yancy and a successive string of volunteer candidates repeated opportunities to pilot the unit back to its Fort Hood base for permanent deactivation. They were performing their Duty, no more, no less, as best as they could. Yancy would repeat it all unchanged, if the chance to redo it materialized. That’s how it was.

  “Unit oh–four, acknowledge voice command on secure channel omega,” Pritchard droned. “Unit oh–four, this is Delta Nova Field Ops. Acknowledge.”

  For Yancy, the worst aspect was the futility. In the war on terrorism, to do nothing meant the terrorist won. If one fought like a terrorist, then, again, the terrorist won. The only way to triumph was to deny the terrorist admission to the fray in the first place. Unfortunately, that option eluded Yancy, being far outside of his job scope. Indeed, sometimes defeat was inevitable and only Duty remained.

  “Got it, Colonel!”

  “And?”

  “Self–preservation’s already peaked. No destruct possible, but we do have some control, except—”

  “Except what?”

  “The projections from Edwards’ qualification scoring are way off. Mental stability readings are trending poorly against the baseline. He’s gonna go fast. We might have a day. Maybe.”

  Yancy’s fist smacked his palm. The pain felt good. Appropriate. “I’m sick of this, Gus. Sick to death. What’s it going to take to finally end it?”

  “A saint. A goddamn saint.”

  “Too bad we didn’t spec that requirement from the start. Well, you can go call the Vatican, because we don’t have any of those in our ranks. Never will. Let me speak to Edwards.”

  Pritchard activated the mic and nodded.

  “Unit oh–four, acknowledge. Delta Nova here.”

  “Read,” came the flat, expressionless voice.

  “Mission accomplished. Dallas metropolis secured. Orders are to return to base. Best possible speed. Coordinates pending. Acknowledge.”

  “Confirm.”

  After Pritchard transmitted the lat–lon coordinates of Fort Hood, Yancy watched with him as the HARM reconfigured for flight. It rose on a tongue of white flame and angled into the sky. Perhaps Edwards could accomplish the second part of his mission, to force the unit home, safe and secured, before what remained of his mortal mind succumbed and he became the target for the next volunteer.

  “Fucking robots. I hate ‘em,” Yancy said, staring at the satcam track of the HARM.

  “Colonel? I don’t understand. I mean, if you’d just funded the fully automated unit, we wouldn’t be here now.”

  “That’s exactly what pisses me off. Pack up.”

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Unpublished

  How much do you really, truly want to know about your future?

  No, seriously. Think about that question for a moment. Dwell on what it really entails.

  If you somehow happened to learn that in the next seven years you’d have one glass too many of a restaurant’s delightful Pinot and splatter your family across a semi’s front grill as you later drove home, what would you do?

  If you discovered terrorists intended to deploy a dirty bomb in your home town on a particular date, what would you do?

  If you were told a great earthquake would trigger the San Andreas fault the very day your family planned to visit Disneyland, what would you do?

  If you knew the exact date a previously unknown comet would strike the Earth and recreate the mass dinosaur extinction event, what would you do?

  I know what you’re thinking. You’d make sure that, whatever the calamity is, you and your loved ones were safe and sound. Or at least you’d all maximize the time remaining, in the best ways you could manage. Thanks for the advanced notice, you’d say. We deeply appreciate getting the early warning.

  Early warnings are a good thing, right?

  Except when they aren’t.

  #

  “We gotta see,” Katy said.

  I ran the app.

  I didn’t want to. Not really.

  She giggled and gave me that yummy half smile, the rare one that crinkled up her right eye, while my iPhone chugged.

  “Next year, when my mom lets us officially start dating, this’ll be crazy to know,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “What do you mean, ‘yeah?’ Are you holding out on me? You’ve got a high school girlfriend already. Don’t you?” She pouted, another yummy look that doubled as a lethal weapon.

  “Bunches, who never, ever leave me alone. As a freshman, you’ll have to fight them off. Better start training. Hard.”

  She popped me, two knuckles drilled into my shoulder. They drew back for another blow.

  My iPhone chimed.

  “Saved by the bell,” I said. “Time–out for DNA mash–ups.”

  We looked at the result: an analysis pairing my DNA, taken from last year’s blood test (courtesy of a wicked little infection I got
from an ollie tumble), with hers—her DNA coming from some girly–thing procedure she wouldn’t explain.

