One of Those More Unfortunate Sabbaths

Several things influenced this story.  The first came when I was looking up guitar riffs for a student.  Jimi Hendrix apparently claimed Purple Haze was partially inspired by a dream he had of walking on the bottom of the sea.  The imagery hit me, but beyond that I didn't have anything.

My wife and I had a conversation about how impossible it was for me to write mystery stories.  I've been thinking for some time how important it is to delay sharing information with the audience, a key element of mystery writing.  One of the cooler, and more dangerous, techniques I've seen is juggling the timeline.  The audience doesn't have a clear picture, because they've missed some scenes entirely.  Awesome if done right, appalling if done wrong.

I put these together, threw in some sci-fi and ecoterrorism, and came up with this story.  Enjoy!

~~~

Found and Fallen Low

Sunday.  23 April, 2165.  8:03 am.

The bulb flickered and Chase felt a mild jolt as the circuit shorted.  He took his hand out of the water, and wiped the sweat off his face.  The water numbed his legs, too deep to keep them dry anymore.  The vents, too close, panted their increasingly desperate attempt to regulate the temperature.  He shuddered, pulled his arms close to his body, and rubbed his hands together.  The nausea lurched, and he straightened quickly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose.  The urge to vomit reluctantly subsided, but he could still feel a remnant creeping at the back of his throat.

The vents above his head sputtered and died.  Leaving him in complete darkness,

And complete silence.

*

Monday.  17 April, 2165.  4:15 pm.

“A year’s pay for ten days, five years for a whole month.  You are guaranteed payment.”  The man looked a bit desperate, Chase thought.  Likely paid on commission.  “If injury shortens your contract, or if anything else cuts it short – you, and your family, still get the money.”

‘Anything else’.  ‘Anything’ included: kidnapped and killed on a live web stream; crushed, suffocated, or electrocuted by a malfunctioning exocapsule; drowned if another bomb went off during your shift.  He sniffed and shook his head, a small smile crossing his face.  Money was tight – but not that tight.

*

Thursday.  20 April, 2165.  6:32 pm.

“Cynthia, you need to listen to me.”

“My god, Chase.  What were you thinking?  You know what the life expectancy is in those capsules!”

“Cynthia – ˮ

“What if something happens to you?”

“That’s the point!”

She looked at him, her mouth open in shock.

“We don’t know what will happen.  If I was gone, you’d have nothing.  Not even enough to get home.  This way, we’re set.”

“We’re already being paid,” her hand covered his, “Your next salary is just a few months away.  We can wait till then, Chase.”  Her brown eyes searched his blue, “Does this have something to do with the doctor’s appointment?  What did he say?”

He pulled his hand away, “Pancreatitis, like your mother thought.  He gave me some antibiotics.  Should go away in a couple days.”

“Well,” a pause, “That’s good, right?”

“Yeah.”

*

Sunday.  April 23, 2165.  6:00 am.

The exocapsule stank of sweat, machine grease, and faintly of blood.  He hesitated.

“There a problem?” The mechanic snapped impatiently, “I have three others to launch.”

“What happened to the last pilot?”

The mechanic grimaced, “The idiot didn’t wait for the intake portal to seal before he opened his end.  The pressure of the air and water threw the bot at him.  Stove in his skull, and took off a good chunk of his shoulder.”

“That happen a lot?”

“Only to idiots.  Are you getting in or not?”

Chase shook himself, and nodded as he ducked into the capsule.  He flooded the intake chamber, and released himself from the dock.

*

Friday.  21 April, 2165.  9:15 am.

“Chase?”

He turned at the voice, vaguely familiar, “Yeah,” he saw her and blinked, “Jennifer?”

“Yeah!” She looked pleasantly surprised, and more than a little shocked, “You have lost a lot of weight.”

“Oh, thanks.”  He shrugged, “About ten pounds dropped off all by themselves, so I figured I’d diet to see if I could lose anymore.”

“Wow.  That’s a really good diet.”

“Heh,” he forced a smile, the degree of her surprise was getting a bit insulting, “ThComing up on fifty pounds in just three months.”

“No!  What’s the diet?”

“Lots of veggies, a bit of fruit.  Less meat and sweets.  Works like a charm.”

“I’ll have to try that.”

He nodded, the barest suggestion of agreement.  Jennifer had always looked good.  He didn’t need awe from a woman who was paid more for modeling than for engineering.

“Hey,” she looked up at his face, “You want to get some coffee after class?”

“No,” he replied, “I have a date with my wife.”  He didn’t.

“Oh.  Right.” It was her turn to force a smile, “How long have you been married?”

“Coming up on six years, now.”

She blinked, “Has it been that long since we’ve seen each other?”

“Guess so,” he shrugged.  The door opened, and he stepped into the classroom.  She didn’t choose to sit near him, and he muttered a thankful prayer for small blessings.

*

Thursday.  20 April, 2165.  11:45 am.

Davis looked across the desk, a worried frown etched heavily onto his face, “This isn’t a good idea, Chase.”

He said nothing for a long moment, “You have any better ideas?”

“Yes.  Several actually.”

“That leave my family well off?”

“Look,” Davis scratched his head, then loosened his tie, “You’re in a bad way, I get it.  Things aren’t looking so rosy.  But that happens to everyone.  You just – you have to – press through.  And.”  He sighed, “I’m making an ass of myself, aren’t I?”

“A bit.”

“I have a day calendar with motivational quotes I can give you.”

“Tempting.  But no thank you.”

Davis leaned back in his chair.  “I’ll sign you up on one condition.”

“Which is?”  Chase looked up for the first time in several minutes.

“You promise not to deliberately kill yourself.”

A long silence stretched between them.  “Okay,” Chase tried to say it confidently.  It came out as a whisper.

His friend looked wretched, “I’ll get you on the list.”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Chase,” he said, “You have to tell Cynthia.”

Chase closed his eyes, “I know.”

*

Sunday.  April 23, 2165.  6:24 am.

He glided past the once glorious reef, now dead or dying, and his motion startled small schools of damsel fish.  The grand metal supports of the population platform above him extended deep into the sea floor.  He scanned a nearby construction bot, and checked its maintenance log.  It had been serviced recently, the bots close to shore usually were.

He moved farther out, following the ocean floor as it sloped downward.  Another twenty minutes passed before he found his first unserviced bot.  He flooded his intake compartment, and extended the exocapsule’s nimble arms.  A few basic instructions were transmitted to the bot, and it was gathered into the compartment without any trouble.

He rotated the guidance controls to the side and switched the capsule to maintenance mode.  Several valves hissed as air pumped into the compartment, forcing the water out.  He waited until the seal had been verified.  Then took a deep breath before he opened his compartment. 

