[The future won’t be without morally ambiguous decisions that must be made. This story describes a few.  Starship Brendan’s medical officer Carlos Obregon has appeared in short stories contained in Pasodobles in a Quantum Stringscape and Fantastic Encores!  He’s a bit of a Sherlock Holmes/Dr. Watson alloy. For more notes, please see the end of this story. Enjoy.]

Dr. Carlos and the Slave Woman

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Once starship Brendan left orbit, Captain Wilson stopped pacing on the bridge.

“It’s incredible how much a planet can change in two hundred standard years,” he said to no one in particular.

Loves Rapids, the navigator of the small ship in ITUIP’s exploratory fleet, spun her special chair around.  The tentacles around the Ranger’s mouth fluttered a bit, body language indicating this representative of the Human’s first-contact friends was about to say something witty.  The translation emitted from her decoder box drowned out the original buzzspeak.

“I’d like to remind the captain, if I may do so, that a huge change occurred in Human civilization on Earth between the year 1900 AD and 2100 AD.”

“You’re sounding like Obregon,” said Wilson with a growl.  “That backwards slide wasn’t nearly as bad as what we’ve just witnessed on Charity.  I’m going to ask ITUIP to put the planet in quarantine.”

“Loves Rapids has become quite the student of Earth history,” said Carlos Obregon, coming onto the bridge and sitting in the captain’s chair.  The medical officer smiled at Wilson.  “But I’ll agree with you.  That was a near disaster.”

“How are the wounded doing?”

“Under Chen’s supervision and resting in the portadocs.  They’ll have some new body parts in a couple of days.  They showed remarkable restraint, considering.  It could have been a bloodbath.”

Wilson went to his chair and gestured for Obregon to get up.  The doctor smiled and vacated the chair with a more gallant gesture.

The captain made himself comfortable and sighed. “This is one of those cases when I wish ITUIP gave medals of valor.”

“Thank the nebulas they don’t.  We have enough bureaucracy to—”

He was interrupted by the message from Lt. Riley they all received on their com implants.

“Riley to bridge,” said the head of ship’s security. “We have stowaways.”

“This is Wilson.  How could that happen?”

“They hid in the samples storage locker on the shuttle.”

“Empty because we didn’t take samples,” said Obregon.  “And we leave the ship open like idiots. Guess we have bio samples now.  Do I need to examine them?”

“Chen’s already beginning that.  They’re members of Charity’s slave race.  The adult female is in bad shape.  The male child seems to be in good condition.”

“I’ll be right down,” said Obregon.  He nodded at Wilson.  “You’ll have to return them to the planet.  ITUIP Protocol.”

“No way,” said the captain.  “They don’t belong there anyway.  If anything, we’ll drop them off on their home planet.  That’s a small bending of the Protocol.”

“That might be difficult.  Edgerton and the others are still trying to figure out the slaves’ origins.”

***

The shuttle’s landing on Charity had started what was expected to be a routine update on a primitive humanoid society.  The last explorer ship to visit some two hundred years ago had reported a sparsely populated agrarian world.

In near-Earth space, the Human form was more common than not.  The Rangers were the exception rather than the rule.  Galactic peoples tended to be bipeds, with minor differences in physiology and culture and different evolutionary trees, but evolution had still opted for a body with two arms and two legs and a brain encased in a skull.  Exceptions to that rule, like the Arlmati, the Rangers, and certain collective intelligences like the Singer, weren’t that common.

From space they’d seen more villages and more planted fields this time.  Their instruments hadn’t detected the hidden walled cities with their teeming millions.  About half that population were slaves.  George Edgerton, the ship’s xenosociologist, and other scientists had taken the shuttle down to the planet, accompanied by a minimal security detail chosen by Lt. Riley.  Now three scientists and two of the four security detail were dead, and others were critically wounded.  The sneak attack from the nearest city’s inhabitants had been massive.  The shuttle had barely escaped.

(more…)

Russians

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Five of Five

Fonseca watched another black SUV pull in behind the VW.  He left the McDonald’s and approached the car.

“Sergeant Fonseca,” he said, offering his hand.

The man behind the wheel shook it.  “Special Agent Morales.  Anita called us from the houseboat.  Don’t tell me we’re too late.”

“The professor’s car is still here.  They’re not.  Waitress said they left with two thugs.  Her word, not mine.  She thought that our two on the run didn’t want to go with them. Said they left in an SUV.  Probably the one we’ve been looking for.”  He patted the agent’s vehicle.  “Hard to tell the bad guys from the good when you use the same kind of car.”