  She scrolled. Her lips silently read before I got another dose of that addictive half smile.

  “Look at these numbers. Awesome, huh? So how do you feel about having Einstein for your son?”

  “That’s all coming from you, girl. My straight C’s must be screwing the curve bad.”

  She bought me a double–dutch chocolate cone. I bought her cookie dough. We shared; two delicious flavors merged in a celebration of awesome pairings.

  That night, as I reread the results, I noticed a link after my sample ID: Propensity Analysis.

  It produced a different DNA report, a long list of diseases and syndromes, each bearing a percentage. I scrolled through horrible scientific terms, obscure ones I didn’t know, others that named my aunts, grandparents, cousins, many who’d died way too young.

  It sucked.

  Branded into my family history, the disease had become the person; the person, the disease. That’s how I remembered them: Grandma Diabetes, Aunt Stroke, Uncle Alzheimer’s. Everything else was secondary behind that lethal label.

  Katy’s sample had the same link. I clicked it.

  I didn’t want to.

  Afterwards, I thought about it. Thought some more.

  I could’ve let it go. Ignored it. Deleted it. Kept our chocolate cookie dough celebration as the sole outcome of a cute little what–if game. I could’ve settled for just tomorrow, next week, next month. Left it with dances, Homecoming, Prom, football games, break–ups, reunions, and years of figuring out—maybe together—who we would become.

  I showed her hers that weekend.

  I didn’t want to.

  “A–Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. 90% probable.” She looked about to vomit as she scrolled through the description. “God. Do you know what this means?”

  “Katy—”

  “I’m dead.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “It’s not the ‘what.’ It’s the ‘how.’ You read this. Don’t you understand?”

  “There’s time.” I pointed to the life expectancy. “Probably lots of it.”

  “Or not, if I’m really, really unlucky instead of just cursed.”

  “Someone might find a cure. Soon. I might discover one. It can happen.”

  “Not with straight C’s you won’t.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “E–mail me this.”

  I didn’t want to.

  Afterwards, she ignored me. For two weeks, she wouldn’t answer her cell. Text messages went without reply. No responses to my e–mailed pleas.

  All her mom would say is that Katy wasn’t feeling well. In her voice, I heard the blame.

  I finally arranged something through Beth, Katy’s Best–Friend–Forever, back before I’d butted in. When I saw the two of them at the park picnic table, I knew I’d messed up bad.

  A blanket of clouds stifled the sky and spread a deep gloom; it stuck to Katy, carving permanent shadows underneath her sunken eyes. She was crying, shaking with the fear of someone who’s always afraid and who knows they always will be.

  Beth set a speed record escaping.

  I sat across from Katy and waited. A long time.

  I didn’t want to.

  “Other than you,” she finally whispered, “I thought my life pretty much sucked before now. What a cruel joke, huh? God, I hate how it eats me up.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “What? Obsess about it?”

  Her hand scrubbed through her matted hair. “Suppose you were dying of brain cancer, slowly rotting away, in constant agony. What would you do? Rob a bank? Steal a car? Anything you fucking wanted?”

  Her arm plopped onto the table. She tugged up her blouse sleeve and revealed a puckered crescent freshly gouged into her wrist.

  “This is what I did about it. I tried. Failed. I can’t die that way, not how it’s described. No one should suffer like that. Nobody!”

  Her hands smacked over her face. “It’s killing me, already, the second I knew. But I’m not strong enough to finish it. So why not obsess? There’s absolutely nothing to look forward to.”

  She started bawling.

  I felt stupid. Helpless. With only wrong, useless words to offer up against cold, hard science.

  “Go,” she choked out.

  “But—”

  “It’s my curse, not yours. Go worry about your own genes.”

  I got up. I walked off.

  Then, I stopped. Turned back.

  I didn’t want to.

  When my fingers encircled her neck, she jerked and coughed in surprise. I clenched, pictured my own propensity analysis, and wondered which bullet on the cruel list would brand me. Probably I already had my own lethal label and just didn’t know it.

  So young too.

  The harder I squeezed, the harder she fought. In panic she ripped at my hands, tore my flesh, fighting death more than she did me. Finally, in resignation, she let go, giving into the surrender she desired.

  Weakened, fading, her hands drifted back to her face. Over purpling lips, she fluttered her fingers.

  I leaned around and focused on her mouth, which churned out the same silent words.