*

Monday.  17 April, 2165.  5:30 am.

“Threat assessment is yellow.  Several environmental groups have conventions today across Guam.  None of the groups have any ties with terrorism, but they’re bound to attract some of the crazies.  As always, report any suspicious looking packages, or unfamiliar devices.  If anything seems out of the ordinary, or if anyone is acting unduly nervous or aggressive, let your security supervisory know immediately.”  Their shift manager, a John Alcott, glanced at his itinerary.  “That’s it.  Be safe, everyone.”  He walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

“Is yellow bad?” Ron asked nervously.  Ron was new.

“We get it a lot.” Chase answered, “Usually nothing to worry about.”

“Usually?”

Chase looked at him curiously, “The platform is targeted at least once a week.  You should have been told that before you got here.”

“I, uh,” Ron looked uncomfortable, “Might not have been paying much attention.  The guy who recruited me said everything was fine.”

“Fine is green.” Chase said drily.  “You know how long it’s been since we had a green?”

“How long?”

“Years.”

*

Saturday.  22 April, 2165.  7:45 pm.

Chase pushed open the door, and sank to the floor almost before he had closed it behind him.  He hunched forward, trying to keep weight off his back and stomach, and only partially succeeding.  The nausea attacked him relentlessly, he pushed himself to his feet and to the bathroom.  He vomited into the toilet bowl, and slumped against the ceramic, panting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”  Cynthia knelt behind him, pressing her arms against his arms and shoulders, her head resting on the back of his neck.  “You should take time off.  Give the antibiotics time to work.”

Chase didn’t trust himself to speak, then took in a sharp breath, “I have to, honey.  I can’t let anything happen to you.”

Cynthia pulled away, “There’s really nothing I can do to make you change your mind is there?”

He could hear her crying.  “No.”

She fled to her bedroom.  He could hear her sobs from where he slumped on the bathroom tile, his guilt as strongly present as the smell of his vomit.

*

Sunday.  23 April, 2165.  6:59 am.

The first hour had been productive.  Five bots serviced, and he was making his way to the far end of the platform.  Several hundred meters down, following the steep slope even deeper.  He circled around yet another of the platform’s massive stabilizing pillars, and caught sight of another construction bot.

The retrieval went smoothly.  After the seal, he opened his portal then froze.  Several additions had been made to the main body of the bot.  And the parts that it connected would create a large scale chemical reaction.  One of the more straightforward, albeit technically complex, improvised explosives he had been taught to recognize.

He slammed his portal shut, and flooded the chamber.  He punched his radio, “Delta Actual, I have discovered a bomb on a construction bot.”

The response came immediately, “Send us the serial number.”

He transmitted.

“Standby.”

Several long moments passed, and his sweat steadily soaked through his uniform.

“Delta Thirteen, this is Delta Actual.  Describe your posture, over.”

He swallowed, a vain attempt to moisten his mouth.  “The bot is in my intake compartment, I flooded, but I’m not sure how to proceed.”

“Deploy the bot, but don’t reactivate.  We’ll try to power it down on our end.  Do everything slowly, and describe you progress.”

“I am opening the intake compartment.  Taken control of the capsule arms.  Gripping the bot’s fins.”

“Wait!”

He froze, his heart stumbling over itself in panic.

“Very well, go ahead.”

A gasp escaped him, “Gripping the bot’s fins.”  He waited a moment before he actually did, but no further protest was made.  “Deploying.”  His hands felt slick.  “The bot is out of my compartment.  I have released it.  Stowed the arms, and – ˮ He let out a trembling breath, “Secured the compartment.”

“Excellent.”  Delta Actual sounded relieved.  “Good work.  Move two hundred meters away, and we’ll deactivate it.”

“Yes, sir.”  He flipped the engine on, and the bot exploded.

*

Wednesday.  19 April, 2165.  11:45 am.

“Chase,” Dr. Sanjana scratched his jaw, “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Please don’t let it be pancreatitis,” Chase smiled, “That’s what Cynthia’s mother thinks it is.  I’d never hear the end of it.”

“It’s cancer.”

Silence.

“Pancreatic cancer,” Dr. Sanjana continued, his voice soft, but with a certain professional detachment.  “And you have early stage lymphoma.  And it’s spread to both your liver and both lungs.”

Chase walked to the window.  “So…”  He had trouble thinking, “I’m dead?”

“Chase – ˮ

“I mean, uh,” he tried to clear his head, “Is it terminal?”

Sanjana paused, “At the most you’ll have three months.  At the least,” he clasped his hands together, “A week.”

*

Sunday.  23 April, 2165.  7:04 am.

There’s not much fire in an underwater explosion.  Just the white of steam, froth, and incredible outward force.  Force which threw Chase’s capsule clear as the platform’s pillar buckled and several thousand tons of prefabricated metals and plastics pounded into the ocean far above. 

The engines shorted out almost immediately, and Chase tried in vain to strap himself in as he tumbled end over end further out to sea.  A small leak on one of the seals of the intake portal let in a spray of water that covered everything in a moist, saline film.

His capsule spun more and more reluctantly, until at last the ballast righted the vessel.

A tentative touch to the controls and they immediately died.  The radio offered nothing but static.  The light bulb shone brightly, but he had no idea how long that would last.  At least he still had air.

*

Sunday.  23 April, 2165.  8:13 am.

The rescue team found his capsule at a depth of 13,000 meters.  Right on the edge of the Mariana Trench.  He was unconscious, but alive.  He was transferred immediately to the platform’s hospital.

*

Monday.  17 April, 2165.  6:30 pm.

Chase walked in his apartment, and smiled as Cynthia walked out of the study to greet him.  He swept her into his arms and kissed her.  “How did the office treat you today?”

“It was mind-numbingly dull.  But the engineering department will receive five hundred tons of titanium rivets.  And that order’s success can be laid squarely at the feet of yours truly.”

He smiled, “I knew I could count on you.”

“Of course you did.”

They laughed, and Cynthia led him to the study where she had shower invitations laid across her desk.  “Now I know we don’t for sure, but I’m almost positive the baby’s a boy.  Maybe we could order blue in advance.”

“We could just wait and see.”

“But what about the invitations?”

He shrugged, “White’s a good color.”

“It’s not a color!”

“A prism would disagree rather strongly.”

“We have to plan for the future, Chase.”  She looked away from him loftily, “When the baby comes we can’t just choose colors on the fly.  We’ll need to be sure weeks in advance.”

“Or months in advance?”

“That too.”  She kissed him, and they turned back to the invitations.

“I think blue will do nicely,” he put his arm around her shoulder and smiled.