“Have you searched the VW?” said the woman sitting next to Morales.

“And you are?”

“Never mind.  Just search the damn car.”

“I’d rather wait for my CSU colleague. He gets mad when I muck up a crime scene.”

“There’s no time for that, detective.  Help him, Eddie.”

“She sure has a broom handle up her ass,” said Fonseca when they were inside the VW.  He’d taken the rear of the car, Morales the front.

The FBI agent made no comment.  “These might be significant,” the agent said, holding up two memory sticks a few seconds later.  “Keep searching.  We have a laptop aboard.  I’ll see what’s on these.”

“Gee, aren’t we high tech.” But Fonseca remained in the VW.  He already had the backseat up.

A bit later, the woman’s voice called to him.

“This is what we need, so let’s go after the Russians.”

That’s confirmed. The Russians are the bad guys. And that doesn’t include the professor. “How do we do that?  Travel back in time to when they were kidnapping the professor and the girl?” (more…)

Russians

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Four of Five

Boris tapped on the VW passenger’s window.  Jan rolled it down.  “There are two detectives staking out your apartment.  They’re so obvious even I could spot them.  Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She got out and walked in the direction he had come from.  He got in the VW and passed her.  As he passed the patrol car, he slowed down and turned off his headlights.  As he figured, that attracted the cops’ attention. He sped up and they pursued with siren and flashing lights.

He knew the neighborhood better than they did.  He let them follow for about ten blocks, making numerous lefts and rights, and then turned into an alley that had an entrance into a convenience store’s lot, drove through another complex’s lot, and waited in the shadows behind the apartment building for five minutes between two dumpsters.  The sound of the siren faded into the distance.

He then took a much straighter route back to Jan’s apartment and picked her up.

“It’s still in my purse,” she said, waving the large bag.  “There’s so much stuff in there, including a couple of old lighters, that they’d only find it if it bit them on the nose.”

“Do you smoke?”

“Are you kidding?  I used them to light birthday candles for my many cousins.  They’ve been in there for a while.  Do you smoke?  If so, what?”

“Years ago I used to smoke a pipe to look sophisticated,” he said with a smile.  “Pipe tobacco, nothing else.  Muscovites back then abused alcohol more than drugs, but I think that might be changing.  I never wanted to do any damage to my brain.  It’s all I have going for me.”

“You have a lot more than brains going for you, Boris.”

He felt the blush creeping up his neck.  “Now we need a computer.  I suggest the IT center.  It’s open 24/7.”

“We might need some time.  Do you have a laptop at home?  It looks like the cops took all of ours from the apartment.”

“Wait a sec.  I have a solution.”  He used the car phone to dial a number.

“You’re using my old houseboat as a hideaway, aren’t you,” said a gravelly voice.

“Gerry, I’m innocent of anything you’ve heard from the cops.”

“Figured as much.  They never even interviewed me.  ‘Course, I was at that boring conference when all that exciting shit went down.  I only saw the news on my laptop.  Are you having a fucking orgy on my boat with that leggy redhead?  You’d better clean up things when you’re done.”

Boris’s original blush, once dimming, now blossomed again.  “She’s in the car with me, Gerry, and we’re not doing anything like you’re saying.  She’s in trouble, and I’m helping.”

“I bet.  I know how that consoling gambit goes.  A knight in shining armor to save a damsel in distress?  That’s as good as shtick as any to get into a woman’s pants.”

“Will you stop?  I need to borrow your laptop.  Can we come by tomorrow morning for coffee?”

“Sure.  Cindy will be working and the kids will be in school.  I don’t have a class until ten, so I might still be in pajamas.”

“We’ll be there at eight.”

“You’re not going to put a virus on my machine, are you?”

(more…)

Russians

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Three of Five

Once inside the houseboat, Jan and Boris went around closing blinds and shutters.  He turned on the old TV set.  He left her watching, found a liquor stash with a few bottles that weren’t empty—why keep the empty ones?—and poured generous servings into some heavy water glasses he had rinsed out.  He joined her on the sofa and handed her a glass.

“I’m not twenty-one.”  He shrugged.  She took several swallows of the Canadian whiskey.  “This is a nightmare.  I’m wondering when I’ll wake up.”

“You’ll get through it.  We’re going to—”  She grabbed his arm and pointed.  A red banner was displayed at the bottom of the screen that said “Breaking News.”  He turned up the volume.

