Unidentified funny objec.., p.2
Unidentified Funny Objects 8, page 2
part #8 of UFO Series
Well, that's not strictly true. I had my khakis and a button-down shirt on, because when I came in, I expected to have my photo taken.
"Hello?" I called out.
There was a mechanical whine, quickly eclipsed by the roar of rockets. A rack of lights flared on, illuminating an eight-foot-tall monstrosity that could still be called humanoid if you went by silhouettes alone. Judging from the sound it made when it landed, it was five hundred pounds of metal, and its rocket boots weren't kind to the floor. I had the sinking feeling I now knew where all the slag came from. A voice came from a hidden loudspeaker.
"OO TENFORDY?"
"Uh ... what?" I said.
The face plate moved up, and beneath it was a human. He looked like he'd spent high school denting lockers with his head and kept a flawless win/loss ratio. "You made appointment online," he said, with a notable Russian accent. "You are ten-forty?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm here for the road test. I'm, uh ... I'm Amir."
"I am Cold Fusion," said the technological terror. "I control nuclear energy. Powers my suit."
He punched some buttons on his arm and a holographic screen came up with my info. "What you got? Superpowers?" He didn't seem like the kind who liked to read.
"Well, if I drink milk, I can heal injuries fast—"
"Ah, regeneration. What is upper limit?"
"Um ... it varies by organ system—"
The faceplate snapped down again over Cold Fusion's face. "WE TEST!" he yelled.
My vision flared to white for a second, and I heard a pop like both my ears got something jammed into them at the same time. I felt like I got hit in the back, but that was just me landing on the hard metal floor. My face was numb from the trauma, but after a few seconds, the agony kicked in.
"YOU HEAL BROKEN JAW?" Cold Fusion boomed.
I was in pain, but already the A-frame of my jaw, now splintered, was trying to mend itself. It burned—all the soreness a normal person has over the course of months was crammed into a few seconds for me. I made the mistake of trying to talk.
"Nuh puhblum," I said, getting a little more coherent as I spat out my four front teeth. "Ah be guud in a shepind." I looked around for my thermos, but saw nothing. I was glad I had cereal for breakfast that morning.
"YOU HEAL HEART BRUISE?"
I hesitated. I'd never tested lethal injuries. Cold Fusion took silence as a yes. But pain is a great motivator, and I managed to interpose both my forearms over my chest as his second rocket-powered punch slammed into me. Once again, I flew backward, but I only had two fractured ulnas instead of broken ribs jabbing into my internal organs.
"Are you looking for a wrongful death lawsuit?" I yelled, a little more coherently now that my jaw was healing. "This can't be standard procedure!"
The metal monstrosity clanged as it stomped toward me. "YOU SIGN RELEASE FORM. IS IN SMALL PRINT."
He reached for me, probably to pick me up and slam me into the ground, or possibly to help me to my feet. I didn't wait to find out which. I was going to impress this psycho if it was the last thing I did.
My arms were in agony, so I whirled around, simultaneously slipping his grip and executing a spinning hook kick. He was bent over a little trying to reach me, which was good, because otherwise my heel would never have reached his head. It slammed into his temple—well, his helmet—with a metallic whang.
I dislocated my ankle, but at least it was satisfying.
"YOU FIGHT BACK." Cold Fusion sounded as pleased as one could be through a speaker that Metallica would consider obnoxiously loud. "GOOD, IS PART OF TEST. KEEP FIGHT."
Gun ports in his forearms opened up, but I was already jumping out of the way when the shots came. I say that like I was polished and smooth, but the truth was, my newly dislocated ankle gave out, so after stumbling to the ground again, I tried rolling to evade him. I was certain the robotic monstrosity would hit me if I stayed still. Unfortunately, rolling with banged-up arms was arguably just as painful as the rubber bullets that slammed into me when I stopped said roll. It'd be pretty lousy power armor if it couldn't, you know, aim its arm.