~~~

The Art of Ambivalence

Everyone, at some point or another, has encountered lazy employees.  The avatars of apathy and indifference that take being unhelpful so far as to be nearly - or entirely - offensive.  I wondered what it'd be like to write a story from the perspective of just such an employee.

Of course, my character isn't 'quite' as bad as he could be.  I made a few compromises so that I could tell a story beyond someone taking a nap in the janitor's closet.  But hopefully, I captured something of the spirit of such ignoble creatures.

~~~

Out of the Way

A laser blasted a hole in the titanium platform outside, and Jank paused for a long moment.  He took another sip from the straw riding loosely in the broken seal of an energy drink.  The station’s automated shields flickered on, and his video feeds fogged over with a slight blue haze.  A military transport hurtled onto the platform, landing not far from the smoking cavity that had preceded it – not quite landing.  The shields of the station had parted as it descended, and now closed slowly around it.

A bank of monitors crowded around his console, each cycling through one of the dozens of platforms.  Several immediately switched to the platform just outside the commerce tower, the one that was now populated by the transport that looked significantly worse than its landing could account for.

He sighed and flipped on his microphone, “Welcome to Castorius II, where Britonian Lightning is pleased to meet your energy needs.”  He toggled a switch and several stylized lightning bolts flashed impressively on the transport’s platform.  “My name is Jank.”  Information scrolled across one of the monitors, “According to last records, your ship is fitted with an Aster Mk. XVII.  Standard fuel is radiated matter.  Would you like highly, moderately, or mildly irradiated matter?”

Jank paused, then reluctantly switched the coms from sending to receiving. 

The customer hadn’t waited for him, “… pursued by three unmarked strike vessels.”  A woman’s voice.  “I need shelter for my ship and crew, immediately.  They haven’t broken visual contact, and if we aren’t out of sight soon, they’ll attempt to board us.”

“I’m sorry,” a slow pause to sip an ounce or two from his energy drink, “company policy is to remain uninvolved in local violence.”  In theory, this was both true and untrue.  He could shelter them if he consulted the first shift staff member.  But Nica was too high strung to be reliable in this kind of situation. 

Several colorful curses were offered as reply as two of the three strike vessels landed on the platform, and a couple dozen armored soldiers poured out and surrounded the transport.  Jank shrugged, ended the communications link, and directed one of the monitors to launch a U-Net connection.  He browsed his favorite feeds and took another sip of his drink.  The room shook a few times from muffled explosions, forcing him to grudgingly check the reservoir’s integrity.  Everything appeared to be neatly contained to the one platform, so he didn’t bother checking again.

Lasers cracked against the shields covering the commerce tower, sending flickers through the monitors.  He sighed, and reached a hand out to send an SOS to the nearest patrol station, then changed his mind.  At their closest, it would take them nearly thirty hours to show up.  He would just have the drones clean up the mess.  Put it in the security report.  Less work that way.

The com light flashed, and he rolled his eyes as he flipped it on.  “Yes, have you decided which fuel you would like?”

“Almost,” A man’s voice, seemingly unconcerned, “We are considering an antimatter energy source and would like a private fueling platform.”

Jank winced.  Antimatter was Britonian’s latest development.  More energy, much more efficient, and highly unstable.  Anyone interested in it was to be given special accommodations.  “Of course.  You may transfer to Platform epsilon 3 at your convenience.”

“I’m afraid it will not be convenient.  Would you be so kind as to transfer us immediately?”

He sighed, “Of course.”  He activated the warning lights on the platform, and initiated a cellular transfer.  Several of the attacking soldiers were vaporized in the process, the rest fled back to their ships.

“Thank you,” the voice sounded quite smug, and ended the link.  He watched despondently as the three strike vessels lifted off the platform, and tracked their profile as they flew around the station searching for the new location of the transport.  It could take them awhile, and they wouldn’t be able to land there without his permission. 

Several lights sprung on, a high-pitched whine began a rotation, and his chair skittered across the floor from the impact of several missiles.  Jank was startled into triggering the SOS, despite it having been automatically activated upon detection of the missiles.  He glanced at the station’s internal coms, but before he could decide whether or not he wanted to involve Nica, he heard her running up the stairs to central control.

“What happened?!”  She was wearing her uniform – of course she was.  Jank hadn’t bothered to unpack his.

“Uh,” he gestured at the monitors, “missiles.”

“Are you serious?” she shook her head.  She glanced quickly across the various displays, and then reached past him to activate a coms link that broadcast to all three strike vessels, “Welcome to Castorius II.  Be advised, you are firing on a refueling station.  If our ability to contain our energy reserves is compromised, they will detonate with a force approaching that of a supernova.”  She ended the link and didn’t bother waiting for a reply, “If they hail us, try to get them to land until we can figure this out.  I’m going to see if the crew of the other ship needs medical attention.”

She left at a run down the stairs.  “Okay,” he replied, belatedly.  He felt exhausted just from her being nearby.  A shame.  She was cute, otherwise.  He looked disconsolately at his energy drink.  It had fallen off the console, and now lay in a scattered spray of brightly colored liquid.  Not much.  He’d been nursing it for some time.  Jank walked down to the kitchen, grabbed some towels, ran a corner under some water, and walked back up to central control.

“… Jank!  God dammit, answer your line!”

He rolled his eyes, and activated his transceiver, “Nica?”

“Yes!  Where the hell have you been?”

No reason to answer that.  He bent down and started cleaning up the spill, “What do you need?”

“Give the transport crew access to the commerce center.  They have some injuries and they’ll be more comfortable inside.  And did you really leave them on the platform while they were being attacked?”

