Co-operation

This is my response to Day 23 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940

They were at the rendezvous before the Terrencians. Somewhere in the distance, Nettlebrake from the direction, there was bombing. The support section huddled under their covers like begreyed field mice in their dens, hugging the inner slopes of the explosion crater.

The Terrencians arrived like ghosts in daylight, flowing almost shadowless over the crater’s lip. They were larger and solider than their allies, frontline assaulters bulked out by their body armour. One of them settled down to rest against a bump in the landscape that was a medic, to his comrades’ muffled mirth.

“Captain Bennett.” The Terrencian officer continued, “How is Great-Aunt Mabel?”

Captain Evelyn Bennett gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, “Gran’s good, Captain Count Schtulvayer. And Great-Aunt Samella?”

“Well”. He looked around at her squad. “You’re all women?”

“Your people asked for a support section. We’re a support section. Medics and etcetera.”

“So we did,” he sighed, “My men were hoping for more testosterone in your squad.” She grinned back at him.

Four hours later they’d reached their objective. The installation they surveyed from the wrack of a village was new in construction and design. Their job was simple: Seize, Investigate, Destroy.

Of course it was defended. Hard-faced hoplites in machine guns pits guarded the approaches. An armoured synoris prowled around its walls. The first machine gun pit went down easily then the enemy knew they were there.

The defence was fierce. The Terencians were overmatched by their opponents’ brute strength, their officer commanded from his synoris. Small red holes began blossoming on the defenders. Something thudded into the synoris’ engine block and it stopped.

Afterwards.  “Captain Bennett, why didn’t you tell me you had snipers?”

“We’re a support section, Captain Count Schtulvayer. I thought it was obvious."

Co-operation

This is my response to Day 23 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940

They were at the rendezvous before the Terrencians. Somewhere in the distance, Nettlebrake from the direction, there was bombing. The support section huddled under their covers like begreyed field mice in their dens, hugging the inner slopes of the explosion crater.

The Terrencians arrived like ghosts in daylight, flowing almost shadowless over the crater’s lip. They were larger and solider than their allies, frontline assaulters bulked out by their body armour. One of them settled down to rest against a bump in the landscape that was a medic, to his comrades’ muffled mirth.

“Captain Bennett.” The Terrencian officer continued, “How is Great-Aunt Mabel?”

Captain Evelyn Bennett gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, “Gran’s good, Captain Count Schtulvayer. And Great-Aunt Samella?”

“Well”. He looked around at her squad. “You’re all women?”

“Your people asked for a support section. We’re a support section. Medics and etcetera.”

“So we did,” he sighed, “My men were hoping for more testosterone in your squad.” She grinned back at him.

Four hours later they’d reached their objective. The installation they surveyed from the wrack of a village was new in construction and design. Their job was simple: Seize, Investigate, Destroy.

Of course it was defended. Hard-faced hoplites in machine guns pits guarded the approaches. An armoured synoris prowled around its walls. The first machine gun pit went down easily then the enemy knew they were there.

The defence was fierce. The Terencians were overmatched by their opponents’ brute strength, their officer commanded from his synoris. Small red holes began blossoming on the defenders. Something thudded into the synoris’ engine block and it stopped.

Afterwards.  “Captain Bennett, why didn’t you tell me you had snipers?”

“We’re a support section, Captain Count Schtulvayer. I thought it was obvious."

Recall

I came up with this while thinking about my response to Day 23 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940, and listening to Nickelback's "This Afternoon". 

The music blared across the back fence: electric guitars, drums and loud male vocals. Underneath that burbled voices, laughter and the sound of bellyflops and dive bombs hitting the pool water.

He shook his head and closed the sliding door to the backyard. The back neighbours’ daughter was having a party. At least she’d sent a note and flowers in apology – in advance. She’d been away from home for a number of years and her parents were so pleased they’d gotten her to come back. Personally he thought their methods were over the top, she was no longer a teenager after all but they seemed stuck in the mindset that she was an errant child.

