fiction - Nth Degree

Transcription

Nth Degree is a free, bimonthly,
web-distributed fanzine that is intended
to help promote the works of new writers
and artists in the science fiction and
fantasy genres. For more information,
please contact us at [email protected].
Jan/Feb 2012, Issue #21
The identity crisis continues. Or, just possibly,
it’s finally been laid to rest. Since, the beginning of the
zine—ten years now!—we’ve been plagued with the question of what type of publication we should be classified as.
My intention from the start was to publish a fanzine.
The first issue of Nth Degree was sixteen pages with a
beautiful four-color, glossy cover. People immediately
said, “This doesn’t look like a fanzine.” I spent about a
year insisting that modern design tools and cheap print
co-ops meant that it was possible to print a professional
looking zine for around the same costs as photocopying.
Besides, I was a professional graphic designer, I wanted
my zine to reflect that. Eventually, I caved and took a
closer look at the Hugo rules concerning zines.
At the time, the definition of a semiprozine was:
Any generally available non-professional publication
devoted to science fiction or fantasy which by the close of the
previous calendar year has published four (4) or more issues
(or the equivalent in other media), at least one (1) of
which appeared in the previous calendar year, and which
in the previous calendar year met at least two (2) of the following criteria: (1) had an average press run of at least one
thousand (1000) copies per issue, (2) paid its contributors
and/or staff in other than copies of the publication, (3) provided at least half the income of any one person, (4) had at
least fifteen percent (15%) of its total space occupied by
advertising, (5) announced itself to be a semiprozine.
STAFF
We published four issues a year, had a minimum print
run of 1000 copies, did not pay in other than copies, provided no income, and had around 15% advertising (much
of it, though, in trade). We just barely qualified. The definition of a fanzine was basically, “Does not qualify as a
semiprozine.” So we announced ourselves to be a semiprozine.
As a result, we ended missing out on the Hugo ballot
year after year because our nominations were always split
between semiprozine and fanzine. If you added them up,
we usually had enough nominations to get on the ballot.
But that’s where we were. Next issue I’ll talk more
about where we are now. Now, sit back and enjoy our
very first themed issue… Superheroes!
Publisher/Editor/Designer: Michael D. Pederson
Associate Editor: Rob Balder
Staff Artist: J. Andrew World
Nth Degree #21 is ™ and © by Big Blind Productions, Jan. 2012.
C ONTENTS
FEATURES
The Editor’s Rant .........................................1
Conventions................................................3
BelchBurger by Rob Balder & Dan Fahs................6
View From Nowhere by Peter Huston ................7
Fanbreeding by Kara Dennison .........................8
The Last Straw by Bob Kauffmann ...................17
Humoresque by Loren Fishman .......................32
Dear Cthulhu by Patrick Thomas .....................33
REVIEWS
Books: Scary Tales of Scariness.....................5
Movies: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo ........5
Television: Grimm ........................................6
Television: Once Upon a Time ......................6
FICTION
Tanked by M. Elisabeth Fortune ..........................9
A Little Too Fast by Tony Karnowski .................19
Captain Asimov by Stephen L. Antczak .............25
ILLUSTRATIONS
Tanked by S.C. Watson ....................................9
A Little Too Fast by Michael D. Pederson ............19
Captain Asimov by Randall M. Ensley ..............25
With Help From: Stephen L. Antczak, Kara Dennison,
Randall M. Ensley, Loren Fishman, M. Elisabeth Fortune, Peter Huston,
Tony Karnowski, Bob Kauffmann, Anita Nortier, KT Pinto,
Patrick Thomas, S.C. Watson
Richmond, VA • April 13–15, 2012
Author Guest of Honor: Glen Cook
Artist Guest of Honor: Matthew Stewart
more info online at http://www.ravencon.com
RavenCon features six full tracks of programming. More than
80 writers, editors, fans, scientists, filkers and costumers will be
available for discussions, panels, readings and signings.
There’s also anime, special music events, parties, workshops
and our famous Gaming Room that never closes.
Plus: Vote for 2013’s Fan Guest of Honor. It could be you!
Rave On!
R EGISTRATION :
Adults (18 and up):
$35 before 3-30-12
$40 at the door
Young Adults (12-17): $15
Children (11 and under): Free
10% discount with valid military
or student ID.
HOTEL :
Holiday Inn Select, Koger Center
Rooms are $104 per night.
Reservations: 804-379-3800
The Bird is
the Word!
F EAT U R E S
CONVENTIONS:
Capclave 2011
October 14–16
Gaithersburg, MD
http://www.capclave.org/capclave/capclave11
Review by Michael D. Pederson
I’ve become so accustomed to sharing con space with
anime fans, cosplayers, video gamers, LARPers, and every
other sub-genre that’s come along in the last twenty years
that I’ve almost forgotten how refreshing it can be to
attend a convention that is all about straight up science fiction. That is very much
Capclave’s niche, and they do it very well.
Programming was pretty light (just over 60 events) but of the highest quality and
always well attended. I was delighted at the amount of coverage the small press received
on the program and particularly enjoyed the panel I did with Neil Clarke, Ed Schubert,
and Anne Sheldon on the future of small press magazines.
Without a doubt, the highlight of the convention (and SRO) was a surprise visit from
Terry Pratchett who stopped by on the tail end of his North American publicity tour for
Snuff. He spoke for an hour before having to rush off to catch a flight home. Despite suffering from Alzheimer's and having just finished a fast-paced touring schedule, he’s still
one of the wittiest speakers out there. Getting to see him again was priceless.
Nth Degree’s Saturday night Halloween party was fantastically successful as well. I may
have to make that a new tradition.
Nanocon 9
November 4–6
Madison, SD
http://www.nanocon.us/
Review by Rob Balder
Nanocon is a rare hybrid convention: an academic gaming con! Dakota State University offers a bachelors program in Computer Game Design, and combines a weekend of standard tabletop and LAN gaming with an excellent array of professional speakers from the game industry and academia.
I was honored to be the keynote speaker. The topic of my talk was “Choosing
Independent Creator as a Career Path,” though most of the other presentations were
more in line with the “Horror Gaming” theme of this year’s event. Programmers, developers and publishers spoke on a number of ludological topics such as how to classify
horror games, building a narrative through gameplay, and creating valid female characters in video games.
At 436 attendees, the event was a major success for the DSU Gaming Club—blowing by their targeted attendance of 350. Most of the convention events took place in
Nth Degree #21
Page 3
CONVENTION
SCHEDULE
JAN-FEB
Jan. 13-16
Arisia
Boston, MA
http://2012.arisia.org
Jan. 13-15
illogiCon
Raleigh, NC
www.illogicon.org
Jan. 13-15
MarsCon
Williamsburg, VA
www.marscon.net
Jan. 13-16
SCARAB
Columbia, SC
www.s-c-a-r-a-b.com
Jan. 14-16
Rustycon
Seatac, WA
www.rustycon.com
Jan. 20-22
Chattacon
Chattanooga, TN
www.chattacon.org
Jan. 20-22
Epic Confusion
Troy, MI
http://confusion.stilyagi.org
Jan. 27-29
ConJour
Houston, TX
www.conjour.net
Jan. 27-29
COSine
Colorado Springs, CO
www.firstfridayfandom.org/cosine
Feb. 3-5
OwlCon
Houston, TX
www.owlcon.com
Feb. 17-19
Boskone
Boston, MA
www.nesfa.org/boskone
Feb. 17-19
ConDFW
Dallas, TX
www.condfw.org
Feb. 17-19
ConNooga
Chattanooga, TN
www.connooga.com
January/February 2012
F EAT U R E S
the Gaming and Dealer’s Room and the auditorium of the Dakota Prairie Playhouse.
To anyone who has been to a large gaming con, that may not sound huge, but consider
that Madison is out in the middle of the prairie. It was a 45-minute drive (as 40 MPH
winds blew over the fallow cornfields) to the nearest Walmart. This was a fun event for
students and participants, and I was glad to be a part of it.
Philcon 2011
November 18–20
Cherry Hill, NJ
www.2011.philcon.org
Review by KT Pinto
For many years, there have been three reasons why I
always liked going to Philcon:
1. The location. Originally in Philly, which was easy
enough to get to from NYC, but now it’s in a hotel in the more easily accessible
Cherry Hill, NJ.
2. The panels. A lot of literature panels, a lot of professionals, a lot of different topics, a lot of intellectual conversations. What more can one want?
3. The people. Three generations of fandom walk the halls of Philcon, and it’s safe
to say that they are some of the friendliest geeks on the convention circuit.
All of these things are great if you are an attendee of the con. But when you are
going to the convention for business reasons, that isn’t enough to make the grade. There
were a few issues this year…
Programming. The programming for many of the professionals was not only finalized with very little time to spare, but the individual schedules were also very sparse.
Panels are many authors’ and artists’ bread and butter; it gets them noticed, and gives
them a chance to promote their work. Two panels for some—which is nothing for a
three-day convention—while others had eight or nine panels left the sour taste of
favoritism in the air. There was also a disregard for requests such as time restrictions and
moderator requests. For example, Dr. James Prego asked to not have any panels before
11am, and did not want to moderate. Out of his three panels, he had 10 am panels on
both Saturday and Sunday, and was slated to moderate on Sunday’s panel.
The Dealers’ Room. Along with programming, professionals have to have a good
experience in the Dealers’ Room to make a convention worthwhile. Although the convention cannot be held responsible for the lack of buyers, they do have to consider how
the attitudes of the staff members in the Dealers’ Room may affect the professionals
(making one feel like they’re a bother is not the way to go when dealing with people),
and from an author’s perspective, having the room saturated with used-book dealers
makes it that much more difficult for small press authors to sell their wares. It doesn’t
seem like the convention—which is supposed to be pro-literature—took this into consideration at all when planning out who was going to be vending.
Would I go back to Philcon again? Definitely.
As a panelist? Maybe. Minor changes need to happen for that.
As a vendor? Not unless there is a complete overhaul…
Nth Degree #21
Page 4
CONVENTION
SCHEDULE
FEB-MARCH
Feb. 17-19
Farpoint
Timonium, MD
www.farpointcon.com
Feb. 17-19
KatSuCon
National Harbor, MD
www.katsucon.org
Feb. 17-19
ShevaCon
Roanoke, VA
www.shevacon.org
Feb. 22-26
PrezCon
Charlottesville, VA
www.prezcon.com
Feb. 24-26
AnachroCon
Atlanta, GA
www.anachrocon.com
Feb. 24-26
Concave
Bowling Green, KY
www.concaveky.org
Feb. 24-26
Mysticon
Roanoke, VA
www.mysticon-va.com
Feb. 24-26
Potlatch
Seattle, WA
www.potlatch-sf.org/21/index.php
March 2-4
StellarCon
High Point, NC
www.stellarcon.com
March 9-11
Madicon
Harrisburg, VA
www.madicon.org
March 16-18
Lunacon
Westchester, NY
www.2012.lunacon.org
March 23-25
MidSouthCon
Memphis, TN
www.midsouthcon.org
Mar. 29-Apr. 1
World Horror Con
Salt Lake City, UT
www.whc2012.org/World_Horror_2012.html
R EV I EWS
BOOKS:
MOVIES:
Scary Tales of
Scariness
by Brian Koscienski &
Chris Pisano
The Girl with the
Dragon Tattoo
Fortress Publishing, Inc.
Review by KT Pinto
It’s great when you are an author
with a huge publishing company
that can get your books reviewed
and get the word out there about your talent and creativity.
This review column is for the other authors and their
work: the ones who write for small publishing companies and
need to network and promote themselves. Their novels may
not be hot off the presses, but many are worth adding to your
book collection.
There are some horror novels out there that are serious,
dark and scary. That look into the inner workings of man and
the evil inside as they fight their inner demons.
This is not one of those novels.
Scary Tales of Scariness is a collection of stories about a
pair of drunken reprobates who find themselves face-to-face
with some of the best B-horror movie monsters ever!
Werewolves, zombies, vampires, ghosts, la chupacabra, and
ten other horror staples torment our heroes as they stumble
their way through fifteen different hilarious tales of insanely
hysterical horror.
The two main characters—whose names and visages are
those of the authors—have this great back and forth conversational style that takes the reader quickly through a roller
coaster of bantering, insults, action and insanity that leaves
you happily breathless (and sometimes a little giggly) at the
end of each story.
But be forewarned: you will be craving a few pitchers of
beer by the time you reach the end of the book (“The 64 oz
kind; Not the wussy 48 oz kind.”)!
Also Available
From the pages of Nth Degree…
Robert Kauffmann, creator of The Last Straw comic that has
appeared in Nth Degree for the last several years, has a new
manga out. O-Bon is the story of a young Japanese girl dealing with the loss of her family and is available at Lulu.com.
Nth Degree #21
Every once in a while you luck
out and get the perfect marriage
of artist and material. The Girl
with the Dragon Tattoo as directed by David Fincher is that perfect marriage. Fincher has made a
career out of dark subject matter (Zodiac, Fight Club, Se7en,
Alien3) and things don’t get much darker than Stieg Larsson’s
novel that the movie was based on.
At it’s heart, Dragon Tattoo is a classic locked-door mystery—a girl disappears from an island that has been closed off
from the mainland, setting off a forty-year search for her murderer. Investigating the murder is disgraced journalist Mikael
Blomkvist (a very solid Daniel Craig) with the help of the
socially dysfunctional Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara).
Almost immediately the investigation hurls the viewer
into a whirlwind of Nazis, rape, abuse of power, corruption,
incest, torture and murder; it plays like a David Fincher greatest hits album. In addition to his dark materials, Fincher has
a reputation for drawing strong, intense performances from
some of Hollywood’s best actors. Mara’s performance as
Salander should put her on the short list for Academy Awards
this season. She is nothing short of electrifying and totally
owns the screen every time she’s on.
Go see it in the theaters and then buy it as soon as it hits
video, you won’t regret it.