“Yeah, okay.”  He keyed in the code, “They can get in.  And we’re not supposed to show favoritism to any certain class of customers.” 

“What?  Keeping people from being shot is hardly favoritism.”  A pause, “Stay in the control center, I might need your help.”  The line went dead, and Jank sunk back into his chair.  This was getting out of control.  He pulled a magazine out of a rack on the wall he had ordered some drones to install shortly after his arrival to the station.  The reading wasn’t much, but it was some distraction.

A quarter of an hour passed quietly, before one of the monitors chirped.  The thirteenth chirp or so, Jank looked up.  Blinked.  Leaned forward.  Then sighed, and sent a link to Nica’s personal com.

“I’m here, go ahead.”

“A tri-hull starjammer is entering our zone.  It’ll be a few minutes before they get close enough to dock.”

A pause, “You think they’re part of this?”

“Well,” he glanced at a few of the monitors, “The other guys docked with it.”

“Hang on,” another pause, “Treat them like a normal customer, see if you can figure out what they want.  I’ll see what these people know about it.”

“Nica?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s coming up as a Shillian vessel.”

“Oh.  Well.  Do your best.  Try to keep them from shooting us.”

Jank grimaced as he ended the link, sending a hail to the starjammer as he did.  Shillians were a race of aliens that were known both as universally mercenary and universally violent.  The hail went through, “Welcome to Castorius II, where Britonian Lightning is pleased to meet your energy needs.”  He toggled a few of the larger stylized lightning bolts, those which could be seen from further out.  “My name is Jank.”  A monitor showed that the station’s scan was being blocked.  “We have energy to accommodate over fifty thousand different propulsion systems.  How might we best serve you?”

“You will surrender the criminals you are harboring, along with their ship.”  The voice drifted in volume and paused several times in strange places, but had no accent.  Probably a translator program.

“I’ll need to see documentation from both your world and theirs establishing that you have the authority for arrest and seizure.”

A burst of static, “Do not try to delay us.  You will give them up, or we will destroy you.”

“Uh,” he tried to remember, “Then you’d be shooting a refueling station.  We’d blow up.”  He paused, then added, “And you’d get blown up too.”

“Then we won’t attack the station.  We’ll come aboard.  And we will find you, so that you are the first to die.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he switched his link, “They’re gonna try and board us, Nica.”

“I heard,” there was laughter in the background, “Did you really just say ‘yeah, whatever’ when someone threatened to kill you?”

“I guess.  You were listening in?”

“We wanted to hear how the conversation went ourselves, so you wouldn’t have to try and describe it all to us.”

Jank thought for a moment, “Thanks.”

“Let us know if they do anything.”

“Uh,” he sent a few commands into the system, “You’re in the commerce tower, fourth floor?”

“Yes.  Why?”

“I’m opening control feeds on your floor, and on the platform of the transport.  You can just get what you need wherever.  Saves time.”  He leaned back in his chair and picked up his magazine, “I also flagged your handscan to give you control access and voice command authorization at any tower or platform monitor.”

“Good thinking.”

“Yep.”  He ended the link, and settled into his chair with a satisfied sigh.  Hopefully the last of his distractions.

*

“Mister Jank?  Mister Jank are you there?”

He woke up a bit bleary eyed, and glanced at his timepiece.  Two hours had passed.  His shift would be over in just a few more.  He’d been hoping for peace till then.  No such luck, apparently.

“Mister Jank!”  The woman’s voice, captain of the transport.  “Your colleague has been shot.  Please respond.”

The chair enfolded him nicely.  Pretending not to hear? Not much of an option.  If he didn’t answer, Nica would kill him.  The girl was unreasonable that way.  Probably report him to corporate, too.  “I’m here.”

“Good,” the woman managed to sound both relieved and annoyed, “We’ve managed to trap the Shillian assault teams on the first floor.  We can escape, but only if you distract or disable their command ship.”

“Yeah, okay.”  He grimaced, “What about Nica?”

“We stopped the bleeding; she’s fine for the moment.  It’ll be best if we take her with us.  We can get her to medical facilities faster than they can get here.”

One less thing to worry about.  “Nice.  I’ll see what I can do.”  He ended the link, and thought for a moment.  A special set of controls lit up to the side of the room.  “Oh.  That might work.”

He slid his chair over to the controls and started working.

Several complex arrays, many the size of a mid-size transport, extended from the refueling station.  When finished, they hung suspended far to one side, well past any of the platforms.  He opened coms to the starjammer, “Standby for fueling.”

A long pause, “Repeat last transmission.”

He keyed in an acceptance, “Thank you for choosing Britonian Lightning.”

Several powerful projected impulses quickly and smoothly moved the large ship close beside the extended array.  He checked a timer on one of the monitors.  Three seconds. 

“Please come again.”  He ended the link.

Castorius II erupted, as the quasar did at regular intervals, hurling a wide beam of energy from its north and south poles.  The extended array gathered a small percentage of that energy, but even that little made for an enormous amount of fuel.  Britonian Lightning had spent decades perfecting the materials necessary for not only the energy transfer, but also for an assembly that would survive the eruption.  Jank was reasonably sure the starjammer hadn’t gone through a similar stage of development.

The vessel splintered, parts simply vaporizing at the impact, others hurled away at incredible speeds.  The explosions were muted as the air dissipated into vacuum, but spectacular nonetheless.  A monitor chirped at the departure of the transport.  He nodded, then keyed the computer for a voice command, “Activate drones.  Sweep the first floor of the commerce center for active bio signatures.  Clean them up.”

The transport flitted across his view screen, giving the eruption a wide berth, then vanished as it opened a wormhole.  He leaned back feeling a little lonely.  Then shrugged.

He’d program one of the drones to take Nica’s shift.