The bullets hit my chest, my neck, and one broke the orbit of my left eye, as the recoil took the spray upward. Everything flashed gold, but I had so many endorphins in my system that the wonky senses didn't bother me much. The real problem, of course, was not the pain, but my deep desire for it to be over. There was no point to this. Cold Fusion would do what he liked, and there was nothing and no one that could stop him.
I got to my knees, and when he lifted me up by the hair, I used my last remaining good limb to kick him in the groin. My sneaker slapped against the power armor, but of course the armor had a codpiece that bulged outward and was pointy enough to feel like a metal fist smashing into the center of my instep.
Cold Fusion's expression was unreadable, but he cocked his helmet to the side a little. "OKAY," he boomed. "FINAL TRAUMA CHECK." With that, his armor whirred, and a spray of what I guessed was liquid nitrogen vented all over my body while he brought his fist back. Cold fusion, indeed. The fist glowed with some kind of energy that I hoped wouldn't sterilize me, and then he slugged me in the stomach. I landed twenty feet away, tumbled another ten, and couldn't breathe.
I blacked out. It might have been ten seconds, or it might have been ten minutes. All I knew was that I was frozen. I was broken. I was burnt. And he was stomping over again. His faceplate snapped up and his gauntleted hand dropped a piece of paper near my face.
"Your form. Read up," he said.
"I'm kind of seeing double right now." At least I was talking and getting oxygen into my system. "What's that say?"
"Here is, all printed and signed by office," said Cold Fusion. "You need do more."
I wasn't sure if I heard him right, because my ears were frozen rocks. "Your test is the dumbest thing I have ever experienced."
The man's blue eyes glittered. "No, I say wrong. You pass, but not superhero yet," he said. "You have superpower. You fight and not give up. Now you turn in papers at registration for metal tags. We 3D-print them. One set for home, one set for superhero identity. Here. See? All is processed."
He held the paper in front of my face. Through my good eye, I could see my name, birthdate, assets, non-secret address, patrolling location preference, and down at the bottom, the words, "PUBLIC NAME—MILK SHEIK."
I looked at the paper, and back to him. Then back at the paper.
In the distance, I heard a low roar, rising in pitch. I thought for a second it might be a police siren, but it wasn't as varied. Cold turned to the door with a look of alarm on his face as we both realized it was the air raid horns scattered throughout the city. They were usually tested on Friday afternoons at one o'clock, but it was Tuesday morning. That meant one thing, and the whole world knew it.
"That is defense alert!" Cold yelled, seeming more afraid than menacing without his speakers magnifying his voice. Lights blinked in his helmet, and I could faintly hear something coming over the radio near his ear. "Is aliens again! Morgai terror platform is flying over Bronx! All superheroes help now!"
His faceplate snapped down and his rocket boots ignited. He hovered over to a set of steel shutters and punched some buttons on his forearm. The shutters rolled open, and I could see a kind of garage, complete with a car up on a mechanic's lift, and a wall full of tools you'd use to maintain power armor. He grabbed some kind of laser attachment that definitely didn't shoot rubber bullets.
But what I focused on was that on the floor next to the open garage door was my little plastic thermos.
"YOU HEAL LIKE YOU SAY. COME FIGHT SOON AS POSSIBLE!" boomed the speakers, and Cold Fusion soared out into the parking lot and then to the sky. On the ground, I could see Kharis the battle goddess conjuring a wind that lifted her, and Coffin Nail huffing his way over to an armored Humvee with a turret on the top. That guy in samurai armor sprinted past Nail and jumped into the turret while Nail took the wheel. Every detail after that was lost in the multitude of heroes running, jumping, teleporting, and driving toward the imminent danger.
Me, I limped to the thermos, opened it, and stuck the plastic spout between my broken teeth.
After a little sucking, the pain in my body eased, and heated me up as I burned energy to heal. A minute or two later, my ankle and arms faded back to a comfortable soreness. My mouth stung as new teeth formed and pushed their way through my gums. I'd probably need braces again, which prompted me to question whether or not I was really serious about going outside.