The party was a statement of some kind obviously. The flowers indicated that it wasn’t aimed at him or the other neighbours – the ones on either side of him had already commented to him on the arrangements they’d received. He wondered idly what her sucker punch on her parents was going to be, the state of the house or something else? Where had that thought come from? Interesting. When he’d seen her in their backyard the last few days he’d dismissed his initial impression of tightly controlled anger, she’d been so laid back. Yet, what was wrong with that scenario?

He watched one of the party goers execute a fancy dive off the top board the put him above the fence spinning in the air to plummet feet first into the water below. The diver looked fantastically fit from this distance and had finished the spin facing over the fence. Two more divers followed him, all making the same move. He’d played that game himself as a boy, but the tattoos across the third one’s back were familiar...

He locked up the house and walked around the block with his cane, as if to complain. The street outside the house was lined with utes, muscle cars and a couple of nice convertible sports cars. Their driveway was solid motorbikes. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a young man he didn’t recognise whose only response was, “Please come in, sir.” The door was locked behind him. There was a handgun tucked into the back of the doorman’s shorts.

It was quieter in the house than it was outside. Leaving the door and its guardian behind him, he penetrated the interior of the building, passing the closed doors to the study and home office. Kit bags followed the internal halls in neat lines. He found people in the dining room, papers spread across the table, the clustering of personnel awfully familiar. Someone on the far side of the room said the magic word and the entire room braced and looked at him, including the party girl.

“As you were,” old, familiar words. “Where am I? Central HQ?”

“I’m glad you came, sir,” the party girl made her way over to him around the furniture and through the men of the, maybe even her, planning staff, “It makes it much easier to give you this.” She handed him an addressed envelope.

He opened it with a finger and read the letter inside. “I was medically discharged, you do realise that?”

“If I may be bold, sir, it’s your mind we need, not your body.” A level gaze met his. A tiny faded scar to the side of her left eye caught his attention, she’d nearly lost the eye to one of the enemy’s nasty little flechette rounds.

“And you are?” He knew her name of course, but it was becoming obvious that her parents hadn’t asked questions when they’d dragged her home.

“Operations Officer, Third Strike Force. Your Operations Officer, sir.” She paused, “You’ll be wanting the 2IC for a back brief, won’t you sir?”

“Of course. One question.”

“Sir?”

“Why the party?”

“We needed to concentrate. The court confined me to the house.” She grinned, “And I did tell my parents I had to work this weekend.”

Recall

I came up with this while thinking about my response to Day 23 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940, and listening to Nickelback's "This Afternoon". 

The music blared across the back fence: electric guitars, drums and loud male vocals. Underneath that burbled voices, laughter and the sound of bellyflops and dive bombs hitting the pool water.

He shook his head and closed the sliding door to the backyard. The back neighbours’ daughter was having a party. At least she’d sent a note and flowers in apology – in advance. She’d been away from home for a number of years and her parents were so pleased they’d gotten her to come back. Personally he thought their methods were over the top, she was no longer a teenager after all but they seemed stuck in the mindset that she was an errant child.

The party was a statement of some kind obviously. The flowers indicated that it wasn’t aimed at him or the other neighbours – the ones on either side of him had already commented to him on the arrangements they’d received. He wondered idly what her sucker punch on her parents was going to be, the state of the house or something else? Where had that thought come from? Interesting. When he’d seen her in their backyard the last few days he’d dismissed his initial impression of tightly controlled anger, she’d been so laid back. Yet, what was wrong with that scenario?

He watched one of the party goers execute a fancy dive off the top board the put him above the fence spinning in the air to plummet feet first into the water below. The diver looked fantastically fit from this distance and had finished the spin facing over the fence. Two more divers followed him, all making the same move. He’d played that game himself as a boy, but the tattoos across the third one’s back were familiar...

He locked up the house and walked around the block with his cane, as if to complain. The street outside the house was lined with utes, muscle cars and a couple of nice convertible sports cars. Their driveway was solid motorbikes. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a young man he didn’t recognise whose only response was, “Please come in, sir.” The door was locked behind him. There was a handgun tucked into the back of the doorman’s shorts.