~~~

That Most Holy Schism

Religion has a very interesting effect on a married couple.  When shared, it can be a source of common strength, of intimacy, of solidarity.  But when distinct, it can often become a point of contention.

What's more interesting to me though, is when the religion is shared, but the degree of devotion is not.  An strange reality is that often a difference in degree can be just as alienating, and sometimes more so.  When I was in the military, I made the mistake (only a couple of times) of saying that I didn't swear because I was a Christian.  My friends would look at me quizzically, a little offended, and ask me what I meant - they were Christians too.

Which made the rest of the conversation a wee bit awkward.

The truth is, believers put so much importance on the differences that distinguish their own spirituality that when they encounter someone who disagrees, they have trouble reconciling the validity of that disagreement.  And its even harder when that person tries to say that there isn't a difference.

Is praying once a week just as good as praying every day?  Reading the Bible once a year versus reading it before every meal?  The obvious answer would seem to be that more equals better.  Except then we're associating what we do with spiritual excellence.  And when we do that, we enter very dangerous territory.

So my thought with this story is what would it be like if Jesus was an actual person hanging out with a married couple?  It sounded somewhat delightfully awkward, so I decided it simply had to be written.

Enjoy!

~~~

Third Wheel

Tania lay in her nightgown, held softly in Jordan’s arms.  Her eyes were closed, and she sang just above a whisper, “You satisfy … ˮ  Her voice drifted off and she breathed deeply, adjusting her body closer to him.  “You satisfy – ˮ

“Good morning, honey.”  Brian walked into the room, glancing at his wife.

She opened sleepy eyes and smiled, “Hey.”  Her voice moved slowly and opened into a yawn.

“How’d you sleep?”

“I had a nightmare, came out to Jordan.  I fell asleep feeling we were so close,” she turned adoring eyes to the man holding her, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Jordan gave her a squeeze, then helped her stand up.  She went to her husband and gave him a long kiss on the lips.  “And how did my husband sleep?”

“Well enough,” He gently pulled away to walk into the kitchen and start the coffee maker and fill its carafe.  “But got to get out the door whether I’m rested or not.”  He glanced across the room at Jordan and chuckled, “Can’t just sit around all day helping people, now can I?”

“It may not pay as well,” Jordan answered, “But you could.”

“That’s such a great idea!” Tania brightened, “It’s inspired!  You should totally stay home today.”

Brian laughed hesitantly.  Then picked a whole grain cereal that promised him boundless energy.  “Maybe some other time.  There’s a meeting today I can’t miss.”

“Oh.”  Tania pursed her lips, “Then bring him with you.  He’ll help you get through it.”

Her husband looked mildly startled at the suggestion, “Uh, no.  Thanks.  As great as Jordan is here at home, he never fits all that well at the office.”  He shrugged apologetically, “Fish out of water.  Not to mention how uncomfortable he makes some of my coworkers.  You remember how it went last time.”

“But that wasn’t Jordan’s fault, it – ˮ

“I didn’t say it was!  But – well, some people just can’t stand being around him.”  He spread his hands, “I know it’s not fair, but that’s the world we live in.  We can’t force people accept him.”

“Fine,” she watched him fill a thermos with coffee, and eat the last of his cereal.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”  He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.  As he walked out he glanced at Jordan and nodded, “Catch you later.”

“Later.”  Jordan replied.

*

“I just feel he doesn’t take you seriously.”

Jordan sat calmly on the toilet.  Hands folded and legs crossed, he leaned against the tank and listened to Tania’s voice over the fall of shower water.  His clothes grew faintly damp in the steam as she continued.

“He says he loves you as much as I do, but he doesn’t spend as much time with you.  I feel like you’re just a hobby to him.”  She poked her head around the edge of the shower curtain and pointed an accusing finger, “He needs you at the office just as much as he needs you here at home, he just won’t admit it.”  The shower curtain jerked back in place, “I don’t understand why you won’t speak up when he goes on like that.  Just explain to him why he needs to spend more time with you.”

She turned off the water and sighed as she pulled the curtain aside, “I guess I just want him to see you like I see you.”  She smiled at him as she started to dry herself off, “Thanks for listening.

Jordan smiled sadly and nodded.

*

“Jordan’s great, don’t get me wrong,” Brian leaned against the wall in the break room, sharing time with Kenneth the actuary.  “I love the guy.  But every waking moment it’s ‘Jordan this’ and ‘Jordan that’.  It’s a little much, you know?”

Kenneth nodded sagely, then turned his attention back to his tuna sandwich.

“For once I’d like to spend time with her alone.  No Jordan.  Just the two of us.”  He sighed and looked at his watch, “Gotta get back to it.  Thanks for the talk, Ken.”

Kenneth the actuary glanced up chewing a mouthful of white bread and albacore, watching Brian leave the room.  He rolled his eyes and continued his lunch.

*

Tania paced the kitchen while Jordan chopped carrots for her salad.  “I really think you should talk to him.  It’ll sound better coming from you than coming from me.  Just explain to him that you’re an important part of my life and I want him to share that.  I feel like there’s this distance between us, and that if we could completely agree on how important you should be to our lives, then we’d be close again.”

Jordan glanced at her skeptically.

“It’d be a start!”  She protested.  “Sure it won’t fix all our problems, but we can’t be perfect like you,” she hugged herself, “Normal people have to work things through one at a time.”

Jordan was quiet for a long moment, “I’ll talk to him.”

“Really?  Right now?” Tania grinned, “I knew you would!”

*

Brian typed away at his keyboard, processing a client’s order.  A small clock hung from the wall of his cubicle.  He didn’t need to glance at it to know that he went home in two hours.  He thought maybe he could stop somewhere for a drink before he got home.

“Hello, Brian.”

He jumped, pounding his knees upward into his desk and making his monitor jump.  “Christ, you scared me!  What the hell, Jordan?!”

“I came to see you.  Is the meeting over?”

“Yeah, uh,” he shifted his weight uncomfortably, “It was this morning.  But what are you doing here, I thought we decided I was going to work alone.”

Jordan sighed, “Why did you lie to Tania about the meeting, Brian?”

He blinked, “Well.  Because.”  He frowned, “You can’t just ditch work, Jordan.  But my wife, God love her, doesn’t see things that way.  Your word is more important than my common sense.”  He took a deep breath and shook his head, “Which is fine, whatever.  But I don’t have to agree with her.”

“You didn’t have to lie to her either.”

“And start a fight?” he sniffed, “Not likely.  Now are you done?  I have work to do.”

“Why don’t you want me to stay, Brian?”

“Because you don’t belong here!” he shouted, causing the bustle of the office to slow as they looked his way, “This is a place of business.  Not of whatever hokum pokum you came to stir up.  Now please.  Leave.”

Jordan nodded, a weary look on his face.  And left.

*

When Brian got home that night, Tania met him in the living room.  “Hey, honey.  How was – ˮ

“Did you send Jordan to work?”  His face was tight with outrage, “Why would you do that, when I explicitly told you not to.”

“You didn’t tell me not to.  And with that tone, you should have kept him there.  It might have improved your mood.”

“I don’t need you to fix my mood, Tania!  I need you to respect my boundaries.  Jordan is to stay here.  In the house, at church, with those friends that like him, and that’s it!  Anywhere else, and he’s crossing a line.”

“Who’s line?!”

“Mine!”

“Oh, that’s fresh.  And all those times you insisted he was important to you too; that you loved him too.  I guess you were just lying to my face!  Well, thank you, for finally speaking your mind.”

“I wasn’t lying!  But if you think that means I fawn over his every word, then you have a different definition of love than I do.  You obsess over him more than you actually love him.”

“How dare you!”

“Sometimes I think you’d be happier if you’d married him instead of me.”

Tania turned pale, and stormed away from him.

“Tania,” Brian frowned, “Tania!”  He followed her.

Jordan sat on the couch and listened to the shouting continue further into the house.  He walked to the front door.  He looked over his shoulder, eyes wet, then left.

*

Steampunk the Second (Also titled The Sequel That Could)

I've been meaning to write more of this story for ages.  And by 'ages' I mean two and a half years...

So I finally got around to it!  I'm sure you all vividly remember the last installment like it was yesterday, but in case you lack superhuman recollection, I'll link it for your benefit.  Enjoy!

Part 1