TELEVISION:
Hollywood loves to run in cycles and it looks like we’re finally
starting to see some tapering off in the teen vampire craze (yes,
there are still plenty of them out there but there don’t seem to
be any major new ones in the pipeline). Now, instead of urban
fantasy, Hollywood seems to be focused more intently on classic fairytale fantasy. We already have two shows on television
(Grimm and Once Upon a Time) and several new movies coming out (Snow White and the Huntsman, Mirror Mirror, and
Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters). I look forward to weighing
in on all of these offerings. Here are the first two…
Page 5
R EV I EWS
Grimm
Once Upon a Time
Could someone please tell me who exactly is watching this
show and how I can make them stop? Grimm (although currently on hiatus during the new winter rollouts) has recently
been given the green light for a full season of episodes.
Grimm is (in our genre’s language) an urban fantasy; in tvspeak it’s a “procedural with fantasy elements”. In my opinion, it fails miserably as both a cop show and as a fantasy
show. The premise: Grimms serve as protectors that keep normal people safe from fairytale monsters that pervade our
world. Admittedly, not a bad premise. Sadly, the show completely fails to deliver on the promise of the setup.
Seven episodes in to the season, and I have yet to find something to compliment them on. I do have lots of problems to discuss though. Let’s start with bad police work. In the very first
episode the Portland police department fails to investigate a
block of woods near where a girl disappeared because she told
her mom she would stay on the sidewalk. In the same episode
our hero goes to great lengths to sneak up on the suspect’s house
and then knocks on his door (sneak, sneak, sneak… Here I
am!). I’ve now lost track of the number of illegal searches our
hero has performed. And how come every single case he is
assigned has a supernatural twist? What a coincidence!
Secondary characters (partner, boss, girlfriend) have all been presented as two-dimensional cliches so far. Stories simply insult
the viewers intelligence. And the digitally superimposed effects
are clumsy at best. Someone please make this show go away.
Fortunately, I’ve held off until mid-season to review ABC’s
entry in the fantasy game, Once Upon a Time. When the show
debuted I initially wrote it off as cloying Disney sweetness. It’s
really grown on me though.
In a nutshell, imagine all the fairytale characters you know
and love living in a classic storybook setting. Then transport
them all to a small town in Maine via an evil queen’s curse.
The queen is now mayor of the town of Storybrooke and
none of the residents can remember their mythic pasts (except
for the mayor and maybe Rumpelstiltskin). At first, the show
seemed simplistic and overly saccharin. Throughout the first
half of the season though we’ve been able to explore some of
the backstories and seen how we got to where we are. The
main focus of the story is on Snow White (adorably played by
Ginnifer Goodwin of Big Love) and her rivalry with the Evil
Queen (Lana Parilla, gleefully stealing every scene she has).
Two characters are immune to the curse: Emma Swan (the
daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming) and her son
Henry (who she gave up for adoption); both grew up outside of
Storybrooke, where time had stopped for 28 years. Yes, this show
layers the mythology fairly densely but with a quirky whimsical
touch—sort of a cross between Lost and Pushing Daisies.
I’m glad to see that Once Upon a Time has been well
received but we have a tragic history of genre shows starting
off strong and then losing ratings (and focus) after the holidays (FlashForward, Life on Mars). Keep watching!
BelchBurger
Nth Degree #21
by Rob Balder & Dan Fahs
Page 6
F EAT U R E S
View From Nowhere
An alien perspective on the human race
by Peter Huston
Poly Styrene, R.I.P.
For the last several issues, I’ve shared my thoughts on how
humanity might appear to total strangers, say aliens from
space. This time I’m going to take a break and write about
something a little closer to home: writing, reading, art and the
purpose of it all.
I’m a bit emotionally worked up. I just received word that
Poly Styrene died in April. Now, who’s Poly Styrene? some of
you might ask. And, should you not know, it’s good to ask
because better to learn late than to never learn at all. Poly
Styrene was the stage-name of British performing artist
Marianne Joan Elliot-Said, best known as the lead singer of
the early punk band X-Ray Spex. Inspired by a Sex Pistols
show, Poly Styrene put out an ad, collected some like-minded
people and began recording songs.
Not yet eighteen years old at the time, half Somali-half
English, dressed in bizarre clothes and with a strange hair
cut, at times performing with dental braces, Poly Styrene
did not look like someone who should be the lead singer
of a band. Nor did she sound like one, alternately introducing songs with a little girl voice and then shouting out
lyrics—often unintelligible lyrics—as loud as she could.
Yet Poly Styrene was, indeed, lead singer of a band. And,
should anyone care, that band and their most popular
song, “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” is in my CD collection
four times. Once on the band’s classic album, Germ-Free
Adolescents and three times on various compilation discs.
It is with shame, regret and a feeling of being a poseur
that I confess the group to be absent from my much older
vinyl collection.
Poly Styrene had somehow managed to reach the age of 53
at the time of her death, a mind-boggling feat for anyone who
has seen videos of the early X-Ray Spex, videos that froze a
certain image of the band in time.
Is the song “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” great art? Obscure,
perhaps, but it has clearly had an inspirational impact on
many people, and, now, perhaps sadly, has outlived one of its
key creators.
These are both goals that I aspire to as a writer, and like
Nth Degree #21
many people connected with this publication, I am a writer.
What that means is that just as teenage Poly Styrene once saw
a punk show and cried “I want to do that too,” at some point
in my life I finished a favorite book and shouted “Hey, could
I, too, write one of these things?” In other words, I embraced
the punk slogan, D.I.Y., Do It Yourself.
There is, as far as I know, no way to become a professional
writer that does not at some point involve announcing oneself
as a writer to the world and then seeing how seriously people
take your claim. And it’s a strange feeling when you first do it,
a feeling of perhaps being an imposter.
Like the punk singers, I wanted the world to notice me,
and react, but, let me tell you, it ain’t easy. And, like many
punk rock singers those same demons that drive one to cry
“notice me” and drive you to seek attention hoping that in
some small way you can change the world for the better, are
often the same demons that get in the way of one’s production
as an artist. Drugs, violence, alcohol, behavioral problems and
addictive, damaging relationships can all provide life experience, ideas for stories, and an interesting perspective and outlook on life which make for better writing, but at some point
the resulting mental, physical and emotional problems start
to hinder your ability to actually write, finish and market anything. Remember, if you want to be a writer, you must be
physically and mentally able to focus yourself on projects long
enough and regularly enough in order to string out long
sequences of words that make sense to other people. And
then you must be able to put these passages together into an
article or a story and send it somewhere where people will
show it to each other.
Think of all those artists—punk singers, as well as writers—who destroyed themselves. Sure, some died young
and stayed pretty, becoming icons, but most just wound
up forgotten.
So, if you want to write, take care of yourself, at least well
enough that you can actually produce writing that makes
sense to other people and get it to a market.
And don’t expect to start at the top. Yeah, it’s happened,
and, yeah, I just might marry Jennifer Lopez now that she’s
single again, but it’s never a good bet. If you want to write
and you want to change the world consider contributing to
forums like your local paper’s Op-Ed page. You’ll gain
valuable experience working with editors, writing on a
deadline and with limited space, and, like the punks, if you
Page 7
F EAT U R E S
do it right, you can comfort the afflicted and afflict the
comfortable, always a good rule of thumb when deciding
how to act.
Which brings me to two ongoing writing debates I’ve
recently faced.
Should writers read and should writers include messages
in their writing?
Some writers read and some don’t. But I believe great writers read and they read extensively. Writing is their art. How
can they grow as a writer if they don’t have a love of this art
that manifests itself through a strong desire to experience the
writing that already exists? What sort of visual artist, if given
the chance, does not visit art galleries and art museums? What
sort of musician does not listen to music? Do you think Poly
Styrene listened to other people’s bands or not?
Those who disagree with me, argue that they read when
they were younger but are just too busy at this point in their
life. A friend of mine likes to quote a widely published pulp
writer he knows as saying, “Why should I read? I can write a
book faster than I can read one.”
I think in a case like this it comes down to motivation
to write. If you write for money and are able to get paid to
churn out content to fill voids in publishing catalogs, you
probably don’t need to read. But don’t expect many people
to read what you write after you’re gone if you do. After all,
you’ve virtually admitted to yourself and others that you
don’t care what you write so long as you are paid to do it.
And if you don’t care what you write, why should I care
what you write?
Other writers write for other motivations. Some of us are
looking for attention. We want others to see how intelligent,
insightful, knowledgeable, important, or outrageous and
Nth Degree #21
crazy we are. I’ve been there and done that. But I think that
once we reach a certain point, achieved certain goals, then
we’ve got to focus again on what we are doing—creating art.
And what sort of artist says, “I don’t need to see any more
art. I saw all I needed years ago.” What sort of musician
stops listening to music because they have heard enough to
last a lifetime?
Similarly, some writers debate if fiction should be written
to share a message. Yet they generally seem to think that it’s
essential to have a theme and character growth. How can one
include theme and character growth without even considering
the possibility that this growth and change in the character
might produce growth and change in the reader? Sure, a lot of
stories have been destroyed through heavy-handed attempts
at selling a message. But a lot of stories have been destroyed
through poor characterization, wooden action sequences,
clumsy dialogue, and laughable portrayals of sex and
romance, but no one uses this fact to argue that fiction is better off without these things.
Recently I stumbled across a list of 25 highly rated novels chosen by the Cincinnati library. (Why Cincinnati?
They were high on a Google search.) It’s astonishing how
many of these great classics had clearly defined messages
and this is certainly a part of why they have lived on beyond
their time.
So, in conclusion, if you are going to use writing to express
yourself, then stand tall, speak out, speak clearly, say what you
want to say, look to other writers for inspiration in not just
technique but also the power of your chosen art and, above
all, say something that makes the effort to write and read your
pieces worthwhile.
If you do, Poly Styrene would be proud.
Page 8
HIEA
F
C TD
I OEN
R
Tanked
Illustration by S.C. Watson
by M. Elisabeth Fortune
T
he note from my academic advisor was in my mailbox when I returned from Christmas break. I didn’t
even wait to get inside, but sat down on the front
steps of the frat house to read it. Radiation Bombardment,
John A. Hampton Hall, Lab 201, Thursday 10am. A small
thrill coursed through me. After four and a half long years
of classes and tests, I was finally going to get my own superpower.
I resisted the urge to call my best friend Cari for only a
moment before I pulled out my cell and dialed.
“What’s up, Nick?”
“I’m going in the tank Thursday morning.” I had to hold
the phone away from my ear while Cari shrieked with excitement before I could ask, “So what about you?”
“Wednesday afternoon. Have you told Billy yet?”
“Nah, I figured I’d text him later.”
Nth Degree #21
We’d been through the same classes for most of the last
four years, Billy, Cari, and I. Well, actually it had been the
four of us until Billy’s girlfriend Rhea failed her bio final two
years ago and called it quits. Until then, our little group had
planned to open our own crime fighting firm once we graduated. Then Rhea dropped out and Billy graduated early, going
off to the tank and then on to a job with the St. Paul PD last
year. He’s still our friend, of course. He posts updates on his
Facebook page about the various supervillains he defeats, and
every couple weeks we’ll get a short text. He even came down
to the university for a long weekend once, but he’d been so
distant it just wasn’t the same. We smiled and reminisced, but
no one tried to pretend it was like old times anymore. So now
it’s just Cari and me left to realize our dreams of starting our
own firm.
“Listen, Nick. I have to run.”
“Okay. Will I see you before you tank?”
“Definitely. Oh, Laney’s yelling at me from the kitchen. I
really have to go.”
I said goodbye and hung up, frowning as I realized she’d
known about her tank time before I had, but hadn’t called to
tell me. While we weren’t dating, we usually told each other
everything. And Cari was incapable of keeping any big news
to herself. Well, maybe she’d only just found out, too, I reasoned. I’d see her again before I tanked.
Everyone majoring in Enhanced Crime Fighting has their
own unique Metamorphosis Plan, carefully put together by
their academic advisor based on their test scores, psych evals,
and the type of powers they hoped to gain. Cari’s plan called
for her to be bitten by a radioactive feline while my plan
called for bombardment by various types of radiation.
Another of our friends was scheduled to undergo the toxic
waste dunk. Because of the possible dangers inherent in these
plans, the metamorphoses were done in a titanium room constructed for the purpose—the Tank.
Thursday morning I walked into the science hall, nervous anticipation knotting my stomach as I arrived at my
assigned lab. Cari and I had met for coffee in the student
union Wednesday morning before she tanked, and now she
was in recovery. By all accounts her tanking had gone well,
though of course no one would really know until she woke
up. Unfortunately, the metamorphosis process wasn’t exact,
and it wasn’t uncommon for a couple members of every
class to wake up with no powers, weak powers, or useless
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powers. Such as George, one of last year’s tankings who’d
woken up to find his new power was tanning well. Too
much UV during bombardment had been the consensus of
the professors, though that analysis hadn’t done poor
George any good as he packed his bags and headed home,
a tank failure who’d just thrown four years of his life away
on a dream that hadn’t come true. I just hoped the same
thing wouldn’t happen to me.
Professor Erica Lange, aka Captain Coldmouth, was
waiting for me when I walked into the lab. She wasted no
time getting down to business, setting the controls while I
stripped down to my underwear and strapped myself into
the metal chair inside the tank. I have to admit, I was sweating a little. People have been known to scream, puke, faint,
and cry during the process, and though I wasn’t a superhero
yet, I liked to think that I was strong enough to withstand a
few cosmic rays.
“Just relax now, Nick,” Professor Lange advised through
the intercom. “It’ll be just like we talked about. I’ll count
down to zero, and then we’ll start phase one. Three, two,
one…”
I sat bolt upright as a strong tingling zapped up my spine.
I took a few deep breaths and relaxed a bit. This wasn’t so bad,
I could do this.
“How are you doing, Nick?”
“Good,” I managed, though I was having a hard time
speaking through the increasing pressure pushing against
my lungs.