“Police are looking for assailants who put another coed in the hospital this evening.  Viewers will recall that university student Janet Connors was shot on campus a few days ago.  One of her roommates has been missing since then, and another roommate has been attacked and is an induced coma.  Police are looking for Ms. Connors.  Two witnesses testify seeing her running through from her apartment building.  They are looking for Ms. Connors and one of her math professors, Boris Vashchenko, who is also missing.  A police spokesperson is saying that Dr. Vashchenko is a prime suspect.”

Jan and Boris traded glances but then continued to watch.  When the TV station returned to its regular programming, Boris turned the TV off.

“That’s not why we’re here,” he said to Jan.

“I know that.  The police probably just want the public to be on the lookout for us.  I guess they won’t get much from poor Mary Sue for a while.  At least she’s alive.”

“Because you called 9-1-1.  They might soon figure out that you fled to my apartment, though, and start a search for my VW.”

“Is that why you parked it behind that warehouse?”

“Maybe.  I was acting on instinct.” He took a long sip of his whiskey.  He eyed the amber liquid.  “Not bad, considering.  I’m not sure where or how to begin figuring out what’s going on.”

“That TV reporter didn’t mention the thugs.  You’d think those witnesses would have seen them too.”

He smiled, found a pad, and wrote down a number. “The SUV’s plate.  I memorized it.  I’m calling Fonseca.”

“They can trace the call.”

“I’ve disabled everything trackable.  Do you have a cellphone?”

“Back at the apartment, in my purse.”

“So not with you.  This one will go overboard as soon as I finish the call.”  He found Fonseca’s number.  The call went to voicemail.  “He’s probably at your apartment.”  He held up a finger.  “Hello.  You might want to be looking for a black SUV with the following license plate number.”  He read off the number and hung up.

(more…)

Russians

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Two of Five

The next morning Leo Fonseca was at the office.  He studied the CSU’s photos of Vlad Levitsky’s bedroom, an idea forming. That roommate, Mary Sue, had said it was always a mess, but was it messier than it should be?  The mattress on the single bed was crooked, but the bed was made.  Hiding the blood?  Or looking underneath?  A few drawers in the old desk were half-opened, and memory sticks were scattered on the top among the takeout cartons.  He picked up the phone.

“Mark, when you dusted the apartment, were there any prints in there beyond those of the three renters?”

Fonseca waited while Mark McNair, who worked in the crime lab, formed his thoughts.  The guy was sharp but irritatingly slow in his speech patterns, some of that due to his Georgia upbringing, but mostly due to his reflective nature.

“No, sergeant, but the blood type is neither Mary Sue’s nor Jan’s.  Don’t know about Levitsky’s, of course.  There’s just one type not accounted for, though.  We have DNA samples we’ll be checking, but that’s the same problem, unless we come up with four different people in that case.”

“Get to it then.  I’m developing this theory that the room was tossed.  I’ll be questioning Jan and Mary Sue, but Mary Sue already said they never went in there.  If you find her DNA in there, she’s lying.”

“We do the best we can.  This isn’t that old TV show, CSI, you know.”

“The Feds are involved.  Pass on some of the lab work to them if you need to.  ‘Course they’d probably take longer.  Shit, do what’s best.  I need results or this case will become just another cold one.”

“FYI: we have the shell and bullet.”

“What?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we didn’t get any useful data from them.  A bullet was found in a tree, likely the one that went through the victim’s arm.  Can’t get anything except caliber, but we had that from the shell.  I wanted to test the shell for fingerprints.  Found only a bit of dust.”

“Powder? So what?  Just give me the caliber.”

“Point twenty-two-long rim fire.  Would have been hard to get a full print.  The dust isn’t GSR, though.  It’s probably the stuff used on those medical rubber gloves to keep the latex from sticking.  Means the shooter was careful.  Maybe a pro?”

(more…)

[This story originates from a relatively new what-if that came to me when the events mentioned in the story surrounding the Russian agents in my home town played out—yes, that really happened!  I finally got around to telling a similar story based on my what-if.  It has a setting more in tune with many college students starting their classes this month.  Enjoy.]

Russians

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part One of Five

Professor Boris Vashchenko left his desk chair and walked over to his office window, waiting to see Janet Connors as she left the building and entered the quad.  Beautiful and smart.  She’ll be successful in whatever career she chooses.  His student reminded him of Natasha, a musician he had dated in Moscow for a time.  I wonder what’s become of her.  He was surprised he still cared.

Boris jerked when the shot rang out.  Connors stumbled and fell.  He rushed out of the office and downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

On the way down, he thought about America’s gun culture.  Shootings had occurred at other universities.  Is Janet Connors a fanatic’s victim?