It was quieter in the house than it was outside. Leaving the door and its guardian behind him, he penetrated the interior of the building, passing the closed doors to the study and home office. Kit bags followed the internal halls in neat lines. He found people in the dining room, papers spread across the table, the clustering of personnel awfully familiar. Someone on the far side of the room said the magic word and the entire room braced and looked at him, including the party girl.

“As you were,” old, familiar words. “Where am I? Central HQ?”

“I’m glad you came, sir,” the party girl made her way over to him around the furniture and through the men of the, maybe even her, planning staff, “It makes it much easier to give you this.” She handed him an addressed envelope.

He opened it with a finger and read the letter inside. “I was medically discharged, you do realise that?”

“If I may be bold, sir, it’s your mind we need, not your body.” A level gaze met his. A tiny faded scar to the side of her left eye caught his attention, she’d nearly lost the eye to one of the enemy’s nasty little flechette rounds.

“And you are?” He knew her name of course, but it was becoming obvious that her parents hadn’t asked questions when they’d dragged her home.

“Operations Officer, Third Strike Force. Your Operations Officer, sir.” She paused, “You’ll be wanting the 2IC for a back brief, won’t you sir?”

“Of course. One question.”

“Sir?”

“Why the party?”

“We needed to concentrate. The court confined me to the house.” She grinned, “And I did tell my parents I had to work this weekend.”

Fly On The Wall To A Historical Conversation

This is my response to Day 24 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940

“This hunk of junk isn’t going anywhere again once we land,” Darleton kicked the hull plating in frustration.

“It’s not meant to,” pointed out Twzimbe. “It’s a colony ship. They’re a one shot item, meant to be taken apart for power plant and metal by the colonists. Our luck it was the only ship ready to lift besides the one to the penitentiary.”

“So, gentlemen,” Pears was a pursed-faced, precise killer, “We have exchanged one prison for another.”

“Without guards,” pointed out Twzimbe, “And the Colonisation Authority isn’t allowed to sell rights to planets as bad as the penitentiary. Of course, we’ll need to become farmers to keep eating.”

“Mr Twzimbe,” corrected Pears, “I am a predator. I do not farm.”

“If we do nothing but prey on each other we won’t last more than a couple years.”  Twzimbe continued, “I suggest you work out a way to sell your services to help those who do farm grow enough food to feed you too.”

“Big game?” The suggestion came from the embezzler Rostov who had hacked the ship’s computer, “There are supposed to be animals on this new world that might want to eat us or sheep and cattle.”

“That may be acceptable,” Pears conceded. “Are the original owners of this ship likely to follow us?”

“Don’t think so,” Rostov again, “Looks like they had a one use only autopilot from the Colonisation Authority. Guaranteed not to be reissued. Lucky them, looks like their insurance policy covers immediate replacement in this situation.”

“Why lucky?” Darleton stopped regarding the ship’s hull as if it were a personal affront.

“These guys, The Second Reformed Congregation of the Friends of Jesus, are certain Ringface will win the election. They want out before that.”

“Can’t blame them,” approved Pears. “So we’re colonists now.”

Fly On The Wall To A Historical Conversation

This is my response to Day 24 of http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/'s 30 Days of Flash Fiction, the list for which can be found at http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/221684.html?view=1245940#t1245940

“This hunk of junk isn’t going anywhere again once we land,” Darleton kicked the hull plating in frustration.

“It’s not meant to,” pointed out Twzimbe. “It’s a colony ship. They’re a one shot item, meant to be taken apart for power plant and metal by the colonists. Our luck it was the only ship ready to lift besides the one to the penitentiary.”

“So, gentlemen,” Pears was a pursed-faced, precise killer, “We have exchanged one prison for another.”

“Without guards,” pointed out Twzimbe, “And the Colonisation Authority isn’t allowed to sell rights to planets as bad as the penitentiary. Of course, we’ll need to become farmers to keep eating.”