“You’re doing just fine. We’re going to start phase two
now, in three, two, one…”
Pain seized every nerve in my body at once. I think I may
have started screaming then, but I’m not sure as shortly after
I passed out for the first time.
I don’t really remember much about my time in the
tank after that. Apparently I stopped breathing sometime
during the process and they had to stop and resuscitate me
before they could finish, but I’m told that’s fairly typical of
most people that go through radiation bombardment.
Afterwards, I slept for a few days in a recovery room down
the hall from the lab. When I finally woke, the sun was
streaming through the thin curtains, and I thought it was
the most glorious thing I’d ever seen. I blinked my crusted
eyes a few times as the door opened and in walked
Professor Lange.
Nth Degree #21
“Whu… Whut’s muh paoower?” I slurred through thick lips.
Captain Coldmouth just grinned and flicked her gaze to
the bed beneath me.
I glanced down. The bed was three feet below me. I was
flying!
*****
After graduating high school, I’d initially planned to enter the
sidekicks program. It’s a two year curriculum earning you an
associate’s degree in Secondary Crime Fighting Techniques.
Unlike the superhero majors, sidekicks don’t go through radiation or get powers. However, they can only fight crime under
the supervision of a licensed superhero. I probably would’ve
ended up there—five years of tuition at an Ivy League school
is a lot more than a lower middle-class family like mine could
afford—but there was a real glut of supervillains the year I
applied so the university was willing to offer me a generous
financial aid package. Now as I flew over the humanities
building and then zipped around the flagpole twice, I was
glad I had stuck out the rigorous five-year superhero program.
I was even more excited because after three weeks of learning
how to use my new superpower, I was finally going to get
assigned to the superhero I would be interning with for the
rest of the semester.
I landed on the lawn of the science building and joined
the other new Superheroes inside the south-side lecture hall.
There were only twenty-two of us left out of the original fiftysix who had entered the program four and a half years ago. It
had been twenty-five, but two people had failed to develop
significant powers after their time in the tank and left, and the
third ended up in a coma. Rumor had it that there was a
fourth tank failure who had refused to leave despite having
very weak powers, but no one seemed to know who it was. I
couldn’t decide if they were gutsy or just plain foolhardy.
I spotted Cari up towards the front with a girl and a guy I
recognized from the animal track, and I dropped into a seat
in the row behind her. I covered her eyes with my hands.
“Guess who!”
An earsplitting roar rang through the lecture hall, and I
yanked my hands away just as a pair of three-inch fangs
sprouted from her mouth. “Whoa!”
“Sorry, Nick!” Cari apologized, gingerly working her jaw
until the fangs slowly receded back into her mouth. “I’m still
working on controlling my instincts.” Faint stripes streaked
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her hair and face, giving her a wild look. I still got a jolt every
time saw her. Which hadn’t been very often lately, for that
matter. Between our two training schedules, we just never
seemed to connect.
“Haven’t seen you around much, Car,” I commented, trying to sound casual, as though it was curiosity and not neediness that drove me to ask.
“I know. I’ve just been so busy working with Jon and
Laney. They were bitten by members of the cat family, too, so
it made sense to team up.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ve been flying twenty-four seven
anyway.”
“Oh, yeah! That must be so gre—”
“Okay, folks, settle down!” Dr. Pitts, aka the Silver
Shower, boomed from the front of the room. Instant silence
fell. “Now I know some of you think this is the easy part.
You’ve passed all your academic exams and now have your
new superpowers. Well, the hard work is just beginning. If
you want to receive your superhero license at the end of the
term, you need to demonstrate mastery of your powers and
complete a successful internship under the supervision of
your assigned superhero. And if they or the review board
deems that you have not mastered your abilities, you will not
be receiving your license, and without your license you are
not allowed to fight crime. So everyone better be prepared to
work extra hard over the semester to impress not just your
superhero, but the rest of the faculty and board. If you fail
your practical exam for your license, you will have to wait two
years to reapply. Trust me, folks, two years patrolling the mall
for shoplifters while you wait to retest is no fun.”
A murmur went through the hall. It was common knowledge that Dr. Pitts had failed his practical the first time
around and had to work mall security for two years until his
second chance to apply came around. No one wanted to go
through the humiliation of failing their practical when everyone else was getting jobs at police departments and private
security firms all over the country.
Dr. Pitts continued, now assured that we were taking him
seriously. “Which leads me to my second announcement.
Now, as most of you know, the meteorite bombardment over
China has pulled many of our local Superheroes out of town
for an indefinite period of time. Unfortunately, this means that
we don’t have enough Superheroes for everyone to intern with
one-on-one, so some of you will be paired up with a classmate
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and assigned to the same superhero.” I groaned along with the
rest of the newly-minted interns, and Dr. Pitts shot us all a
look until we quieted. “I don’t like it either, but that’s the way
it goes. Professor Lange and I will now hand out assignments.
Congratulations, folks. Work hard and you’re only one semester away from becoming licensed Superheroes.”
Everyone cheered at the reluctant praise as Dr. Pitts and
Professor Lange began handing out manila envelopes. I could
barely sit still through my excitement. I wanted to zoom up
and fly a couple times around the hall while I waited.
Somehow I didn’t think Dr. Pitts would be impressed with
my mastery of my superpower if I did that, though.
“Nick. Congratulations,” Professor Lange told me with a
smile as she handed me my envelope. I tore it open, scanning
the page and… there it was! I would be spending my twelve
week internship under the mentoring wing of CyberClive.
CyberClive was a former computer science minor who
specialized in internet criminals and electronically enhanced
villains. I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t been assigned
to a flying superhero, but I wasn’t too surprised. Flyers were
ideal for fighting natural disasters like the meteorite bombardment, so I knew most of them had been pulled out of town.
It was only as I finished scanning down the page that I saw the
real bad news.
I had been assigned a partner.
*****
My fellow intern was a tall brunette named Sophie. I didn’t
really know her that well—she was a transfer student who had
switched universities at the beginning of the year so she could
do a couple specialty classes her old school didn’t offer. Her
power was teleportation. I was a little jealous that she had
such a kickin’ power—what if she outdid me in front of
CyberClive? Turns out I was worrying for nothing. Sophie
was the fourth tank failure.
Three weeks into the semester and the farthest she could
teleport was seven inches in any given direction. When she
had refused to leave, the board had put her on academic probation. She had six weeks to show significant improvement in
her powers or she was out. Possible, I guess, but not likely.
Everyone knows that teleportation is one of those skills—you
have it or you don’t. I suddenly didn’t mind sharing
CyberClive so much. What’s six weeks after all?
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The two of us exchanged wary nods as we met up at our
mentor’s office downtown the next day. Cybercrime Fighting
and Computer Repair read the sign over the door. Sophie and
I glanced at each other—apparently, crime fighting alone wasn’t enough to pay the bills—and went in.
We found ourselves in a small reception area opening into
a spacious back room. An appointment book and a rotary
phone sat on the front desk amid a sea of electronic parts. A
couple of computers in varying states of repair were piled
along a side counter next to the coffee machine and power
cords bunched around the outlets. A sign next to a stainless
steel desk bell read, Ring the Bell for Service! I won’t even
attempt to describe the back room.
A short, balding man in a neon green bodysuit sat at a
table in the back, a pair of headphones over his ears. Sophie
dinged the bell.
“Yes?” he asked, looking up. A green light glowed steadily
from his right eye. The “on” light from one of his computer
implants, I supposed.
“CyberClive?” I said. “I’m Nick and this is Sophie. We’re
from the university.”
Recognition bloomed on his face. He unplugged his
index finger from the USB port on his laptop and came
out. “So you’re my two interns, huh? The flyer and the
would-be teleporter.”
Sophie bristled at the remark. “I’ll improve my distance. I
just need more time.”
CyberClive raised an eyebrow, clearly dismissing her as a
tank failure who had yet to face reality. “Well, you can follow
instructions at least,” he said with a nod at the bell. “Okay,
let’s get started.”
Getting started involved filling out paperwork. Apparently
when you intern with a superhero, you have to sign several
documents waiving the university and your mentor from all
responsibility for a wide array of possible injuries, up to and
including dismemberment and death. While we read and
signed, CyberClive helped the stream of customers coming
through the office. Though some just needed to pick up or
drop off a computer for repair, others had more unique problems, such as the elderly woman whose garden had been set
upon by a swarm of robotic gophers.
Sophie and I drove out with CyberClive to the client’s
house on Long Island. My mouth fell open as I climbed out
of the passenger side. There must have been two dozen robo-
Nth Degree #21
gophers teeming over Gladys’s lawn, burrowing through the
dirt, trampling the flowerbeds, and tearing up any plant life
in their path.
Clive pursed his lips thoughtfully and then requested a
garbage bag. Crouching on the ground, he held the bag open
and emitted a high whistle. The gophers let out a shriek and
charged into the sack. CyberClive stuck his hand in the bag,
and after a moment the wriggling stopped, all power drained
from the metal rodents. He stood up and handed the bag to
Gladys.
“Don’t you think it’s finally time to end this feud with Mr.
Sikora? Is that strip of lawn really worth all this?”
“Look at my garden! What do you think?”
“I think you should feud with someone who’s not a retired
electronics engineer.”
Gladys snorted. “That’s why I have you. While you’re here,
I don’t suppose you could reprogram those nasty things to—”
“No, Gladys. I’m in the business of stopping crime, not
helping people commit it. You want to file a complaint, the
police should be able to take it from here.”
The three of us headed back to the office in Clive’s van.
“Wow, that was really something,” I said. “I knew you could
control technology with your mind, but I didn’t think it was
that simple. Just whistle and they come?”
CyberClive raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you expected me
to play a pipe? I’m from Brooklyn, kid, not Hamlin.” I
flushed, and Sophie snickered. Clive continued, “Those
things were small, easy to control with a simple thought command. The whistle was just for effect. If they had had more
complex programming, I would have needed to touch them
before I could do anything.”
Over the next five weeks, I got to see what Clive meant by
that. Any kind of electronic device gone haywire, and people
called for CyberClive. The coffee machine that had been
reprogrammed to spit hot coffee at anyone who approached,
the android made by some hacker in his basement that had
gone berserk and taken his mom hostage, the Garden
Society’s electronic bees… Whether he touched them,
plugged into them, or just reached out with his mind,
CyberClive handled them all.
After the first job, Clive let us help on his cases. My flying
skills were useful in rounding up the bees, and Sophie’s ability
to teleport helped her avoid the streams of coffee. However,
while the individual cases were interesting enough, I have to
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admit I was a little disappointed. Clive’s jobs weren’t exactly
the action-packed crime fighting I’d expected. Sophie, too,
seemed frustrated with our internship. As I quickly learned
during our training sessions in the warehouse, she was a girl
of action.
The warehouse was a gym for Superheroes, a training
arena designed to help keep crime fighters in shape between
jobs. Equipped with a variety of attack robots, android soldiers, hologram projectors, and virtual reality gear, the warehouse allowed heroes to train for every type of scenario imaginable. Now that Sophie and I had powers, we were allowed
entrance into the exclusive gym.
I would hardly have guessed that Sophie and I would have
anything in common, but it turned out she loved a good fight
as much as I did. When we weren’t training against the sims
or robots, we trained against each other. If we used our powers, I usually managed to get the upper hand. However, in a
regular fight she could take me down two times out of three.
She had spent the past few years at the gym, and it showed.
What’s more, she was really smart and never quit no matter
how hopeless a situation seemed. I found myself really starting to like her.
It was just as well that Sophie and I were getting along, as
Cari had virtually disappeared from my life. I only saw her
once over the weeks, leaving the warehouse as I was entering
one day. I left her a couple voicemails and sent a bunch of
emails, but only got a few short texts in return. I told myself
she was just busy, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d somehow
lost my best friend when I wasn’t looking.
“What’s eating you?” Sophie asked one day at the warehouse. She had just flattened me into the mat for about the
tenth time in a row and now we sat against the wall drinking SuperAde.
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t won a bout yet! Even you’re better than this.”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Nothing? Yeah, you’re probably
right. After all, you have an amazing power. Why would you
have any problems?”
I threw a towel at her. “That’s not what I meant and you
know it. It’s just that Cari and I had this whole plan, you
know, about what it would be like after graduation. How we
would join up with our friends and start our own crime fighting company. And then Rhea washed out and Billy graduated
Nth Degree #21
early, and now it’s just me and Car. But graduation is only
weeks away and I feel like I haven’t seen her all semester.”
“Getting tanked changes things, Nick. Maybe she has
other plans now. I mean, I thought I had everything figured
out, and then I came here and got tanked and now… Well,
who knows?”
I didn’t know what to say. Compared to Sophie’s problems, mine seemed silly.
“Look,” Sophie added after a minute, “if you’re really worried about it, just go talk to her.”
“I’ve tried, but she never seems to be home.”
“You want me to text you when she’s there?” Cari and
Sophie live in the same house, Sigma Sigma, unofficially
known as the Superheroes Sorority. Any girl majoring in
enhanced crime fighting automatically gets to live there, even
transfer students like Sophie.
I considered her offer and then shook my head. “Nah. I’m
probably just making too big a deal out of it. In fact, I’m sure
I’ll see her at the party tonight. She can’t not show up at her
own sorority’s party, right?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Before I could ask what she meant, Clive walked in, a
frown plastered on his face and a cell phone plastered against
his ear.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said into the phone.
“The electronic signature on those poodles is the same as the
other robots. They’re definitely Robitron’s, but until we catch
him making a sale, we can’t prove they’re his.” A pause. “Well,
now, that’s not my job, is it?”
“Who’s Robitron?” Sophie asked when he hung up.
CyberClive shook his head. “This two-bit hacker who
thinks he’s a supervillain. He dabbles in various internet
crimes, mostly, but recently started selling small attack robots
on the black market. You remember those gophers of
Gladys’s? Turns out her neighbor bought them from
Robitron. The NYPD has me advising on the case.”
“Can we help?”
“I doubt it. Flying and teleporting aren’t going to help
track this guy down. Now, let’s get this session going.”