His afternoon office hours had come too soon.  He heard the knock, looked at his watch, and sighed.  He opened his office door.

“Hello, Ms. Connors. Please come in and take a seat.”

Connors was the case of one calculus student where he could say his role as professor was largely superfluous but still made him feel that his efforts as a teacher of the next generation weren’t wasted.  Why is it the best students come to my office hours more than those who really need help?  Talking to other professors, he had concluded that was a common phenomenon…and complaint.

“The bad ones don’t give a rat’s ass,” his friend and colleague Gerry Grimes had told him.  “You’ll get used to it.”

“What can I do for you today?” he said to his student.

“I’m having problems with Stokes’ theorem,” she said.

Boris smiled, recalling his problems with that same theorem so long ago.  He had finally developed a gut feel for it in an applied physics course on fluid flow, and now appreciated its beauty through its generalizations to manifold theory.

“It’s a tough one,” he said.  “You’re familiar with the fundamental theorem of calculus: the integral of the derivative of a function over an interval is the difference in the values of the function at the endpoints of the interval?”  She nodded.  “Think of the endpoints as the boundary of the interval.  Stokes’ theorem just generalizes that to where we have a vector field and its curl, the 3D-cousin 3D of the derivative.”

(more…)

[Sometimes a story will lead a reporter to the unexpected…]

Siege

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

“Who wants the story?”

Marguerite Favreau raised her hand. So did three others attending the meeting.

The ezine’s editor studied his group of volunteers. “This isn’t an easy assignment. Let’s hear ideas from the volunteers.”

Marguerite went first. There were a few backup assignments on her list, but this one had caught her attention. Roger Montgomery was an enigma, a mercenary who had retired and disappeared. No one even had a good picture of him, but he had been a player in a number of the world’s trouble spots.

“I’ll find him and interview him by discovering his whereabouts through his mother.”

“That’s interesting. He’s not a young man. Is his mother still alive?”

“Eleanor Montgomery is a rich widow who is a snowbird, living on her estate outside of New York City during summer months and the Caribbean in the winter.”

“That in itself is an interesting fact. You could slant your article on how and why her son became a merc if he came from a rich family.”

Marguerite nodded. “I’d want to get that from him too. Mothers can perceive things differently than their sons.”

“Point taken. It’s winter now. Maybe you just want a Caribbean vacation?”

“Not necessarily. She’s visiting with a friend over Christmas right here in Paris.”

“A French friend, perhaps a paramour?”

“Privileged information, but not a paramour unless she’s lesbian.” There were chuckles. “Do I have the assignment?”

“Let me here the others first.”

The others had nothing more than what one could get surfing the internet. Marguerite got the assignment.

***

 “You move in interesting circles,” Madame Montgomery said to Marguerite, studying her over the rim of her teacup. “Anyone that knows Sophie is special. How did you meet her?”

(more…)

[Every once and a while I clean out my writing lair to get rid of notes for novels no longer needed (they’ve been published), ARCs I’ve reviewed (traditionally published mostly, because the traditional publishers still push paper books over ebooks—Gaia mourns for her trees), or just make room for paper copies of my own books (yeah, hypocritical, considering my trees comment, but they’re only for book fairs and such). When I do this, I find stuff. “Escape from Earth,” a recent freebie novella posted here and available as a PDF, was “discovered” that way. The short story below is another zombie-like reawakening (not the subject), except I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it—several years ago, but not as long ago as “Escape.” In editing for this post, see if you can detect the one complete sentence I added. The first reader that emails me with that sentence can have one free copy of any ebook from my catalog—offer good to the end of August. Enjoy.]

A Meaningful Encounter

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

The huge cruiser Jiang Xiaowan came out of the jump across multiverses and lumbered into the ancient solar system. The once proud military vessel belonging to the Huang Empire had been refurbished as an exploratory vessel. Version 2.0 had then become 3.0 as the vessel was acquired by a private consortium owned by the Grand Duchy of Ermon. Military personnel were still present onboard, but so were scientists, engineers, and techies. Long into a multiyear voyage, subjective time, they went about their shipboard lives—only a few visited the observation lounge to watch the crawl into yet another system of planets orbiting an old star.

After a few weeks, the gargantuan old ship went into orbit about a desert planet in the system. There were still oceans. Perhaps life still existed in their depths. Some plant life still subsisted in the mountainous regions where steep slopes managed to squeeze out moisture from ocean breezes, leaving arid wastelands on the other side. After a series of orbital adjustments and cautionary sensor measurements that spanned the planet’s entire surface, producing enough data to feed the scientists’ computers as well as detailed SAR maps and images from beneath the seas via various probes, a shuttle left the leviathan like a parasite jumping from its animal victim, and descended.