I couldn't fly. I didn't own a laser gun, or even a normal gun. My sole contribution would be running out onto the battlefield and getting sniped by particle beams, no doubt playing possum in the hopes that I could maybe kick an alien in the head if it got really close. If my own brains got splattered in the street, I might heal and come back dumber. Or I'd just die.
I would not be a hero. I would be a joke. The Milk Sheik.
I went back to the processing department, figuring I knew what sidekicks and such did in times like this. I'd find civilians and encourage them to take cover in the testing chamber. But the department was empty. I saw the liquid metal mom ushering the last civilian into a storm-cellar-like shelter, way ahead of me even with a bucket in her arms holding her liquid metal toddler. I limped after her, and she yanked the door shut behind us.
The rest of the day was endless. We watched news, worried about loved ones, kept quiet when we heard nearby gunfire. I waited for someone confined with us to need a doctor. No one did. My abiding memory of helping during that time is loaning out my thermos of milk. Because, you know, toddler.
When we emerged into the light, I crumpled up my AUSL-33/b form and threw it in the trash.
In case you're wondering, Mom approved.
Three and a half years later, I was running an internal medicine practice in the Bronx, focused on oncology. My family was proud, I never lacked for patients, and it beat bacterial work. That day I was in the examination room with a Mrs. Alyona Brusilova.
The first thing I noticed about her was that she looked dangerously thin, taking up only about half of her wheelchair. Alyona's hair was bone-white, making her look much older than the reported age we had in our database: she was supposed to be only sixty-six. She was also pale, more so than the younger man standing behind her, a towering sort of guy I would have cast in a boxing movie as the nigh-invincible heavy. He was wearing overalls, like he didn't care much about fashion; Alyona, for her part, was in pajamas. I was pretty sure he was her son.
"Thank you for seeing her so soon," said the large man. "Last night, she collapse. Emergency room doctors take blood. They get results to you?"
"Yes," I said. These poor people were probably up all night. "Mrs. Brusilova, we've got your white and red blood cell counts here, along with many of your enzymes. The results are ... well, we often see these numbers in patients with chronic leukemia."
Alyona looked at me confused, but then she and her son spoke a lot of rapid-fire Russian. She nodded, and suddenly said very little.
"She understands," said the big man. "Do you need more tests?"
"Yes," I said, "it would help to do a bone marrow biopsy. If you could get her into a hospital gown for the examination, we can get that underway."
"I help," said the son, and a vague memory stirred in me. It nagged at my mind as I waited in the hall, and when the man emerged from the room, clicking the door behind him, I wanted to bring it up.
"Is she okay in there?" I asked.
"She is scared, but she is strong. More than me. I cannot lose my mother."
I nodded. "I don't think I caught your name."
"Misha," he said.
"Misha, is she still employed, or is she retired?"
"Employed," he said immediately. "We work in government. She is at Department of Motor Vehicles. I am at superhero registration."
That brought it all back. I said to him in a low voice, "Cold Fusion?"
He looked taken aback. "Yes," he said. "Tell no one real name. Understand?"
"Of course," I said automatically.
His voice trembled a little. "Do you think ... I cause her cancer? With nuclear energy?"
"Well, no," I said, clarifying quickly, "We don't know everything yet. You're a potential cause, but it's just one of several. There's genetic history to be considered, and then there's the Morgai factor." Misha looked blank. I filled in the gaps. "You know all the buildings that got vaporized in the battle over the Bronx, right?"
He shrugged. "We got off easy. Better than last invasion."
"Yeah," I said. "I saw the footage." Of course I did. Everyone not still in utero had seen the footage, heard the story, watched the cartoon. Some teleporting guy named Doctor Awesome got Coffin Nail into the engine room of the terror platform where he melted stuff, and sploosh—there was one more mothership in the Hudson River. Kharis Promakhos had dueled some bigwig or other to get him to leave Earth alone, which if you ask me, was much more convenient than having the United Nations negotiate an armistice.