Practice didn’t go well that day, at least not for Sophie.
Clive had matched us up against androids with super speed.
While I used my powers to fly out of range and drop a net
from above, Sophie’s meager teleportation did her little good.
Teleporters automatically take anything touching their skin
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with them when they teleport—good thing, too, or they’d
teleport out of their clothes. Unfortunately, this meant that
Sophie couldn’t teleport away from the ’droids once they
caught her. Time and again she was captured by the androids,
until finally Clive exploded.
“You have to teleport, Sophie!”
“I did! I think I might’ve managed eight inches this time.”
“Eight inches isn’t gonna get an injured bystander to the
hospital before he bleeds out or allow you to escape a killer
robot or sneak up on a villain! You want to fight coffee
machines for the rest of your life, Soph? Because right now
that’s all you’re qualified to do.”
Sophie scowled, but didn’t answer. What could she say,
really? CyberClive was right and she knew it. She had known
it from the moment she had gotten out of tank recovery to
discover she could only go seven inches; she was just too stubborn to admit that it was over for her.
Clive’s face softened. “Have you considered going the suit
route?”
“Do you know how expensive those things are?” Sophie
snorted. “I could never afford a power suit. Besides, everyone
knows those people aren’t real Superheroes!” Turning on her
heel, she kicked a piece of virtual debris out of the way and
stomped out of the arena.
Clive threw up his hands with a puff of annoyance and
waved at me to start the exercise again, all the while muttering
about the stubborn intern who would drive him into an early
grave. But he didn’t fool me. For all his blustering, he wasn’t
annoyed with Sophie. He pitied her.
*****
The party was in full swing when I arrived that evening.
Sigma Sigma threw a huge bash every spring for their newlyenhanced sisters, and everyone in the superhero and sidekick
programs attended. I grabbed a beer from the kitchen and
wandered the house, looking for Cari and mingling with
everyone as I went. When I didn’t find her, I joined a group
of juniors who were discussing the relative merits and drawbacks of various Superheroes. We were debating who would
win in a hand-to-hand fight on a helicopter (Wind Woman
or the Blue Battering Ram) when a pair of hands suddenly
covered my eyes. I grinned. “Hey, Cari.”
She nodded to the guys and leaned on my shoulder, listen-
Nth Degree #21
ing to the debate. After a few minutes, she frowned and jerked
her head to the left. “It’s so loud in here, I can’t even hear
myself think. Let’s go outside.”
It had been raining off and on all day, so the back porch
was empty. We sat on the steps together looking out at the
night. Cari had changed her makeup sometime in the past
weeks, I realized. She had never been one for wearing much
makeup before, even on special occasions. Now the faint
stripes on her face were enhanced with glitter, long strokes of
black liner and orange eye shadow accentuating her feline-like
eyes. A stranger looked out from them.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” I admitted after a
moment.
“I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just interning with Bulldog Bob is so
intense. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he can do.
Some of the things I can do. Ever since I was bitten, it’s like
I’ve had this confidence, this belief I can do anything! I mean,
I know we always said we would be Superheroes, but it’s like
I never really understood what that meant until now. You
know?” I nodded, grinning as Cari raved on about her training and her mentor and all her new skills. This, at least, was
the Cari I knew. The Cari who wouldn’t shut up once you got
her talking.
As if reading my thoughts, Cari stopped suddenly. “I’m
doing it again, aren’t I?” She laughed. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m
so excited for the future! In six weeks, I’ll be a licensed superhero. And Laney, well her stepdad owns a private security firm
out in L.A.. She says she can get Jon and I jobs out there. Of
course, we’ll essentially be babysitters at first, until we’ve gotten some experience under our belts. But once our reputations start spreading, we’ll have our pick of clients.”
“L.A.!” I tried not to let my disappointment show. “Wow,
that’s great. Really great. So I guess I’m not going to be seeing
much of you after graduation, huh?”
“Oh, Nick.” Cari sighed. “We always knew that we would
split up after graduation, right? I would go my way and you
would go yours, each off on our first job. I mean, it was a
nice fantasy—you, me, Billy, Rhea, forming our own security
firm, fighting crime together. But it was just a kid’s fantasy,
you know?”
The funny thing was, I did know. I guess I had known it
for a long time, ever since Billy went to St. Paul and started a
life of his own. Sophie was right—plans change. Jobs come
and go, opportunities arise in places you never expected, and
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you find yourself making best friends with the unlikeliest of
people. Such as dark-haired teleporters who make up in guts
what they lack in power.
I smiled. “Yeah, I do know, Car. I’m really happy for you.”
She hugged me then, and for the first time since Billy left
I felt truly optimistic—not just about the future, but about
the present.
On the way out, I stopped off in the basement. The girls
had a sweet setup down there—treadmill, chin-up bar, two
padded weight benches, and a full complement of free weights.
I found Sophie there, working out on the punching bag in the
far corner. Left, right, left left, right, kick! I watched her for a
moment, impressed by her dedication and skill. From the sweat
soaking her tank top, it was obvious she had been going at it for
awhile. I wondered if she had always worked out so much, or if
she did it now to make up for her lack of powers.
“Hey Soph! You’re missing the party. You should come up
for awhile.”
Sophie didn’t even pause as she spun and delivered a hard
roundhouse kick to the bag. “No thanks.”
“C’mon Soph. You can’t work out all night. Even you need
a break.”
“I’m already taking a break. I have to get back to studying.”
What she meant was that she had to practice teleporting.
Soph’s probation review was coming up in a couple days, and
no matter how many A’s she had, they would fail her out of
the program if her powers weren’t up to snuff. Obviously her
“studying” wasn’t going well if taking a break meant beating
the stuffing out of a punching bag.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. I really was. Now that I knew
her, how smart she was and how hard she worked, I felt really
bad that she was never going to live her dream of becoming a
superhero. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great
superhero. I’d be proud to work with you.”
As I let myself quietly out the door, I almost missed her
muttered, “Yeah, whatever.”
*****
Sophie and I were chilling at the warehouse the next day
when CyberClive’s call came in. Robitron had released a thirty-foot robot on the city called the Crusher and it was currently tearing through the East End. He wanted us over there
to help him put down the machine ASAP. Sophie and I
Nth Degree #21
exchanged a look—our very first killer robot rampage!
We arrived on the scene to find the usual mayhem you
would expect with a giant robot—broken windows, crushed
cars, screaming pedestrians and so forth. One guy had
climbed up a tree and was filming the whole thing on his
phone. I made a mental note to check for the footage on
YouTube later that night.
CyberClive had staked out a position on the roof of a
nearby building and was watching the Crusher through a pair
of binoculars. He looked so professional in his spandex suit
and matching cape, I felt a twinge of envy. I wasn’t allowed to
wear a costume until after I got my license. He glanced at his
watch and nodded in approval as we crouched down beside
him. “Right on time—good! Now as you can see, our
supervillain has unleashed a thirty-foot robot on the city. Can
either of you sum up the relative strengths and weaknesses of
a machine like this?”
I rolled my eyes. Trust CyberClive to treat this as a teaching opportunity instead of a chance to kick some major robot
ass! However, Sophie and I did as he asked. He acknowledged our answers with another hard nod. “Okay. Now on a
robot of this kind, I should be able to override the programming if I can come into contact with it without being
stepped on. That’s where you come in, Nick. I need you to
fly around the Crusher’s head and distract it so I can get close
without it seeing me.”
“Got it!”
“Wait, what am I supposed to do?” Sophie asked.
CyberClive handed her the binoculars. “The Crusher is
unmanned, so Robitron must be controlling it remotely. Scan
the nearby buildings and see if you can locate him.”
“Robitron could be controlling the Crusher from anywhere!” Sophie objected. “He’s probably not even in the area!”
“Taking down the Crusher is our first priority, but we still
need to nab Robitron if at all possible,” CyberClive explained.
“Besides, if anything happens to Nick or me, it’ll be up to you
to call the hotline for backup.”
Sophie pressed her lips together, clearly not happy with the
assignment, and finally nodded. I couldn’t blame her—look
for Robitron and call the superhero hotline for help? It was
typical sidekick work, and we all knew it. I felt for Soph, but
with the Crusher committing copious amounts of property
damage left and right, I didn’t have time to soothe her injured
pride. At a signal from CyberClive, I sprang into the air.
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The first part of the plan went perfectly. As soon as I flew
into view, my gray sweats flapping in the wind, the Crusher
immediately turned from the building it was destroying and
made a grab for me. I evaded its huge claw easily and swooped
around behind it. The Crusher’s head rotated one hundred
and eighty degrees on its neck, trying to lock onto me with its
laser eyes. I continued to dodge its claws and lasers as
CyberClive crept toward it, occasionally firing at it with my
ray gun to keep it from losing interest. As I watched, Clive
covered the final distance and flung himself onto the
Crusher’s wide foot.
The Crusher roared and shook its foot, trying to shake off
the superhero, but it was too late. CyberClive had already
plugged his index finger into the robot’s USB port. I grinned.
My first real fight and we were pulling off everything without
a hitch!
KA-BOOM!
CyberClive went flying as the outer hull of the Crusher’s
foot exploded. The port had been booby-trapped! With a
crunch, he hit a wall and crumpled to the ground. The green
light in his eye flickered and went out.
“Clive!” I yelled, and hurled myself through the air
towards him. At the same instant, Sophie burst from a doorway and ran towards our mentor. Surprised, I pulled up in
mid-flight, and that’s when the Crusher’s claw got me.
“Run, Soph!”
Well, of course she didn’t, being Sophie and all, and for a
few minutes I admired her athletic prowess from my spot up
in the Crusher’s pincer as she zigged and zagged around the
robot, all the while shooting at it with her ray gun. She managed to take out one of its laser eyes and cripple one of its
knee joints (two of the weak points Clive had made us name),
but her little gun just couldn’t do enough damage. Soph still
might have outrun it, but her foot caught on a piece of debris
and she fell. The Crusher’s arm swooped down towards her!
“Teleport, Sophie!”
She did, but needless to say, seven inches is simply not far
enough when the descending pincer is two feet wide. The
Crusher scooped her up with ease and we were caught, one in
each claw. I struggled in its grip, certain the robot would
squeeze us to death at any minute, when suddenly an evil
laugh boomed out and a shadowy figure emerged from a
building across the street. Robitron!
He was shorter than I had expected, with a bit of a pot
Nth Degree #21
belly—though it hardly showed under his metal suit. His
trademark iron jaw, a souvenir from a robotics experiment
gone horribly wrong, shone in the afternoon sun. Robitron
worked his remote control and I suddenly found my back
rammed up against something hard enough to knock the
wind out of me. A cry from Sophie told me the same thing
had happened to her. Ropes shot from the Crusher’s mouth,
wrapping around us again and again. And that’s how Sophie
and I ended up trussed like turkeys together around a telephone pole with no hope of escape.
Robitron surveyed us with a smirk. He had us good and
he knew it. My flying abilities couldn’t do anything against
ropes, and Sophie’s powers certainly weren’t strong enough to
move a telephone pole even if she could go more than seven
inches. I struggled against the cords anyway. Robitron just
laughed and turned away, directing the Crusher into the next
building with his remote control as we watched.
People screamed and ran as the robot punched out some
windows. I glanced over at CyberClive—still unconscious—
and squirmed even harder against the bindings. If one of us
could just free a wrist, an ankle, anything, it might just give
us enough slack in the ropes to loosen the knots. After a few
minutes I realized I was struggling alone, Sophie standing
stock still on the other side of the pole.
“C’mon, Soph! We need to get out of this. Can you get
anything free? A hand, maybe?”
Sophie didn’t speak for a minute. Then in a strangely calm
voice she said, “So, you know this weekend, while you were off
partying and I didn’t go because I had to stay and study?”
“Mmm?” I hummed, only half-listening as I tugged my
left hand and was rewarded for my struggles with a hiss of
rope burn across my index finger.
“Well, I managed to teach myself a new trick.”
“Yeah?”
The ropes about me slackened and fell as Sophie suddenly
appeared in front of the pole exactly seven inches from where
she’d just been tied. “What the—?”
Robitron turned, drawn by my exclamation, but in my
distraction at seeing Sophie’s new state I didn’t even have
time to call out a warning before his fist came crashing
towards her. Quick as lightning Sophie teleported seven
inches to the side and Robitron’s fist hit the pole right where
her face had just been. Before he could recover, Sophie
punched him in the head with a solid roundhouse. And well,
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all that time Sophie spent with the punching bag must have
really paid off because Robitron went down hard, iron jaw
and all, and didn’t get up again.
I just stood there, unable to do anything but gape as
Sophie retrieved the remote control from Robitron’s limp
hand and turned the Crusher off.
She was completely naked.
My mouth flapped a few times as Sophie bent down and
grabbed her clothes where they lay by the pole. “So, uh, that
trick you learned…?”
“Yup,” she nodded, pulling up her underwear and fastening her bra. “I learned how to teleport without taking the
things I’m touching with me.”
I awkwardly ducked my head, trying to avert my eyes as
she dressed, but not really succeeding. I’ll say this for Sophie:
she may not have much of a superpower, but she has one
kickin’ booty.
“Wow,” I managed at last. “That’s uh, I mean, it’s really,
well… I mean, it’s not bad. So, the clothes thing…?”
“Hey, I said I’d learned a new trick. I didn’t say I’d perfected it.”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, with another sidelong glance
at my fellow intern. “Looks pretty good to me.”
Sophie scowled as she finished zipping up her jeans, but
whatever she was going to say was interrupted when a chirpy
tune sounded from across the street. Sophie just rolled her
eyes and shot me a rueful grin. “C’mon. It sounds like
CyberClive is finally rebooting. We better make sure his hard
drive is still intact.”
After CyberClive had rebooted, he’d reamed Sophie out
for a full ten minutes for not calling the hotline like she’d
been told… and then promptly thrown his arms around her
and told her he’d never been so proud of one of his interns in
his whole life.