~~~

Upward

The smell of petroleum and alcohol hung in the air, and laid a suffocating weight on the shallow breaths of an unconscious Hope Fitzgerald.  A doctor managed the right side of the bed.  Thin tubes of near-black fluids had been shunted into her veins: saline, blood, and sedative.  Two large dials were set into the wall at the head of the bed.  One measured Hope’s pulse, and the doctor only rarely glanced at it.  The doctor checked the tin holding the sedative, and wound a valve closed.  The connected tube began to slowly empty.

Two technicians managed the left side of the room.  A large mechanical pump had been attached to a ten gallon drum of grease, and the gears ground out a high-pitched whine as they struggled to move the thick gel through a coiled pipe.  They glanced frequently at the second dial on the wall.  The one that measured steam pressure.

Hope breathed in deeply as she opened her eyes, then coughed violently.  She tried to roll to her side, but only moved her body a bare inch before her left arm jerked her to a halt.  The doctor and technicians laid hands on her, pushing her to her back.  She seized the doctor’s throat, “Tell the men to take their hands off me.”

The doctor motioned frantically at the technicians, and they let her go and backed away.  The doctor blinked panicked eyes, and brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, “I’m sorry, ma’am.  But you need to lie still until they’re finished.”

“Finished with what?”  Hope snapped, glancing the left side of the room.  Her eyes glanced over the metal drum, and followed the pipes until they connected with an arm and two legs.

Mechanical limbs.  Hers.

The doctor gasped as Hope’s hand tightened around her neck.  “What is this?” the Aubadean whispered.

“They were crushed and dying.  We had to amputate.  The habiliments were installed by government order.”

She pushed the doctor away.  “Government order?”

“Yes.  Shall I send for the ambassador?”

“Please.”

The doctor hurried out, and the technicians worked in silence, avoiding her eyes.  Her heart pounded beneath a forced calm.  She gripped the rail that ran alongside her bed to still the shaking of her hand, and watched as her mechanical hand clenched to match its human pair. 

*

Four faces huddled together in the pale green light, listening closely to the deep humming of a pelluciphage.

“Sounds healthy,” Kioja squinted, “if a little thin.”

“Twenty-seven kilograms and thirty-eight hundredths.  But better dispersion than would be expected for weight so significantly below the median.”  Timmy’s gears spun his calculations, and he rotated his head to face his owner Cass, “We should inform the captain that there is only three thousandths of a percent of it exploding this week.”

She smirked, “Hear that, Captain?”

“Damn tin can,” Marcellus groused.

“Tin is only an – ˮ

“Be a problem, Kioja?” The Captain ignored the automaton.

“A few weeks, and it’ll be as fit as we could hope for.”