“Mr Twzimbe,” corrected Pears, “I am a predator. I do not farm.”

“If we do nothing but prey on each other we won’t last more than a couple years.”  Twzimbe continued, “I suggest you work out a way to sell your services to help those who do farm grow enough food to feed you too.”

“Big game?” The suggestion came from the embezzler Rostov who had hacked the ship’s computer, “There are supposed to be animals on this new world that might want to eat us or sheep and cattle.”

“That may be acceptable,” Pears conceded. “Are the original owners of this ship likely to follow us?”

“Don’t think so,” Rostov again, “Looks like they had a one use only autopilot from the Colonisation Authority. Guaranteed not to be reissued. Lucky them, looks like their insurance policy covers immediate replacement in this situation.”

“Why lucky?” Darleton stopped regarding the ship’s hull as if it were a personal affront.

“These guys, The Second Reformed Congregation of the Friends of Jesus, are certain Ringface will win the election. They want out before that.”

“Can’t blame them,” approved Pears. “So we’re colonists now.”

After The Party

This is a follow up to Recall.

They came home with their hired cult deprogrammer to a locked and silent house. The pool was newly and heavily chlorinated. The recycling bin was full of washed lemonade, soda water and ginger ale bottles.  The non-recycling bin was full. The house was cleaner than they’d left it and there was more toilet paper than when they’d gone out. Their daughter was gone.

“She’ll have to go on medication,” her mother said harshly, “It’s the only way to control her if she won’t obey the court’s instructions.”

“I agree,” her father surveyed her empty room. “We’ve been far too lenient. She obviously has no concern for the consequences of her actions.”

“I think you should come and read this.” It was the deprogrammer in the dining room. He was gazing at a handwritten note and two envelopes lying on the highly polished table.

The note read:

Mum and Dad,

1.      I’ve already apologised to the neighbours.

2.      Read the contents of the two envelopes under leaf, copies have gone to your solicitors.

3.      You know the ugly monstrosity Great-Aunt Maureen gave you for your wedding that no-one likes? Get it valued. Tomorrow. Seriously.

4.      Get some professional help for your need to infantilise me.

It was signed with a semi-illegible scrawl.

“She used to have such nice handwriting,” her mother sighed, “Now look at it.”

Her father opened the envelopes. “She’s gotten the confinement order overturned by a superior court.” He threw the paper down on the table. “How’d she afford the legal work for that? What’s this other one?” He exploded.  “A restraining order? Against us? How dare she!?”

“Excuse me,” the deprogrammer held the discarded paper in his hand. “This has psychiatric evidence rebutted by physical medical evidence. What’s her cult reinforced delusion again?”

“She says she has a chip in her brain,” her mother sighed, “Totally ridiculous of course.”

“What sort of chip?” The deprogrammer had gone very still.

“She’s very precise about it,” her husband was still muttering indignation in the background, “She calls it a radlin data collection and analysis chip. She has all these details she’s made up to support this delusion. At least she doesn’t go around wrapping her head in foil –she says she escaped before they could implant the downloader.”

“Both of you sit down and listen to me very carefully,” said the deprogrammer and waited until they were both seated and looking at him. “Radlin chips are real. I’ve dealt with them before. That physical evidence to the court will be a scan showing one in place. If your daughter’s alive and doesn’t want to kill herself, she’s one of the lucky ones.”

“You’re as bad as she is,” her father snorted, “I expected someone sane when I asked to be referred to a deprogrammer.”

The deprogrammer rolled up his sleeve. His forearm was a mess of tiny, faded cross-shaped scars. “I got these when armed men came after a patient of mine whose parents thought he was self mutilating as part of a cult he was supposedly involved in. He’d actually cut his downloader out so they’d come after him to take him back,” he gestured vaguely, “Wherever the things were put into him. He jumped in front of me when they tried to get rid of witnesses. He’d told me that he wanted to die to stop them using him but that the only thing the chip could make you do was not kill yourself. I didn’t believe him.” He paused. “I can’t help you or your daughter, I’m sorry. I’ll send your money back of course. And be careful, very careful.”