“Well, the board considered that. They said if I flunk out
of the program they’ll still graduate me since I already have all
my academic credits, but they’ll only grant me a license as a
sidekick. Since I’ll have my degree, I can try again for a superhero license in two years when my sidekick license expires. So
I guess I’ll still be in the crime fighting business one way or
another. That is,” she amended with a sideways glance in my
direction, “if I can find a superhero who wants me.”
I gave her a sideways glance back. Assuming nothing went
wrong, in another six weeks I would be a licensed superhero
myself. “I think I might know someone.”
“Cool.”
Cool indeed.
The Last Straw
by Bob Kauffmann
*****
Sophie pushed open the doors of the administration building
and trotted down the stairs.
“Well?” I asked when she reached the bench where I was
waiting.
She shrugged. “They extended my probation, at least. The
board said my little trick showed enough improvement to
warrant the extra time. I have until the end of the semester to
strengthen my teleportation abilities or I’m out.”
I digested this information as we started walking towards
the quad. “What about the battle with Robitron? You practically took him out single-handedly! Even Clive thought you
did well.”
Nth Degree #21
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Illustration by
Michael D. Pederson
A Little Too Fast
by Tony Karnowski
I
had been scoping out Union Jack’s, a small dive on the
west side of town, for weeks. Jenny said it had the best
selection and prices, but there were a few things keeping
me from just walking in. I wasn’t twenty-one, for starters, and
even if I had been, Glyphs weren’t completely legal. Not that
that had stopped anyone else; I was one of the only kids left
that wasn’t boasting at least one. Jenny had even shown up to
school flying. Or, at least, trying to fly, anyway. When she
tried to land she tumbled into me, knocking my cellphone
out of my hand and into a fountain. She laughed as she detangled from me, her hair wind-blown and wild.
“They finally caved?” I asked, letting the water drip out of
my phone.
“Yeah, I convinced Mom to go ahead and give it to me as
an early graduation present.”
“Sweet.”
Nth Degree #21
“Sorry I didn’t wait. I know we said we’d go together, but
when she asked, I just sort of freaked.”
“No worries. I probably would have done the same.” It
was a lie, but her smile made it all right.
“So, when are you getting yours?”
“I’m still…” I caught myself before saying “waiting for my
mom to give the okay.” Instead I said: “I’m still trying to
decide what to get.”
“Flight is the absolute best,” she said, leaving no room for
argument, and the thought of us flying together, hand in
hand, made me think she was right. A week later, as we were
filing out of school she smiled and looked to the sky.
“Wanna come?”
“Still can’t fly,” I said.
“Sure you can. I figured something out yesterday. Come
here.” She took my hand. “Just kick off, okay? Ready? On
three. One. Two…”
We pushed off together, and I felt my stomach lurch as
the laws of physics ceased to apply. My legs flailed about as
they tried to find some bearing while I waved my free arm
for balance.
“Easy there,” Jenny said, laughing. “You don’t want to let
go of my hand or you’ll go splat. Just relax.”
That was difficult. The more I tried, the more I tensed.
She took both my hands, squeezing them as she tried to hold
us steady. Looking into her eyes helped, but it wasn’t until I
remembered a technique I’d read in one of Dad’s books on
meditation, and I started breathing slowly, focusing on the
feeling in my lungs as they expanded and contracted, that I
finally calmed down. Once I was adjusted, though, that first
flight with Jenny was one of the most amazing, and terrifying,
experiences I’ve ever had. We were weightless. Buoys in the
clouds. She led us far enough into the air that our breath
turned to mist and she started to shiver.
“The air is clearer the higher you go,” she said, her teeth
chattering. “Thinner, too, but cleaner, fresher.”
We hovered there for a few moments, holding onto each
other for warmth as we drifted through clouds. The world
beneath us was painted in the richest greens, browns, and blues.
“Wanna do something fun?”
“Sure,” I said, anxious to seem like I wasn’t terrified.
Her grin had never been more devilish, and there was mischief in her eyes.
“Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t let go.”
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Suddenly we were falling. I heard screaming as we plummeted toward the earth. When we were about a hundred
yards from the ground, Jenny lifted us back up, and all I could
hear was the wind and her laughter. She didn’t stop until we
reached the old Fire Tower on Sharp’s Ridge.
“I never would have guessed you were a screamer.” She
grinned and shouldered me playfully as we sat on top of the
tower, holding hands and watching the sun descend as dozens
of kids darted around us, rising and falling on the horizon like
a flock of strange birds.
“Maybe if I’d had a little warning.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. My brother has always said
that people are either screamers or they’re not. There’s no inbetween.” That wicked grin appeared again, but this time she
seemed to be considering something. Quickly, she leaned forward and kissed me. Nothing fancy, just a quick pop on the
lips. “Come on,” she said. “I gotta get home. Mom probably
thinks I’ve flown to Tokyo by now. I’ve been threatening her
ever since I got the Glyph.”
*****
It was the kiss that did it. With the memory of it still fresh, I
drove home with a purpose after Jenny dropped me back at
the school. After close to six years of playing classic rock covers at the local pizzeria every Saturday night, and having parents that always bought me the latest video games in order to
distract me from all the other kids flaunting their Glyphs, I
had just over five thousand dollars. I kept the roll of twenties
stashed inside my first acoustic, and as I shook the guitar to
get it to fall out, I realized I’d never actually heard how much
Glyphs cost. I hoped I had enough.
Replaying the memory of Jenny’s kiss again, I pushed the
door of Union Jack’s open and stepped into the stench of stale
smoke. There were several old men sitting at the bar, puffing
cigarettes and sipping beers. The bartender looked up and
scowled. “I hope you’re not looking for a drink,” he said.
I shook my head and opened my mouth to speak, but then
shut it.
“In that case,” the man pointed over his shoulder. “Ayita’s
back there somewhere. She’ll take care of you.”
I nodded before walking past two old pool tables covered
in stains that could have been blood or vomit. My shoes stuck
to the floor, making a strange sucking sound each time I took
Nth Degree #21
a step. The haze of smoke made my eyes water, and I couldn’t
figure out why anyone would want to hang out there.
I made my way past the bathrooms and through a curtain
of beads. The floor changed from wood to concrete as I
stepped through, and there was a draft coming from somewhere. It was still smoky, but the odor had changed. I could
never remember what that particular scent was called, but
Dad always called it “hippie.” There were a few tables and
chairs scattered about, but there was no Ayita. Thinking that
maybe she’d stepped out for a second, I moved to sit down.
“Look at this pretty young thing.” I jumped before I made
it into the chair. The voice had been female, but I couldn’t see
where it had come from. “He’s jumpy, too.”
A woman, tall and beautiful in a dangerous sort of way,
melted out of the wall. She wore dark jeans, thigh-high boots,
and a mesh tank top that left her naked from the waist up. My
eye twitched a little. The woman, whom I assumed was Ayita,
stepped forward and lifted my chin, turning my head slightly
to the side, examining me. I tried to look her in the eye, but
there was something powerful in her dark eyes, almost frightening. I settled for staring at her chest.
“You’re not a cop, are you?”
The question took me by surprise. Surely she could tell I
wasn’t old enough to be a cop. I shook my head and stammered out something like “of course not,” but I was still so
entranced by how much of her I could see that I really didn’t
know what I said.
“I had to be sure. If I find out you’re lying to me, you’ll
regret it. I’ve touched you. Do you see this?” She pointed to a
tattoo below her left breast, a bloodhound with a compass on
its collar. I nodded. “It means I can find you anytime I want.”
She smiled and waited, letting her words settle into my mind.
When she was satisfied I understood, she sat behind an old,
scratched table and took a sip of the blackest beer I had ever
seen.
“So, what’ll it be?” She asked, motioning me to the chair
across from her.
“Um… what’ve you, like, got?”
She chuckled. “Dearie, I’ve got anything you could possibly imagine. I’ve got Flight, I’ve got Invisibility. Teleportation.
Seduction. Strength, Intelligence, and Healing. You name it,
I’ve got it.”
“How much for Flight?”
She smiled again. It was a nice smile, full of small, straight
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teeth. “The kiddies always want the wings. You want true
Flight or just Levitation?”
“How much for true Flight?”
“A grand. You can get Levitation for six-fifty, though. It’ll
still impress the little girlies.”
“A grand, huh? That’s it?”
She smiled. “That’s it, he says. Only a thousand dollars.
Rich kid, huh?”
“Not really,” I said, dropping my eyes to the table and
tracing my finger along an old scratch on its surface. “How
many Glyphs can you have at once?”
“There isn’t a set number. Some people can handle more
than others. I would recommend starting with one. Maybe
two if you think you can handle it. I won’t sell more than
three Glyphs to any one customer at any one time. Too risky.
Never more than two to a first-timer, though.”
My mind raced with all the possibilities. If Flight only
cost a grand, I could afford to get two. How cool would it
be to walk out with Flight and Strength? Or Invisibility.
But then I decided that this woman probably knew what
she was talking about, and I might be better off starting
small. Still, if I was just going to get one, should it be
Flight? Shouldn’t it be something that really got my blood
moving? The memories of flying with Jenny made my
stomach turn even when both of my feet were firmly on
the ground. But mixed in with the nausea was the feeling
of her hand in mine and the memory of her smile as we
drifted through the clouds, both of which did get my
blood moving.
“Let’s go with true Flight for now.”
“Are you sure? It took you a long time to answer.”
“Sure. I mean, Flight seems like a good one to start with,
right? Nice and practical.”
She smiled in a way that made me remember the look in
Jenny’s eyes just before she let us fall. The memory of my
scream made my face hot, and I decided that if Jenny liked
speed and thrills, I would try to give her that.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “But can I get Speed, too?”
“Of course. As long as you’ve got the cash. It’ll be seventeen-fifty for both.”
I pulled the money-roll out of my jacket pocket and, turning slightly so she couldn’t see, counted it out. I rolled the rest
back up before handing her the stack of bills. She smiled,
folded the stack, and stuffed it in her back pocket.
Nth Degree #21
“Right. This way, please. Go ahead and take your shirt
off, too.”
I did as she asked, tucking my shirt and jacket under my
arm as I followed Ayita through another beaded curtain that
I hadn’t noticed before, further into the back of the bar. There
was an old, cushioned table, like at the doctor’s office, in the
middle of the room. One wall was a solid mirror, while the
others were covered in posters of tattoo designs and shelves
that were filled with needles and strange devices. An old TV
sat in the corner, lifeless.
“Lay face down on the table, please,” Ayita said.
I did as she asked, laying on top of my shirt and jacket so
I wouldn’t lose track of them. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Terribly,” she said. It wasn’t a lie.
For the next four hours, she worked. Slowly.
Methodically. A low murmuring chant came from her lips,
barely audible as she worked the ink into the flesh of my
back. It felt like fire. Like ants were chewing through my
back. But then it was over, and I was staring into a hand
mirror in order to see the two emerald and black wings on
my back reflected through the wall mirror. Between them
was the small silhouette of a rabbit.
*****
The next day after school I asked Jenny if she’d help put some
antibiotic ointment on my fresh tattoo. Ayita had said it
would heal in about a week, but I would need to be careful to
keep it from getting infected or the Glyph might not work.
“I can’t believe you got two! And without your parent’s
permission!” Even though it hurt like hell as Jenny rubbed
the goo on my back, the hairs on my arms stood up every
time she touched me. “I could never do that. There, that
should do it.”
As I pulled my shirt back on, she lifted slowly into the air.
She’d taken to hovering in Lotus position instead of sitting. It
was odd, having to always look up at her.
“I can’t wait till we can go super-fast! How long till we can
go to Tokyo?”
“Ayita said I should be able to use it by next Saturday. So
we’re kind of stuck in the Southeast till then.”
“It’s going to be great. We can go to Mt. Fuji, too! Maybe
we can even stop off and see where my brother’s stationed on
the way! You’d like him.”
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“That would be cool,” I said. Jenny was always talking
about her brother, but he’d joined the Army just before she
and her mom moved up from Georgia so I’d never met him.
She was always telling stories about him, and many of them
made me doubt that I would like him, regardless of her claims
to the contrary.
“I’ll plan out a whole list of things we can do,” Jenny said,
rambling in her excitement. “In the meantime, though, I bet
we could make it to the Gulf and back before dark if we left
early enough on Saturday. What do you think?”
Listening to her make plans for us was intoxicating. Her
face was animated with the possibilities in her mind, and
something about her referring to us as “we” made my stomach feel weird. Not bad, just weird. Like it was the gooiest
cinnamon roll ever served. She wrote out a list that she titled
“Local Excursions” and said she thought it would keep us
busy over the next week while my Glyphs healed. The next
afternoon, after I fumblingly lifted off the ground for the second time while holding Jenny’s hand, she flew us to Asheville
where we walked through small folk-art galleries downtown
while sipping lattes out of recycled coffee cups. A couple of
days later we flew to Nashville and ate hotdogs on top of the
Parthenon while hundreds of pigeons cooed and fluttered
around us.
The next morning I woke to Jenny knocking on my window. There was a bag over her shoulder, and I barely had the
window open before she was inside.
“Quit wasting the day, we’ve got places to be. The beach is
calling.”
“What?” I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
“The beach. The ocean. I packed us a lunch. I figure it
should only take us a few hours to get there. Get dressed and
let’s go.”
Several rushed minutes later, after having thrown on some
beach appropriate clothes and brushed my teeth, we were on
our way. Jenny flew us to the Gulf where we spent the rest of
the morning laying in the sun, sipping soft drinks and watching sea gulls skim across the water.
“The last time we came to the beach when I was a kid, I
always wished I could fly across the water like the birds.
Daddy always shook his head and said I was a silly girl and
needed to stop thinking such childish things if I wanted to get
anywhere in the world.”
“Shows what he knew,” I said. “Now you can.”
Nth Degree #21
She looked out across the water and gave the faintest possible nod. “He left not long after we got back from that trip.
Accepted an assignment and left to go god-knows-where.