  “Love you. Love you. Love you…”

  Until the words ran out.

  Loved you too, Katy.

  I didn’t want to. But I did.

  THE FISHERMAN

  Published in Nature: Futures, June 2011

  The Fisherman happens to be my first professional level sale. This is significant in the world of publishing since all sales are not equivalent. Think of it as a badge of honor. I was tickled pink, let me tell you.

  For this anthology inclusion, I’m providing a slightly longer version of the story. In the editing process for Nature we had to shave a smattering of words off the length to achieve an optimal fit. Since the story is a flash fiction piece, the number of words was (IMHO) already very economical. We cut out just a few more and the story worked, but, again, I feel like it is a richer tale with the handful of words restored.

  I should acknowledge how much trouble I had writing flash fiction—that is, stories from 500 to 1,500 words in length, often concluded by a punchy or twist ending. I struggled enough hitting that target that I surrendered on it for quite a while. Years, in fact. I just couldn’t make the recipe work. I required more words.

  Fortunately, writers can be deeply motivated by the works of other writers. See the Forward in this anthology for a bit more on that notion.

  In my case I credit Mary Robinette Kowal who wrote a delightful flash piece called “Evil Robot Monkey,” which was ultimately nominated for a Hugo.

  I was suitably inspired. The Fisherman resulted.

  So we have an end–of–the–world saga here. For most treatments, this can be a sad and severely depressing turn of events. Collapse. Followed by devastation. Hopelessness. Ultimately extinction.

  Or is it?

  #

  Sunlit gold flashed between lichen–encrusted stones. William flung the cast net.

  “Shit. Missed again.”

  “Don’t know what you call this, Billy, but it ain’t fishing.”

  “Right, Dad.”

  He hauled in the net, shook it, and readied another toss. Chilled from the aquifer–fed stream, the mesh felt like frozen chicken wire.

  Again the rocks glimmered. He hesitated.

  “Doubting yourself now?”

  William sighed. “It’s a beer can, Dad.”

  “Despicable. Guess no one’s left to tidy up peoples’ litter anymore. Eh?”

  “Just me and I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Like fake fishing? No rod. No reel. Nutty.”

  “Not fishing… restoration. My mission is—”

  Urgent beeping shrilled. William rolled his wrist and jabbed the biometer’s alarm acknowledgement.

  “That little cuss keeps going off. How come?”

  “Because I’m sick, D
ad. Getting sicker.”

  “See the doctor.”

  “Aren’t any.”

  “On that ship of yours.”

  “Busted. In the flare–up.”

  It wouldn’t matter anyway, not with leukemia or lymphoma, whichever the radiation had gifted him.

  Gold streaked along the shore line. Off–balance, William heaved the net. Fate nudged it into his quarry’s path.

  Something seized his bowels and wrenched.

  He jerked back on the net cord. His prize thudded into the dust at his feet.

  “That’s no keeper, Billy. It’s smaller than your hand.”

  The juvenile goldfish writhed a ballet of death throes, coating itself with grit. William yanked the scanner from his belt, flicked it on, and flung it atop the net.

  “Throw it back—hurry!—before the game warden comes.”

  He staggered ten paces out of scanner range and doubled over. A torrent of bile spewed, laced with more crimson ribbons than his sunrise episode had contained. No food traces though, not surprising since he hadn’t eaten for days.

  The scanner chimed. William lay in the cockleburrs as the cramps diminished.

  “Do you remember the summer we fished Puget Sound? Wasn’t that sockeye heavenly, Billy? Tasted like butter, didn’t it?”

  He dry–heaved at the thought.

  “Or how about our blue marlin trip out of Lauderdale? What a fighter that fish was.”

  “Florida’s gone, Dad.” He shuffled to his knees and crawled. “I saw from orbit. Covered by ocean.”

  “Gone? How so? Was it those alien things?”

  “Maybe.”

  He reached the scanner, which registered nominal. The juvenile goldfish bore no marker isotopes.

  Before he could thumb it off, the scanner burped out a calibration error and crashed. Unfortunately the isotopes destroying his body overwhelmed the device’s sensitive analyzer. Fortunately it recalibrated each time it booted.

  “What about Yellowstone, Lake Eire, the Chattooga River? You were barely ten when we fished those. Gone too?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  He stuffed the unmarked goldfish into the chill pack with the two mature ones he’d netted at daybreak. Those had positive scans for pink markers.