Her parents, still semi-disbelieving, saw him out of the house in silence.

Out on the edge of territorial waters the engines thrummed, pushing propellers through the air. She took off her headphones, spoke to the pilot and to the loadmaster, then walked the length of the transport bay to click into her place in the jump stick. The ready lights came on and they all stood, then the lights were go and they were jumping into the night, their target the only light below. She knew no-one could hear her but she said it anyway. “Right, let’s go burn a chip maker.”
 

After The Party

This is a follow up to Recall.

They came home with their hired cult deprogrammer to a locked and silent house. The pool was newly and heavily chlorinated. The recycling bin was full of washed lemonade, soda water and ginger ale bottles.  The non-recycling bin was full. The house was cleaner than they’d left it and there was more toilet paper than when they’d gone out. Their daughter was gone.

“She’ll have to go on medication,” her mother said harshly, “It’s the only way to control her if she won’t obey the court’s instructions.”

“I agree,” her father surveyed her empty room. “We’ve been far too lenient. She obviously has no concern for the consequences of her actions.”

“I think you should come and read this.” It was the deprogrammer in the dining room. He was gazing at a handwritten note and two envelopes lying on the highly polished table.

The note read:

Mum and Dad,

1.      I’ve already apologised to the neighbours.

2.      Read the contents of the two envelopes under leaf, copies have gone to your solicitors.

3.      You know the ugly monstrosity Great-Aunt Maureen gave you for your wedding that no-one likes? Get it valued. Tomorrow. Seriously.

4.      Get some professional help for your need to infantilise me.

It was signed with a semi-illegible scrawl.

“She used to have such nice handwriting,” her mother sighed, “Now look at it.”

Her father opened the envelopes. “She’s gotten the confinement order overturned by a superior court.” He threw the paper down on the table. “How’d she afford the legal work for that? What’s this other one?” He exploded.  “A restraining order? Against us? How dare she!?”

“Excuse me,” the deprogrammer held the discarded paper in his hand. “This has psychiatric evidence rebutted by physical medical evidence. What’s her cult reinforced delusion again?”

“She says she has a chip in her brain,” her mother sighed, “Totally ridiculous of course.”

“What sort of chip?” The deprogrammer had gone very still.

“She’s very precise about it,” her husband was still muttering indignation in the background, “She calls it a radlin data collection and analysis chip. She has all these details she’s made up to support this delusion. At least she doesn’t go around wrapping her head in foil –she says she escaped before they could implant the downloader.”

“Both of you sit down and listen to me very carefully,” said the deprogrammer and waited until they were both seated and looking at him. “Radlin chips are real. I’ve dealt with them before. That physical evidence to the court will be a scan showing one in place. If your daughter’s alive and doesn’t want to kill herself, she’s one of the lucky ones.”

“You’re as bad as she is,” her father snorted, “I expected someone sane when I asked to be referred to a deprogrammer.”

The deprogrammer rolled up his sleeve. His forearm was a mess of tiny, faded cross-shaped scars. “I got these when armed men came after a patient of mine whose parents thought he was self mutilating as part of a cult he was supposedly involved in. He’d actually cut his downloader out so they’d come after him to take him back,” he gestured vaguely, “Wherever the things were put into him. He jumped in front of me when they tried to get rid of witnesses. He’d told me that he wanted to die to stop them using him but that the only thing the chip could make you do was not kill yourself. I didn’t believe him.” He paused. “I can’t help you or your daughter, I’m sorry. I’ll send your money back of course. And be careful, very careful.”

Her parents, still semi-disbelieving, saw him out of the house in silence.

Out on the edge of territorial waters the engines thrummed, pushing propellers through the air. She took off her headphones, spoke to the pilot and to the loadmaster, then walked the length of the transport bay to click into her place in the jump stick. The ready lights came on and they all stood, then the lights were go and they were jumping into the night, their target the only light below. She knew no-one could hear her but she said it anyway. “Right, let’s go burn a chip maker.”