Wouldn’t even tell us where he was going. When Jacob joined
the service Mom almost lost it. She said he was abandoning
his family just like his dad.” She seemed to snap out of a spell
and the smile that made me notice her in Algebra spread
across her face. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.
You hungry?”
After lunch we spent the afternoon chasing the gulls, flying
close enough to run our fingers across the surface of the ocean.
As the sun began to descend, we made our way back home.
The following week was spent completing our tour of the
Southeast. Short, evening trips to Atlanta, Charlotte,
Cincinnati, and Raleigh got us through the days of waiting
for my Glyph to start working. The tattoo was starting to
itch, and Ayita had said that would happen a few days before
it was ready. Just another day or two and I would be able take
Jenny to the other side of the world and back in the span of a
few seconds.
It was late on Friday night when it happened. I was
hunched over the side of my bed playing guitar, when the
tattoos started to itch. I raked my fingers lightly across my
back, and it felt like a sheet of spiderweb peeled away. Then,
suddenly, I could feel the wings move. It only happened a
couple of times, like a light fluttering, but immediately after
it happened, I hovered into the air of my bedroom for the
first, shaky time by myself. It was harder than Jenny made it
look. I kept wanting to flip backwards, but eventually I got
my balance.
Once I did, I wanted to test out my new Speed. Flying was
cool, but I’d done so much of it with Jenny over the past two
weeks that I was ready for something different. Even though
I had promised she could be with me the first time, I wanted
to test it out by myself in case I did something stupid.
I started small. I held a guitar pick as high as I could and then
dropped it. It hit the floor. Frowning, I tried again. Each time I
dropped the pick, I would try to bring my hand down in time to
catch it, but my hand didn’t seem to be moving any faster than
normal. The thought that Ayita had taken me for an extra sevenfifty crossed my mind after my twelfth failed attempt. But then
something happened. Instead of trying to catch it, I decided to
just watch it. As soon as I did, it was like the world went into
slow-motion. The pick seemed to hover in the air, not moving at
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all. I reached out and pushed it a half-inch to the left before letting it drop. There was a slight pinching behind my eyes until I
slowed back down, and after noticing that I figured out how to
make myself go faster or slower by manipulating that tension. It
was almost like I was stopping time.
I slipped out my window and flew downtown. There wasn’t
a lot of activity, even for a Friday night, but there were a few
people around. I sped myself up and flew into Market Square.
Standing in the center of the Square, I never felt like I was
moving any faster, but the world would slow to a standstill. I
could control how quickly the people around me moved.
Anywhere from normal speed to extreme slow-motion to not
moving at all. At times it was like looking at a photograph.
The clouds didn’t move, and there was a complete absence of
sound. I flew home smiling at the cars on the interstate. I was
moving so fast they looked like they were parked.
I stopped by Jenny’s house on the way, hoping she was still
awake so I could share my new power with her. The light was
out in her bedroom, though, so I left, not wanting to wake
her. She would get to experience it soon enough.
Settling back on my bed, I decided to test my new ability
further. I sped up, and watched the second hand on my
watch while counting “one Mississippi, two Mississippi.”
Time still moved forward, but a second took about two and
a half minutes.
The rest of the night was spent playing with time. I shot
rubber bands at the wall and caught them before they hit,
hooking them with my index finger. When that got old, I
hovered above my window for a minute trying to figure out
something else to do before heading North. I followed the
interstate, playing with my speed in relation to the trucks
below, laughing as they stopped short, freezing in place as I
sliced through the air. In about five minutes of clock-time,
and before I realized it, Manhattan was beneath me. The city
was silent as I zipped through the streets, buzzing the heads of
people stuck in a moment that for them would last but a second, but for me could last hours.
I touched down on top of the Empire State Building and
slowed back to normal. The traffic roared as the city came to
life. Wind skirled around, buffeting me as the tiny people
below resumed their lives like nothing had happened. I
turned it on and off like a baby that’s just discovered light
switches, tensing and releasing the muscles around my eyes.
In the back of my mind I knew I should wait and share this
Nth Degree #21
with Jenny, but I was having so much fun!
So, I flew to Florida. Then to New Orleans. I got hungry
then, so I slowed down again long enough to buy a candy bar
and a soda at a gas station. Then I went to L.A. Then Seattle,
and, finally, Vancouver. Eventually, though it had only been a
couple of hours since I started, I knew the sun would be about
to come up at home, and my eyes didn’t want to stay open.
As I crawled into bed, the sun was beginning to creep into
my window. Jenny was coming over around ten, so I could
eek out around three hours of sleep. I pulled my covers over
my head to block the sunlight and fell asleep. My dreams were
strange, and I woke to a loud knocking on my window.
“Finally,” Jenny said as I opened the window and she floated inside. “Jesus. You look terrible. Late night of video games?”
“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I was playing guitar, and,
all of a sudden, my wings moved.”
“They did! That’s great! So, what, you been flying around
the world all night?”
“No, just the U.S.”
“What? I was kidding. You said you’d wait and take me
with you!”
“I know. I came by your house, but your light was off.”
“Jacob never called last night like he was supposed to, so I
was downstairs with Mom till almost four in the morning trying to calm her down! You could have texted me or something!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was just kind of caught up in it.”
“I bet.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I heard you.”
“Look, I didn’t get mad when you went and got your
Glyph without me. Cut me some slack.”
“I knew you’d throw that in my face some time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Just nothing. Sorry. I had a rough night.”
“Me too. I’m sorry, I mean. Is your mom okay?”
“She’ll be fine. Jacob was supposed to call last night. We
haven’t heard from him since he deployed the last time, and
Mom’s just worried. I am, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be all right. Listen, just get some sleep.
You’re obviously exhausted. When you’re rested, come find
me. I’ll probably be at the Fire Tower. If not, call me. Cool?”
“Cool.”
Her face was pinched, and she flew out the window with-
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out a hug, a wave, or anything. Too tired to think about what
that meant, I fell into bed and buried my head with pillows.
I was out in seconds.
*****
When I woke up, I went to find Jenny. She was at the Fire Tower
like she said she would. I sped myself up so that I could try to
surprise her by just appearing suddenly, but I wound up surprising myself. The world was crawling by for me, and I found her
flying with a guy in a Brawlers uniform. He was way too young
to actually be a member, but he could fly better than anyone I’d
ever seen before. I watched as they danced around each other
like fighter jets before embracing and twirling around as they
ascended in slow motion, locked in each others arms.
I saw the exact moment their lips met.
A great pit opened in my stomach, and I couldn’t stay sped
up anymore. The world came alive with an explosion of wind,
and I watched as the two of them resumed their dance. It took
several minutes, but Jenny finally noticed me. She said something to the guy I couldn’t make out and flew over. The clouds
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on the horizon spoke of rain.
“You feeling better?”
I shrugged, not really sure what to say.
“Did you still want to try and go somewhere? London
maybe?”
“Is he coming?”
She at least had the decency to blush. “I… uh…”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. How long has this been
going on?”
“We met just after I got my Glyph. I hadn’t seen him in a
few weeks but I ran into him this morning after I left your
place.”
If she had punched me in the face I would have been less
surprised. It had only been a couple of hours. If she could be
kissing someone else so soon after such a small fight, maybe I
didn’t know her like I thought.
“You two have fun, okay? Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Eric, wait, I…”
I didn’t wait to hear what she was going to say. I tensed the
muscles behind my eyes and was gone. An hour later I was sitting on a ridge on the side of Mt. Fuji.
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Captain Asimov
Illustration by
Randall M. Ensley
by Stephen L. Antczak
J
eevs cleaned up after dinner, loading all the dishes into
the washer, but first washing them by hand as per Mrs.
Moynahan’s explicit instructions. Then Jeevs vacuumed
the upstairs while the rest of the family watched vids downstairs in the holo chamber. Jeevs thought of them as the “rest”
of the family, because he was programmed to think of himself
as a Moynahan, subservient to the rest of the them, but still
one of them. Just as he was programmed to think of himself
as himself.
The upstairs was vacuumed by the time Mr. and Mrs.
Moynahan were finished with their family obligations… quality time with their children, which Jeevs had figured amounted
to an hour and forty-seven minutes and ten seconds for the
three of them. The Moynahans sometimes spoiled their children and gave them a full two hours. Then it was off to Social
Club with the adults, and Jeevs was responsible for getting the
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little ’uns to bed. It helped that he was faster, stronger and able
to leap taller pieces of furniture than they were. It also helped
that he had shock-hands, and if they were bad he could stun
them with a quick jolt of electricity and have them tucked into
bed before they regained awareness.
It was usually easier to either wear them out with games or
read them to sleep. The youngest child was Fermi, and he
liked nothing better than to have Jeevs read him the lastest
superhero comic books. Fermi was too young to actually read,
but he looked at the pictures while Jeevs recited the story and
dialogue from memory.
“Read Captain Battle!” Fermi yelled in his excitement. He
had a repertoire of favorites: Captain Battle, Warchick,
Meathook and Bonesaw, Funkiller, and The Justice Legion of
Avenging Angels. They were all of the hit first and hit again
later variety, and Jeevs privately considered them a little too
violent for a little boy Fermi’s age. But being a robot meant he
didn’t have the right to express an opinion of such a human
nature, which was perfectly all right by Jeevs. He was perfectly
happy to serve his owners well. It was in his program. To perform poorly resulted in a deep depression which could only
be alleviated by going the extra mile, so to speak, with the
housework. He had once gotten the carpet so clean he swore
he could see his reflection in it. The Moynahans had to take
him in to get his optics retooled.
“Captain Battle versus Cardinal Carnage in The Holy
Terror Part Three,” Jeevs announced in a perfectly pitched
square-jawed news anchor voice.
Fermi clapped his hands and rubbed them together greedily. “Yeeeeaaaahhh!”
Next was the only daughter, Jesse, and she didn’t like to be
read to at all. That didn’t mean she could read, because she
couldn’t, but she had a series of make-believes she liked Jeevs
to act in with her. One of them was Jeevs as the White
Stallion and Jesse as the Princess, riding through the
Enchanted Forest after having escaped from the clutches of
the evil Duke. She would climb onto Jeevs plasti-frame shoulders and he would gallop her throughout the entire house.
Jesse pretended the door frames were dragons swooping low
to grab her off the White Stallion.
“A dragon, a dragon!” she would yell as they approached a
door frame, and then cover her eyes with her hands as Jeevs
ducked down a mere instant before she would have collided
with it.
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The oldest was Horace, and he had a jealous streak where
Jeevs’ time was concerned. He enjoyed having Jeevs read
him science fiction books before bed. He couldn’t read
either, and was therefore typical as boys his age went.
Despite the fact that most of the science fiction books he
liked to hear were hopelessly outdated, he really seemed to
like having them read to him by a robot, especially ones
with robots in them. Jeevs knew this because Horace wouldn’t let either his mother or his father read to him. Of course
that might’ve been because they could only read the primary
reader versions of the books… like most adults in modern
society, the Moynahans were illiterate except on the most
rudimentary level. They could tell the difference between
the words MEN and WOMEN, for instance, even without
the accompanying Greek symbols. They got confused once
at a place with GENTS and LADIES. But Horace’s favorite
authors were Asimov, Bradbury, Del Rey, Sladek, anyone
with a lot of robot stories.
“Come on Jeeeeevs!” Horace yelled at the robot on the
fourth pass through the living room, or as it was known in
this make-believe, the Haunted Wood.
“A ghost!” Jesse screamed when she saw her older brother
trying to get Jeevs’ to stop.
Jeevs was about to duck underneath the chandelier in the
main hall—
“A falling star!” Jesse yelled.
—when Horace suddenly rolled a toy truck right at his
feet. The robot stepped on the truck, and his one leg went flying out behind him. With his inhuman dexterity he managed
to maintain his footing long enough to lift Jesse off his shoulders and toss her onto the plush sofa where she landed harmlessly. Then Jeevs’ footing gave out and he plunged head-first
into the wall.
Blackness. It was not unlike being shut off to conserve
his power supply, except this time it had been unexpected.
Jeevs knew it probably would have been rather painful too,
had he been a human. This was not something he thought
while “unconscious.” He thought nothing. There were no
dreams or anything like that. He just stopped being until
somebody turned him back on and he was Jeevs again,
ready to work.
Except, when he was turned on, he had other thoughts
aside from musing about pain. His head was a-jumble with
images from Captain Battle and Isaac Asimov’s robot stories.
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The three laws of robotics scrolled through his memory over
and over and over…
1. A robot may not injure a human being, nor through inaction allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey orders given to it by a human being
unless such orders conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence unless such protection conflicts with the First and Second Laws.
And swimming through these Laws, underlaying them,
was the cry of Captain Battle: “Fists… do the talking!”
Jeevs went back to work, although the children were no
longer allowed to play with him before bed like before. The
quality time with Mom and Dad stretched another hour into
the early news broadcasts on the holo. Jeevs overheard a
report about battlebots, designed by the military and sent into
any number of small hot spot countries, where they efficiently
murdered hundreds of villagers day and night until selfdestructing. The report stated that there was a certain probability that a few of these killing drones had not self-destructed
and continued to mutilate their way through certain South
American countries. To top the story with a generous helping
of horrific prophecy, the anchor suggested there was always a
possibility one could wind up in your neighborhood someday,
hacking and slashing and shooting to pieces your children.
Then he ended with his usual, “And may the good news be
your news.”
Jeevs was puzzled. Hadn’t these robots ever heard of the
Three Laws? Weren’t they imprinted with them from day one?
One day Jeevs was outside mowing the lawn, using a push
mower because Mr. Moynahan liked to see Jeevs actually
working. A remote mower that Jeevs could have controlled
from inside while washing the dishes or something would
have been much more efficient.
“Hard work’s good for you,” Moynahan would tell Jeevs,
as if speaking to an actual person. “Gives you character.”
Jeevs never bothered to wonder just what a robot would
do with character.
While he was mowing the front yard, one of the robot
street cleaners came down the road. Jeevs stopped and
watched it as it approached. It looked very reminiscent of the
battlebots he’d seen on the news. Some of the neighborhood
children were playing in the street ahead of it, and it sounded
several warning beeps as it grew near.