“And the lift?”

“If the dispersion is good, it won’t matter,” Cass replied, “Weight shouldn’t affect the process.”

“Technically – ” Timmy began.

“No more than fifty meters,” Kioja smiled, “And that should be corrected in a fortnight.”

“Good enough.  You have cargo for us?”

Kioja shrugged, “I’ve said a few words; I’ve heard a few answers.”

“Then have it loaded and we’ll put this engine through its paces.”

“If you lack confidence, then why not sell it and purchase a replacement,” Timmy released steam through a facial valve.

“I’d rather not get shot.” Captain Marcellus shot an irritated look at the automaton.

“You don’t return a gift,” Cass leaned against Timmy, “But would they really shoot you?” she asked the Captain.

Marcellus nodded to Kioja who didn’t bother to look up, “Probably.”

“You don’t return gifts.” The Captain echoed Cass, “Not in Woodburn.”

“Explosions happen sometimes, too,” Kioja added absently.

*

The technician shut the valve a moment before Hope tore herself from the tubing, the remaining oil and grease falling in uneven spheres before erupting across the floor.  The pump strained against the closed valve and smoke began easing from its motor.  Hope pushed the protesting doctor away and pushed herself off the gurney.

Her legs gave out beneath her, but she felt nothing as the metal joints pounded cracks through the tile.  She swore and gripped the side of the gurney and tried to pull herself up, her mechanical arm bending the metal rail it held.  The bed tore from its floor mounting, sending massive bolts into the pump and the vat of grease beside it, spilling gallons onto one of the technicians.  A gear slipped, a belt broke, and smoke filled the room.

Hope forced motion into one of her mechanical legs, wrenching it forward until only one knee touched the ground.  She pushed herself to her feet and shuffled unevenly across the room, edging out the door, just as the grease caught fire.

A technician threw a lever, and a hatch opened in the ceiling.  Thick powder fell through the smoke, smothering the flames before they spread.  The two technicians and the doctor stumbled out of the room, coughing violently.

“Ma’am,” A young woman cleared her throat beside Hope Fitzgerald, “I’m the local diplomat and represent the city of Woodburn.”

“The hell you do,” she breathed heavily as she struggled to move her new legs, “You work for a man.  Send him to speak with me.”

The diplomat blinked, “But – ˮ

“You are too young to run an embassy, girl.  Which means you have a superior, likely a man.  They only sent you so as not to offend me,” the Aubadean ground her teeth, “I am beyond offense.  So get the man who ordered these machines attached to my body, or I will drive your pretty face through the nearest wall.”

“No need,” a smooth voice heralded a well-groomed man, “I ordered the surgery.”

“Why?  How dare you so deface my body?!”

“Well,” the man smiled, “It was a choice between that and sending you back to the capital with only one arm and a torso.”  He chuckled mirthlessly, “Diplomatically speaking, just how well do you think the A.E. would respond to you returning in such a condition?”

Hope Fitzgerald tried to still her rage, “You could have sent for Aubadean habiliments.”

“Quite impossible, Ms. Fitzgerald.”

She started at the mention of her name.

“You would have died by the time they arrived, particularly given the bureaucratic hell involved in such an import.  And we would have been seen as complicit in your death.  Unacceptable.  Your feelings in the matter were incidental.”  He gestured toward the young woman and she produced a sheaf of papers, “These are travel papers.  After a few weeks of recovery, we’ll ship you to the A.E. factory on Hindenberg.”

Hope glanced at the papers, but didn’t take them.  “Who are you?”

“Josia Dominik.”

“Then Mr. Dominik, I will decline.  I leave at once, and I will arrange my own transport.”

A slight frown crossed the man’s face, but he nodded, “As you will.”

She pushed past him, her legs moving in jerks across the hospital floor.

*

Kioja watched the daybreak from under the half-petrified wood of an abandoned market stall, a few hesitant drops of nightfall making pools of darkness in the mud of Woodburn’s slums. 

“Day won’t last an hour.”  A rough voice said from behind him.

“It’s the season,” Kioja replied.  “Long nights, short days.”

A grunt, “Good weather for smuggling.”

Kioja smiled, “We need it loaded.”

“I’ll have your cargo at the tower in an hour.”

Kioja began to walk away.

“Why not stay?” The voice asked, “They won’t ever accept you.  Your duchess and her pet captain.”  A pause, “There’s no place for Bercs above the clouds.”

“The Lyric is my home.”  Kioja continued walking, “And the clouds have yet to take offense.”

*

By the time Hope reached Woodburn’s airdock, what remained of her legs were bleeding badly, staining the polished copper of her habiliments a glossy red.  She wore a Berc blouse and trousers.  Cheaply made castaways that Josia had scrounged from the hospital unclaimed.  They stank of peroxide, sweat, and disease.  The twilight spat alternating bursts of heavy night and clear day.  The nightfall left her dripping, and the sun never had quite enough time to dry her.

Her mane of white hair, however damp, still marked her as an airborne.  Passerby, and even steamcars, went to great lengths as to not cross her path.

She limped across the airdock, her footprints a portrait of darkness with the slightest hint of red.  Walls far apart caught the wind and spun it wildly around and upward.  The tower stood on the other side of the airdock, several hundred meters tall.  At regular intervals, massive spokes stretched out from its sides.  Most had airships attached, while a few stood empty, waiting for new arrivals.  The airdock arced over half of the tower, sheltering the airships from the intermittent nightfall, and left the other half open for the incoming and outgoing.

“You lost?”  A big man approached her hesitantly as he used a rag to clean his hands.  “No passenger ships stop at Woodburn.  Not unless they’re charter.”

Hope jerked her legs to a halt, and grimaced past a jolt of pain.  “A train derailed, and an airship rescued some of its passengers.  Which one is it?”

“That’d be the Lyric.”

“Which pier?”

The man glanced at the blood on her habiliments, “And who might you be, ma’am?”