Just to put the cherry on top, Doctor Awesome joined her latest supergroup, the Unlimited. Every Halloween, I see kids in my office dressed in his merchandise.
"What you say about buildings?" Misha asked.
"Sorry." I came back to Earth, so to speak. "All the dust and asbestos and gunk got into the air. Breathing that causes lung problems. Ugly problems. Silicosis, lead and mercury toxicity, pulmonary fibrosis, and of course, cancers. So it's highly likely you didn't do this."
He nodded, but he looked down nervously. That didn't scan: he should have been relieved. I added, "That's probably not your real question, is it?"
"Yes," Misha said. "I want to know what you do."
"I promise you, we've seen this sort of thing before. We can isolate probable causes and then we'll work on a treatment plan."
He nodded, though he looked as lost as I've ever seen a person. "Is there cure for her kind? My friend fight villain Coffin Nail after he go nuts. He breathe in smoke, got worst cancer I ever hear of. His funeral ... very sad."
I tried to give a truthful answer, rather than sell false hope or drop into false fear. "Well, my office specializes in diseases like this. Due to an awareness campaign we ran with metahumans donating regenerating tissues, we understand a lot more about biomedical engineering solutions to unchecked cellular division than we did just a few years ago." My tissues, mostly. Even other regenerating heroes weren't fond of cutting off salami-thin slices of their own flesh. But me ... I like science.
Misha's brow furrowed. "I not understand quite what you say."
I simplified my language. "There are some treatments my office has worked on that are very promising. We can now, uh ... we've got a really good success rate."
It was then I saw a light behind his eyes. Not literally, of course. What I mean is, Cold Fusion didn't give a crap about nuance. He grabbed me in a bear hug that, to my surprise, didn't hurt at all.
"I understand," he said. "You are awesome doctor."
Chris Hepler has recently created the Seasun Comics series Mythkillers and the novel Civil Blood: The Vampire Rights Case That Changed a Nation. He has previously contributed to the universes of Mass Effect, Star Wars: The Old Republic, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Shadowrun. He dreads the day when actual space marines, Jedi, pirates, and troll mercenaries will show up on his doorstep to tell him that he doesn't know what he's talking about.
Soul Trade
Galen Westlake
Dominus the Vexatious tapped his computer mouse and cursed the screen for the ninth time—real curses with unholy hissing, not the language the mortals used for emphasis or to look cool amongst their peers. But the arch-devil’s soul portfolio only sank deeper, its value eroding before his infernal gaze.
“I tell you, Valhernius,” he said to his lesser servant demon, “this cannot be!”
“Aye, most despicable one,” answered the small amorphous blob of tentacles. “The television reports this is the greatest soul recession since the invention of pacifism.”
“I don’t care what the devils say on TV. I’ve been on TV. I know it’s nothing but lies. Gaze upon this!” The tall fiery fiend brandished a scroll of glowing parchment before Valhernius with his clawed hand. “It’s a contract for one soul. One soul! How in damnation can its value drop below one? There’s no such thing as a tenth of a soul!”
“Forgive me, most horrid of horrids!” said Valhernius. “But what you say is exactly right. It is not a soul but a contract. And right now, it’s in default. They all are!”
“Those blasphemous soul brokers assured me these contracts were too dastardly to fail.”
“Junk souls, my lord of lies,” answered the diminutive demon. “Our souls were all packaged into bonds. Our quality murderers and thieves were mixed with the lesser tainted. Questionable souls: those who plagiarized book reports, or peeked at cards in cribbage.” He could not meet his master’s gaze. “Redeemable souls. We’ve been buying risk for decades!”
Realization dawned upon Dominus like a fiery sun. “I’ve got to sell. Sell it all now—before there’s nothing left to save!”
“The Infernal Consumer Bureau warns against panic selling, most vile one. The more devils who jump out now, the worse it’s going to become.”
“If the hells think we’re going to suddenly prioritize unity over self-interest they are sadly mistaken. We didn’t invent the concept of betrayal for nothing.”