Jeevs turned off the mower, and went inside. Mr.
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Moynahan was sitting in his massage chair, asleep, and didn’t
see Jeevs sneak past him and go upstairs. Jeevs went into the
Moynahans’ closet for winter clothes and found Mr.
Moynahan’s ski mask, made of a lightweight yet warm material called Mylar. It was red with white circles around the eye
holes, and elastic so it fit snugly over Jeevs’ head when he put
it on. On the other side of the closet he located Mrs.
Moynahan’s hot pink cape, the one she wore to the the
Governor’s costume ball and made of the same Mylar yet nonelastic, and fastened that around his neck.
Though he hurried he didn’t fumble or drop anything.
He was a robot, with unnatural dexterity. Within moments
he was costumed and ready to do battle with the disguised
Battlebot outside. Sure, it may have the appearance of a
street cleaner, but there was something about the way it
bore down on those children, slightly faster than a real
street cleaner so only a robot would really notice. Humans
tended to miss subtle clues like that, but not robots and
certainly not Jeevs. Dealing with the Moynahan children
had trained him to notice any little alteration as in, say, a
slight wobble in the mower indicating one of the kids had
loosened the wheels so they would come off while Jeevs
mowed the grass. Or Jeevs might catch one of the children
faking illness to get out of having to go to what passed for
school these days. The palms might be clammy, the temperature high on a damp forehead, and then Jeevs would reach
underneath the pillow to find a washcloth that had been
soaked in hot water.
“They’re just the most devilish little rascals, aren’t they?”
Mrs. Moynahan would ask rhetorically with glee when Jeevs
gave her the weekly behavior report.
Jeevs paused to look himself over in the bedroom mirror,
to make sure he was sufficiently disguised. He didn’t want
anyone to identify him, for he knew from having read all
those comic books that villains would gladly take their frustrations at having been beaten by the superhero out on the
superhero’s loved ones. The tight, fire engine red ski mask and
hot pink cape definitely had the effect he was looking for, and
the bright colors corresponded to what Jeevs remembered the
Superheroes in the comic books wore.
His inner brain, the one that handled all the logic and
mathematical functions just like any other computer, told
him he had just about a minute to get to the battlebot/street
cleaner before it “swept” over the innocent playing children.
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Jeevs bounded out the open back window onto the gravel
covered back porch roof, ran across it and leaped the chasm
between the Moynahan house and the Corman house next
door.
“That Corman’s a cheese eater,” Mr. Moynahan would say
about his next door neighbor, who was a widower and at least
150 pounds overweight. Cheese eater was Mr. Moynahan’s
favorite way of saying someone was a rat, which usually meant
someone in the collection business, which Corman was.
“He won’t let the children play in his yard,” Mrs.
Moynahan would say accusingly while the children nodded
their lying heads in agreement. Jeevs knew Corman let the
kids play in the yard as long as they didn’t hang on the
branches of his citrus trees, which they always did.
From Corman’s house, Jeevs jumped onto the next one,
and then the next one, so that he was then behind where the
street cleaner was. He then leaped to the ground and ran as
fast as he could, which was close to sixty miles per hour,
toward the street cleaner. He saw it as the disguised battlebot,
even though he’d seen the street cleaner numerous times
before; 165 times actually, his inner brain told him, once a
week for the just over three years he’d been in the
Moynahan’s employ.
When he neared the street cleaner, Jeevs jumped as high as
he could, hoping to land atop the monstrosity and get at its
circuits to disable it. But a panel on the rear of the machine
opened, and a nozzle popped out. A jet stream of water blasted Jeevs in mid-air, knocking him into the street, sprawled on
his back. He scrambled to his feet. The children were shrieking with laughter, although to Jeevs they were screaming in
agony as he imagined the battlebot ground them into hamburger. Once again he charged, this time deciding the advantage could be gained by yelling out his battle cry.
The problem, of course, was that he didn’t have one. In the
space of the few seconds between the start of his charge and
the moment he was to leap to the attack he reviewed all the
slogans and battle cries of Captain Battle, Meathook, Bonesaw
and all the other Superheroes in the comic books. He couldn’t
use any of those because of copyright infringement. Besides,
he wanted one that would be uniquely his own.
Several occurred to him in the next instant.
“Eat metal!” He didn’t like the connotations of that one.
“It’s BATTERING time!” Sounded too much like a slogan
for a fried fast food place.
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“Cowabunga!” No superhero in his right mind would
say that.
“Viva Las Vegas!” Hadn’t some cartoon already used that?
Finally, as he neared what he perceived as a murderous
behemoth, Jeevs came up with one he felt would be both
effective and appropriate.
“Yeeeaaaaggggghhhhhhaaaamama!” he screamed inhumanly in mid-leap. The pitch and tone of his scream pierced
the delicate noise sensors of the street cleaner like shards of
glass through the diaphanous membrane of a jellyfish. It’s balance servos got all out of whack and it stopped. Jeevs landed
securely on the thing’s wide roof, where he knew the simplistic brain card had to be.
“Warning!” The battlebot (for although Jeevs’ sensory
apparatus informed him that in every way, shape and form it
was definitely a street cleaner robot, his misguided, short-circuited reasoning center still believed it to be a battlebot in disguise) stopped and an alarm started whooping. “Warning!
Vandalism of city property is a misdemeanor offense punishable by fines of up to five thousand dollars, community service, house arrest, and up to one year in the county jail!
Warning! This is a series eight-five-three double-ay street
cleaner by Hunnington Robotics Incorporated, and is owned
by the city of—”
Jeevs had found the brain and pulled the card out, effectively mind-wiping the big ‘bot. Still, it wasn’t technically dead.
Jeevs broke the thin, fragile brain card, snapping it in two
with his hands.
Now it was.
He ran across the roof and jumped down from the front,
expecting to find the mangled remains of the poor children
beneath the suspiciously missing forward grinders of the socalled battlebot, for he was sure he’d been too late to save
them. Instead he was met by the quizzical expressions of
small faces.
Suddenly a hovering newsbot approached.
Jeevs was disappointed. He had hoped to spend a touching moment with the children, to make sure they were okay
and tell them not to worry because now they had a masked
marvel to look out for them. But like any good superhero, the
last thing he wanted was publicity. He turned to leap back
onto the battlebot and make his escape.
“Wait!” a voice ordered. It sounded too much like a
human voice to ignore, but it was coming from the newsbot.
Nth Degree #21
“I’m a reporter from Make it Great with Channel EightyEight News! I’d like to interview you, please!”
It was a human voice, and the newsbot wasn’t a newsbot
at all, but a remote. Jeevs couldn’t ignore a human just like
that, unless an order from his owners overrode that human’s
requests. Jeevs had no such orders, so he stood and waited to
be interviewed.
“Don’t I know you?” one of the kids, who lived across and
down the street a few doors, asked.
“All children know me,” Jeevs answered gently, “as their
friend.” Good answer, he thought. He’d never read anything
that good in any of little Fermi’s comic books, that was for sure.
The news remote hovered up to him, floodlights bathing
him aglow even though it was mid-day and there were no
clouds impeding the sun’s rays.
“Why did you attack that street cleaner ‘bot?” the remote
asked.
“That’s no street cleaner,” Jeevs replied. “It’s a battlebot. It
was about to rip these innocent children limb from limb.”
“No it wasn’t. Don’t you know street cleaners are programmed to wait for people to move aside before they can
continue?”
If Jeevs could have sighed with exasperation he would have.
“Of course. Street cleaner robots have the Three Laws of
Robotics embedded in their behavioral chips.”
“The three what laws?”
Jeevs explained the three laws, then said, “I could tell that
this was a battlebot because it wasn’t slowing down quickly
enough… if that makes any sense. It was my duty to stop it.”
“Your duty? Who are you?”
Jeevs paused before answering, although the human
reporter would perceive no pause, as it lasted less than a second.
Jeevs couldn’t give his real name, he knew that, for the same reason he had to disguise himself. He needed a good superhero
name, like… Several occurred to him: Mightybot, Robohero,
Metal Man, Captain Asimov, Tik To—Wait! Captain
Asimov… It sounded good, and certainly rang true to his mission—to uphold the Three Laws and fight crime. That was it.
“I’m…” he paused for effect, “CAPTAIN ASIMOV!”
With his modified speaker voice, for calling the children from
play, Jeevs was able to add a nifty echo effect. The entire block
reverberated with the “OV! OV! OV!”
“What kind of a name is that?” the reporter asked through
the remote.
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Jeevs’ inner clock suddenly told him it was getting close to
the time for lunch for the Moynahans.
“I’ve talked with you long enough,” he announced, then
turned and leaped onto the dead street cleaner, ran across it,
jumped down, and disappeared behind the houses. He decostumed in the Moynahan’s backyard and hid the uniform in
the tool shed. Nobody ever went in there, so his secret was
safe… for the time being.
It made the six-fifteen news, exclusive to channel 88.
“In the suburbs today a city street sweeper was attacked
and immobilized by a costumed robot calling himself Captain
Asimov. The robot was apparently under the delusion that the
street sweeper was a rogue battlebot, such as the type currently deployed by the United States in Iraq, Lebanon,
Afghanistan, Los Angeles, Cuba, El Salvador, Bolivia, and
North Vietnam. Our research has led us to believe that this
robot has named himself after the prolific science writer of the
Twentieth Century, Isaac Asimov, whose Three Laws of
Robotics were an idealistic if unrealistic proposition to control the use of robots.”
They showed Captain Asimov talking to the kids, included sound when he reverbed his name, flashed a still photo of
the writer Asimov, showed some scenes of a real battlebot
slaughtering some sheep in a field test, and ended with a picture of the street sweeper carcass being hauled off by a massive
wrecker. Jeevs’ inner clock had timed the segment at twenty
seconds.
“Hey Mom, hey Dad,” Fermi said as soon as the news bit
was over. “Can we get a robot like Captain Asimov instead of
just plain ol’ Jeevs? Pleeeeease? I bet we’d have a lot of fun with
him! He’s a real superhero!” With that he commenced pretending to be Captain Asimov, beating up on imaginary battlebots (actually his father’s foot stool).
“Gaaaawwwwd Fermi, you’re stuuuupid,” Horace said
with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Captain Asimov beat up
a street cleaner! It wasn’t any battlebot.”
“It was too,” Fermi insisted. “It was in disguise!”
“How would you know?” Jesse asked, having decided to
take her older brother’s side this time. “You’ve never even seen
a battlebot.”
“I just saw one on TV!” Fermi yelled.
“Tell him Dad, please,” Horace appealed. “Mom…”
Mr. Moynahan cleared his throat and looked to his wife
for guidance, but she only shrugged. As if to say Tell them,
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dear, I want to hear, too. “Well,” he started, and paused. He
came very close to just saying Go to your room, but didn’t. “If
the news says it wasn’t really a battlebot, then it wasn’t.
Whoever this Captain Asmovitz is—”
“Asimov,” Fermi corrected exasperatedly.
“Well, whoever he is, he must have a chip loose somewhere,
to think a robot street cleaner could hurt little children.”
“There was that street cleaner that thought it was a dog
catcher for a while,” Mrs. Moynahan pointed out. “Until they
switched its chip with that dog catcher that was going around
trying to sweep the streets with a net.”
Mr. Moynahan nodded as if this somehow proved a point,
his point, whatever that was.
Jeevs remained unconvinced that the battlebot had really
been a hapless street sweeper.
That evening he was relieved from having to read for the
kids since the parents weren’t going out. Jeevs cleaned the
upstairs while everyone sat watching vids downstairs, and finished early. Since he had nothing left to do, and knew from
experience Mrs. Moynahan would handle the putting to bed
and tucking in of the children, Jeevs silently climbed atop the
roof where he tuned in to the airwaves in search of something
for Captain Asimov to do.
Then he heard it, on the police band.
“Unit Twenty-three, Unit Twenty-three, please investigate
a possible three-fifty-two-oh-four at Harris Street. Over.”
Jeevs wouldn’t have been interested had Unit Twenty-three
not responded with, “Did you say a three-fifty-two-oh-four?
Isn’t that a street sweeper malfunction? Over.”
“Affirmative Unit Twenty-three.”
“Where the hell are the city maintenance ‘bots?”
There was a pause, then the operator said, “Ah, they’re all
disabled, Unit Twenty-three. Over.”
“All of them?”
“Affirmative.”
“Jesus. Okay. Unit Twenty-three responding.”
Jeevs wasted no time. He was costumed and en route to
Harris Street within moments.
He tried to stick to the rooftops as much as possible,
with pretty good success since he could leap the gap
between most of the houses and other buildings on the way.
His body was constructed mainly of lightweight but
extremely strong plastics reinforced by an alloy skeleton.
Robots like Jeevs, self-aware and capable of learning, were
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designed to last a very long time. As Jeevs got further away
from the Moynahan’s home, he started to get an unfamiliar
and unpleasant feeling… as of being lost and alone. He
went through the catalog of emotions he could feel, and
found the only thing it could possibly be, since he was
familiar with the others.
Longing. It started off as a small tug towards home, the
urge to think Harris Street was a long way off, he might not
make it back in time to have breakfast ready for everyone
when they got up in the morning. Jeevs recognized it then.
It was something he’d heard of but had never actually experienced, until now. In robot lore it was called the Collar.
The Collar was supposed to keep a robot home, or within
a certain boundary, by making it impossible to even want
to run away. At first the Collar had been simpler, and crueler, giving the robot the equivalent of a painful jolt if it
went past a certain point. This early version of the Collar
had been inspired by the late Twentieth Century movie
Star Wars. When self-awareness in robots became a reality a
lobby on their behalf got the current, and much more
humane, Collar written into the Artificial Intelligence Act
of 2020.
The farther away he got the stronger the longing got. By
the time he was almost to Harris Street he was near panic, but
kept it under control as he imagined a real superhero would.