“One of the survivors.  I want to pay my respects.”  Hope ground her teeth, “You can see I’m in pain, do you intend to help me or not?”

“Take the lift.  Eleven B.”  The Berc paused, “You need help?”

She ignored the offer.

*

Captain J shepherded a mass of men off the cargo lift and directed them to the Lyric’s hold.  “Timmy!”  He waved at the automaton, “Fetch Cass and get these stowed.”

“Should I remind you that using me for manual labor is a gross misuse of resources?”

“Save it for later, you tin can!  We have work to do.”  He gestured to the men as they hefted large boxes, and filed onto the airship, “Follow the bot and do as it says.”

Timmy hissed out steam and muttered as he turned, “Merely an additive.”

Captain J ushered the last of the men on board, and glanced back along the pier to ensure nothing had been forgotten.  Instead, he saw a tall woman limping her way towards him.  “You’re lost, ma’am.”  She drew closer, and her dark skin and white hair marked her as an Aubadean, likely high class.  He swore under his breath, “Is there something I can help you with?”  He looked over her legs, blinking at the Berc habiliments, “Some medical attention, perhaps?”

“Don’t waste my time.” She snapped, “Are you the captain?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me your name.”

A paused, “Captain Marcellus,” he replied reluctantly.

“Marcellus,” she frowned, “Jedediah.  Sponsored by the Blake family.” She walked past him, “And if I’m not mistaken, their daughter flies with you.”

“Just a moment, ma’am!” Captain J forced himself back in front of her, “We’re loading cargo at the moment, and its a bit chaotic on board.  In your state it’d be a mite dangerous.”

“My state?” She growled back, raising her mechanical arm and grasping his shirt, “You will take me on board, you will find Ms. Blake, and I will inform her of my business.”  She lifted him off his feet and carried him on board while he dangled from her hand.

He was dumped in a heap by the Aubadean woman, and he scrambled to his feet.  “At once,” he grumbled, making his way to the helm.  Beside the wheel there was a small platform upon which sat a handful of telegraph keys.  He pressed down several in succession, and after a moment two small rollers fed out a sequence of symbols.  A glance and then he typed out a response.  “She’ll be up in a moment.  I don’t suppose you’d bother telling me why you’re troubling us?”

The woman didn’t respond, and Captain J sighed.  A few moments later, Cass emerged from the hold, she saw Captain J first and shrugged her confusion.  He nodded towards the Aubadean.  Cass stopped abruptly, “Why are you aboard my ship?”

“I am Hope Fitzgerald, and you will fly me to Reinhardt with all haste.”

“The capital?” Cass asked slowly.  She glanced at Marcellus who almost imperceptibly shook his head, “I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.”

“I was not making a request.”

Captain J stepped between them, “You’ll have to respect Ms. Blake’s … ˮ

“Ms. Blake is a would-be alchemist that almost blew her family’s island out of the sky!  I represent the Emporium.  And I will be accorded the proper respect or I will throw you off of your own aircraft!”

Captain J frowned, “Emporium agents do not wear Berc habiliments, and they certainly don’t dress in rags.”

“And they aren’t commonly passengers of trains when they derail.”

He blinked, “So … ah.”

Hope turned back to Cass, “The train was derailed by an assassin, and I was the intended target.  Any other ship at this airdock could potentially be in collusion with whatever interests arranged for the sabotage.”

“And we were the ones who saved you,” Cass met the eyes of Captain J, then shrugged, “We can’t take you to Reinhardt.”

“Were you not listening?!”

“One of our engines is damaged.  Until we get it repaired, we don’t have the lift necessary.”

Hope fell silent, then quietly swore.  “Then I’ll stay until it has been repaired.”

“Out of the question!” Captain J protested.

The two women looked at him coldly and he fell silent.

“What manner of crew do you manage?  This one has lost his good sense.”

“I’ll see to it,” Cass turned back to Hope, “that the flaws of his character are corrected.  Thus far he has been a slow learner.”

“Ladies,” Kioja stepped on to the ship, nodding to Cass and handing a parcel to Hope.  “I’ll show you to the Captain’s cabin.  It should suit your needs while you are on board.”

Hope blinked, taking a step away from the Berc, “What is this?”

“Clothes.  I assume you find your current wardrobe somewhat lacking?”

“Yes.”  She frowned, “Where did you procure these?”

“From the market, of course.”

“For Ms. Blake?”

“For you.  Cass has enough clothing I should think.”

Captain J squinted at the alchemist, “How in the hell – ˮ

Kioja shrugged, “A friend told me she was on her way.”  He turned to Hope and bowed, “Allow me to escort you to the Captain’s cabin.”

Hope scowled, but nodded after a moment of hesitation.

Cass sidled over to Marcellus, “How big of a problem will this be, do you think?”

“Get Timmy up here.  I have some questions that need answering.”

*

“Could you have failed any more spectacularly?!”

Sand said nothing.

“None were supposed to survive!  But the woman lives, and very few indeed consider it an accident.”

“If the ship hadn’t arrived – ˮ

“Don’t bother with excuses,” the voice hissed its contempt, “You are meant to prepare for any eventuality!  Interference should have been accounted for.”

Sand shrugged, “If you want miracles, seek out a lightbender.  I cannot account for every chance passerby.  Most captains would not even have stopped.”

Josia Dominik stepped from the shadows, “You are to pursue her.  The agent must die.  Ideally before she reaches Reinhardt.  She has gained passage on the Lyric.  Find them, and finish your job.  Remember, it needs to seem like an accident.”

“Of course.  Where are they headed?”

“Carnegie.  A smuggling run.  Putting their newly outfitted engine to illicit use.”

“And I kill only the woman?”

“Kill them all,” Josia glared at the assassin, “They’re witnesses to your idiocy.  We don’t know how much they saw, and we don’t want them sharing anything compromising.”

Sand stood and walked away from the politician.  His hand drifted to his chest and patted the flintlock hidden beneath his jacket.  Carnegie.  It shouldn’t be too hard to get there before they did.

*