(more…)

Your Past Will Find You

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Three

A knock on the kitchen door jerked Rena awake.  The half-filled coffee mug went flying.  She grabbed the gun.

“Rena, you in there?  I wanted to thank you for sending Gadfly’s papers.”

Will Richardson!  Or Richard Wills?  She put the gun on the table.  “Just a minute.”

She hurriedly collected the shards of the coffee cup, wiped up the spill with a paper towel, and trashed it all.  When she opened the door, she realized she was hanging out of her robe a bit.

“Sorry,” she said, covering up.

“That’s certainly one of the nicest good mornings I’ve had.”  She saw him stare at the gun.  “Anything wrong?”

“He said he’s coming for me!  You’ll remember I went to the bank to make a transfer.  Somehow he spotted that and sent me an email to the new email account.  I was afraid that ‘coming for me’ meant he’s already here and on his way.”

“You’re trembling.  I think it’s time to go see Sheriff Jolly.  You should tell him about this.”

She went to the table, sat, and hugged herself.  “I don’t know.  Everyone will start talking.  The stalker will only have to walk into Big Mike’s, have a coffee, and listen to the gossip.”

Will smiled.  “That’s a pretty good description of Big Mike’s ambiance.  It’s like that old TV show.  Everyone knows your name.”

“Do they know yours?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you Richard Wills, ex-NYPD detective?”

He took a seat at the table and frowned.  “The wallet.  I forgot it was in that file box.  I didn’t really have any other place to put it, though.  Mama Dora often straightens things up in my room.  I’m neat, but she’s obsessive.  It’s not nice to snoop, you know.  I only wanted the papers.”

“I know.  Mea culpa.  But you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s a long story, but here’s the summary: I put the mob’s hitman into the car in my place.  I made it look like I was a victim and ran for my life.  Not only did I kill one of theirs, but I made them look like cop murderers.  My life wasn’t worth a dime.  Still isn’t if they find me.”

“Why were they after you in the first place?”

“I was in narcotics working undercover.  I cost them a lot of profits when I told my buddies about a warehouse with hundreds of pounds of heroin ready to hit the streets.”

“So it was payback?  And NYPD wouldn’t back you up?”

“They would have gone through the motions, but that kind of grudge is held a long time.”

“I’m glad you told me.  I won’t say a word.  You’re still Will Richardson.”

He smiled.  “OK.  Now let’s see that email.”

***

“I hate to learn this reason for you coming to our little town, Ms. Edmunds,” said Sheriff Jolly, tapping the copies of the emails.  Rena had explained why she had fled New York and come west.  He had read the emails.  “I can increase patrol frequency out by you, but there’s not much else I can do.”

(more…)

Your Past Will Find You

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Two

Rena watched Will’s pickup pull away, bothered about two things.  First, she had liked his gentle touch, his patience, and his conversation.  You’re a lonely woman!  Second, Will was a mystery.  She wanted to know more about him.  He doesn’t seem to belong here either.

She entered her house, glanced at the studio, and decided “Moon Madness” would wait until tomorrow.  She found a pint of pistachio ice cream in the freezer and sat down at her laptop.

She was still worried about the strange call to her agent.  The gun was some comfort, but she had no confidence in her ability to use it yet.  Maybe I could scare a person off by just waving it?

These days she didn’t have many emails.  There was one from her agent that repeated the message he had left on her answering machine.  There were two from Will, the first confirming the meeting at Curly’s, and a more recent one telling her to be careful with the gun by guarding it in a safe place and keeping the safety on.  A bit condescending, but probably well-intentioned.

The third caused a cold sweat and her skin to crawl.  It was disguised as a message about a MoMA exhibit.

“It’s only a matter of time and I will find you,” it said.

I need to get another email account.  But she knew that the damage was done if the sender had any hacking skills.

That night she tested all the doors twice and vowed to get a guard dog.  She was afraid of the gun, but she kept it handy in her nightstand drawer.

***

Will lay awake thinking of Rena.  He had given up on finding the right person to share his life with, but she was definitely intriguing.  There wasn’t any doubt she was running from someone, though.  An abusive husband?  There was no wedding ring, but a jerk can still be abusive after a divorce.  What about the distance she created between the Big Apple and where she ended up?  What was that about?  And why the gun?  In her situation, he would have to describe the desire to learn to shoot as a response to fear.  But fear of what?

(more…)