In fact, it made him feel even more heroic!
But there was something wrong. He was at Harris street,
but there was no street cleaner/battlebot. It had to here somewhere! What if it had gotten away? What if it had only
appeared to break down to lure the police there. It could be off
hacking up poor innocent humans right now!
Jeevs ran into the street, looking for clues, tracks, something that might tell him where the battlebot went. He was
examining the pavement in the street, not finding any
recent tracks whatsoever (and he’d know if they were recent,
it was one of his most important skills, useful in keeping
track of the Moynahan children) when he heard a noise
behind him.
He whirled into a battle stance, feet wide apart and fists on
hips, to find himself face to face with a robot cop.
“Freeze, you are under arrest,” the robot cop ordered.
Jeevs knew from the comics that there existed an uneasy
truce between the law and costumed vigilantes. The best reaction to a confrontation with the police was to turn and run…
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as long as the danger was taken care of. But the danger wasn’t
taken care of, there was still a battlebot on the loose somewhere in the city and someone had to do something about it.
Captain Asimov was just that someone.
“State your identification,” the robot cop ordered. It continued to advance on Jeevs, who stood his ground. Jeevs
almost blurted out his formal I.D., which was Jeevs D (for
domestic) 35 (for the year of his creation) X-5000 (series letter and model number) Moynahan (for his owner’s name).
He caught himself just in time, and though it took a great
force of will to overcome the automatic law-abiding response
that was as much a part of his self as the Collar, he said, “You
can call me… Captain Asimov!” With reverb and everything.
It wasn’t exactly a lie, which was why he didn’t suddenly drop
to the ground paralyzed as would normally happen to a robot
who lied to the police.
“Okay, tin-head,” a human male voice said from behind
the robot cop. “We’ll handle it from here… give it the human
touch, eh?”
The robot cop stopped advancing, and replied, “Yes, sir.”
Two human police officers, a male and a female,
approached Jeevs.
“Okay Superman,” said the woman, “Shut yourself down
so we can take you in. Don’t give us any trouble and we won’t
give you any trouble.”
Jeevs didn’t do anything. He didn’t know what to do. He
hadn’t counted on having to deal with the police, and certainly not human police. The Collar effect was getting stronger,
and that battlebot… who knew where it was? Killing and
maiming and slaughtering. And here the police were harassing an innocent, well sort of innocent, robot.
There was only one thing to do, and it had to be done
now, because Jeevs knew if he waited any longer he would
have to obey the police. It was the only behavior control
stronger than the one that caused him to obey his owners.
He suddenly broke into a run.
“Hey!” the cops yelled, and started in pursuit. There was
no way they could catch him with their organic legs. Jeevs
outdistanced them within moments. He ducked into an
alley to stop for a bit. Not to rest, but he needed to tune in
to the police band again to find out if they’d sighted the battlebot anywhere.
But… before he could do that, he heard something.
It sounded like wheels, the way a battlebot would sound
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on pavement… Jeevs stepped into the shadows, as if that
would do any good against the battlebots heat sensors. But it
would! Jeevs gave off barely any heat at all because he wasn’t
truly alive! He’d have the element of surprise.
“This is the police,” came the mechanical voice of the
robot cop suddenly. “I know you’re in there, please come out
with your hands in the air.”
The police, again! It was impossible to get away, and Jeevs
couldn’t muster the strength to ignore the cop’s orders again.
In fact, he knew that had the robot cop not come along, he
would have wound up back home, for he suddenly realized
that was the direction he’d started running in. The constant
yearning of the Collar, to be home where he belonged, was
becoming too much as well.
He stepped out of the shadows with his hands raised.
“You’re going to place me under arrest.” It was a statement
of fact, and Jeevs didn’t know why he said it.
“No,” the robot cop replied.
“No? Then what—?”
“You are going to return home.”
Home! It was an effort not to immediately start running
that way. Right now! Home!
But he stayed, and asked, “What about the battlebot? We
have to find it and—”
“There is no battlebot. It was a ruse to trap you. We cannot
permit deluded robot vandals running around scaring people.
This would be detrimental to human/robot relations.”
“I couldn’t hurt anybody!” Jeevs said. “The Three Laws of
Robotics—”
“Science fiction,” the robot cop said. “There are three
hundred and forty-two laws governing the behavior of robots
and the behavior of humans towards robots. You can access
the public records concerning all of them, if you wish. Now
go, go home, go where you belong.”
“Why?” Jeevs asked, even as he started past the robot cop.
“Why are you letting me go?”
“It is obvious you present no danger to anyone. I am capable of value judgements without penalty, and have decided it
would be best for all concerned for you to go home.”
Jeevs went. He took only a few steps homeward before
turning back around to thank the generous robot cop, but it
was already gone.
“Thank you,” he said anyway. He went home.
When he got there he noticed immediately that the
Nth Degree #21
downstairs lights were on, even though his inner clock told
him it was just past four in the morning. This was quite odd,
for no one was ever up at four in the morning at the
Moynahan residence, except Jeevs who used this time to
straighten and dust and clean. That way he had the days free
to cook, run errands, do yard work, watch the children when
they were home, etc. He had intended to go in through the
rear entrance, but paused near a window to listen. Inside he
heard voices, and crying.
He recognized the crying right off. It was Jesse, with her
subdued, gulping sob that could go on for days if she felt so
inclined, like the time her parents first left the kids alone with
Jeevs. That had been a week with breaks only for sleep. He
also recognized the sniffling trying-not-to-cry of Fermi.
Then he heard Mr. Moynahan.
“Please… please, don’t hurt us.” His voice quaked with
fear. “Take anything, take whatever you want, just—”
“Shut up!” This voice was gruff and gravelly, and was followed a moment later by a dull thud, another thud, Mrs.
Moynahan’s scream, and louder crying. The same gruff voice
then said, “All of you, shut up now!”
Silence.
Jeevs didn’t know what to do. From the tenor of the
intruder’s voice Jeevs concluded the man had to be desperate,
and obviously capable of anything. If the police were called,
would they arrive in time to avert disaster? Probably not. Jeevs
was going to have to do something and do it soon.
There was a problem. Captain Asimov obeyed the Three
Laws. One of those laws would not permit him to harm a
human, yet another law would not permit him to allow harm
to come to a human through inaction. If the thug inside were
only a robot, then Captain Asimov could crash in through the
window and knock him all the way to next Tuesday… but not
even actorbots could act that human. The man in there was as
real as, well, the Moynahans.
Nothing Captain Asimov could do, unless he found a
way to subdue the criminal without hurting him, but the
man sounded dangerous, violent, even suicidal—which
goes hand in hand with homicidal. Someone had already
been hurt, though, while Captain Asimov stood barely
twenty feet away, separated by a plate of glass and a nylon
drape. Inaction.
It suddenly hit Jeevs. Captain Asimov: superhero failure.
At the same time it also hit Jeevs that he, Jeevs, had no
Page 31
FICTION
such animal as the Three Laws of Robotics constraining him
from action. If he needed to, he would be perfectly within his
rights to punch the villain holding his family hostage so hard
it would knock his nose all the way around to the other side
of his head.
“You,” he heard the ruffian inside say.
“Yes?” he heard Mrs. Moynahan reply.
There was a pause, then a low, throaty, evil, “Come here.”
The time for thought was past. Jeevs removed his Captain
Asimov garb and dropped it onto the grass.
He stepped back from the window, took half a second to
project his trajectory and envision the room inside. Assuming
nothing major had been moved, he knew exactly where everything was. Then he jumped.
As he smashed through the glass he heard Jesse and Fermi
scream, Mrs. Moynahan faint, and Horace yell out his name.
“Jeeeevs!”
The thug was as surprised as they were, and couldn’t
react fast enough. He tried, though. He held a black automatic in his hand, and brought it around to aim at Jeevs, but
by then Jeevs was upon him. He knocked the gun out of the
man’s hand, sending it harmlessly into a cushion on the sofa.
With his other hand, Jeevs plowed his palm right into the
man’s nose, lifting him off the ground with the force of the
blow and sending him airborne to slam against the only
unadorned wall in the room. The man sunk to the ground,
his nose gushing blood onto his shirt, unconscious. Jeevs
quickly ran to the aid of Mr. Moynahan, who was groggily
coming to. He seemed okay. Jeevs could detect no damage
to the skull, at least.
Fermi had regained his spunk as soon as he saw the bad
guy was down for the count—down, in fact, for several
counts. “Wow Jeevs, you were way better than that old
Captain Asimov! Wow!”
Jeevs felt something else, a new emotion he wasn’t sure he
was supposed to be feeling. It seemed linked to the manner in
which the Moynahans were looking at him, sparked by the
grateful, adoring expressions on their faces. He wasn’t
absolutely sure, but if he was right, he knew the word for it.
Belonging.
Captain Asimov may have been a friend of the children,
Jeevs thought, but I’m family.
Author of:
The Books of Insanity:
Book 1: Celeste
Book 2: Vanity
Book 3: Marco
Sto’s House Presents… Vol. 1,
Beer With A Mutant Chaser
“E-mails 10” – Nth Degree Magazine
“Game Over” – Hear Them Roar
“The View Never Changes” – New Blood
“Silver Lining” – Hellfire Lounge 2: Rat Pack Redux
“The Final Straw” – Hellfire Lounge 2: Rat Pack Redux
“Rejecting Your Reality” - UnCONventional
Originally published in Superheores (Ace Books, 1995).
Nth Degree #21
Page 32
F EAT U R E S
Dear Cthulhu,
I’ve read your last two columns dealing with breastfeeding issues
with interest. Let me throw my problem into the mix. I am also getting extra scrutiny and grief for my breastfeeding which I think
stems from my being male.
It all started five years ago when my son was born. My wife
refused to breastfeed and made this decision while still pregnant. I
argued with her that all the studies and anecdotal evidence pointed
to the benefits of breastfeeding for physical, cognitive and emotional development. We kept fighting for a week until she finally
screamed at me that if I wanted our child to be breastfed so badly
that I should do the breastfeeding.
If was an off-handed comment made under the assumption that
only women can breastfeed. It turns out it’s not true. A small number of men have been able to breastfeed by taking hormones. I
decided to add myself to their number. My wife was more than a little taken aback. I said I wouldn’t if she would do it, but she stuck to
her guns never believing I’d go through with it. But I did.
I breastfed our son and to be honest I thoroughly enjoyed it so
I did the same for our twin daughters. My wife and I were fine with
three kids so she had her tubes tied but I didn’t want to stop breastfeeding. I applied for a job with a rich family as a wet nurse.
Apparently the wife paid big bucks for her breasts and felt she was
too good to use them to feed her own kid.
I was told I got the job until I showed up and they found out I
was a man. My name is Fran, so they assumed I was a female. I was
fired on the spot.
I sued for sexual discrimination. They decided to settle out of
court and as part of it gave me the job. They owned a dairy and just
didn’t want the negative publicity.
Things worked out for a while. I was making double what I made
at my full-time job. Then things got a little freaky and I did some
thing I was embarrassed by, but got almost a half million in bonuses.
I figured that would be the end of it but it wasn’t. First, I should
explain what I had to do to get the cash. “Mr. Dairyman” was a bit
of a closet freak. Apparently he was never breastfed as an infant. He
told me it was one of the reasons he paid for the missus’ breast
enhancement. It was also one of the reasons he wanted a wet nurse,
not so much for the kid but for him.
The first time he asked me to nurse him, I told him to go to
hell. The second time he waved ten grand in my face and I relent-
Nth Degree #21
ed. I mean, I managed to nurse twins and had plenty left over. I figured that one time would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He kept
coming back and each time waving more cash. Then his requests
got weirder, but the money kept going up. I agreed to everything
but the shaving of my chest. I mean a man should have chest hair,
even if he works as a wet nurse. I felt cheap and used, but rich at
the same time.
I didn’t tell anyone about it. I figured I’d wait it out and pocket
everything I could and move on.
I didn’t count on a big-breasted maid who was mad at Dairyman
because he had been carrying on with her and had been neglecting
that affair to drink my “father’s milk.” She hid a camera and recorded one of our sessions in which Dairyman milked me like a cow into
a bucket and then drank the bucket. Then he set up a bunch of shot
glasses and squirted my father’s milk like he was using water pistols.
And, as sad as it is to say, that was one of our tamer sessions.
The problem is the maid posted the video on Itube. Dairyman
hit the ceiling and his wife left him and took the kid, so I figured I’d
be out of a job. Instead he tripled my salary to stay on. My wife
doesn’t surf the net much, so she hasn’t seen the video yet. You can’t
make out much of me except for my chest, but that would be
enough for her to recognize me. Besides, how many breastfeeding
men are there out there? I’m torn. I don’t feel it is cheating because
we never had sex, but it looks bad. I’m not sure how I will explain
it to her if she finds out, let alone how I’d explain going to work as
a wet nurse in a house without a baby. The truth is she thinks I’m
still working at the rock quarry.
It’s really got me bothered to the point where I’m considering
stopping the hormones and letting my father’s milk dry up. There’s
just no joy in nursing anymore. I need some guidance. What
should I do?
–Breastfeeding Papa Playing Milking Games In Milwaukee
Dear Breastfeeding,
When faced with a problem like this, one needs to ask oneself is it worth it? From what you have written, it no longer is
for you. I suggest you do stop the hormones and leave your
job at Dairyman’s. You are richer than when you started so
you can get by without a job for a while. (Although you fail to
mention if you declared the income. Cthulhu suggests that if
you do not have a foolproof way of not getting caught that you
report it. Those people at the IRS scare even Cthulhu.)
You need to have the maid take the video off. There will still
be copies up, but it reduces your risk somewhat. Since she is
unlikely to be predisposed to help you, I suggest you offer to
take her with you to the doctor who gave you the hormones
and he could do the same for her. In fact, do it right and you
might be able to get a nice severance package from Dairyman.
Have A Dark Day.
Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at [email protected]. All
letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear
Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights
reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.
Page 33

fiction - Nth Degree

Transcription

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