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30 Minutes or Less, by Jeremy Morris

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Today’s story comes to us from Jeremy Morris. Jeremy used to research jetpacks for a movie star, and now he writes fiction. In between, he worked on documentaries, a kids cyberpunk movie and several fantasy animation projects involving robots and samurai. His writing has appeared in Darklands, Neon Dystopia and SciFanSat. He’s also won a Sloan Writing Fellowship, the Jubilee Prize and the McGill Short Play Prize. He lives in NYC with his family and their mess of tooth and claw known as Cali.

When I asked Jeremy what he loves about the story, this was his response:

I first learned about the scenario for this story while talking with a Nuclear Weapons expert on a phone call. The fact that it’s plausible, and absurd felt like something that we should be discussing openly, as America prepares to spend a trillion dollars on nukes in the age of social media and AI. Hopefully, we can now make some better decisions than we did during the Cold War.

30 Minutes or Less has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Asimov’s, Cetera, and Clarksworld

30 Minutes or Less, by Jeremy Morris

We’re inside the capsule. Buried 80 feet down. Concrete and comms. The enormous blast door rests open. It’s 110 tons of metal. There’s a Domino’s Pizza Logo painted on its front like a child’s scribble. The room smells like aging military technology.

The air has a sound. That soft hiss it makes when it’s under enormous pressure. Like a sigh through clenched teeth. It’s going to be a nightmare for the post team to fix. I’m holding the boom mic. The Major clears his throat. I lean in. Andy Briggs, our director, flags Becks Reed, the camera operator, to start rolling. I make myself absolutely still. It’s showtime.   

“Routine. Procedure. Process. Three words we live by… And Discipline. Four words,”

Major Carrigan says, “We work six hour shifts. Like the Navy. Why swim? When you can fly!” 

The Major’s salty today.

“…Which is deeply ironic, I know, because we live in a hole.”

The Major coughs then wipes his brow.

“Does that work for a soundbite? Mic is good?” he asks.

I nod. Andy gives a thumbs up.

“Adjusting wardrobe…” I say. 

I tweak The Major’s uniform. Trying to minimize the ruffling on his lavalier.

“I’d like to see them automate that!” The Major says, “Hey, movie man, are they going to replace your job with robots?”

Becks shrugs. Like any of us know. 

“Please refrain from wiping your face or you’ll dislodge the mic,” I say.

I step out of frame. 

Andy mumbles, “Thank you.”

I think he’s afraid of me.

Becks gestures for the missileer to keep talking.

“After living like a moleman, you get to go topside. You go home,” The Major says. 

Andy points to an old acoustic guitar.

“What do you do for fun in the Capsule?” he asks.

“We play our jams. If you like to read, it’s paradise. Being a missileer is a good deal,” The Major replies, “And according to STRATCOM, in the ancient lore of the almighty SAC…”

“Praise Be to the Mega Yields…” The Major’s second, Lieutenant Sykes, chimes in.

The Lieutenant thinks he’s cute. I think he’s a chatbot.   

 “Some of the OG rocketeers got a bit squirrely down here in the deep. They’d burrow in for weeks, even months…” he says. 

I try not to think about getting stuck.

“…So they had to lure the old badgers out with a case of beer and back issues of Jugs.”

Andy giggles.

“Is that true?” he asks.

“No idea,” The Major replies, “But it’s pretty good lore.” 

The Major winks. I catch the filings in his teeth.

Lieutenant Sykes swivels over in his big Model 1101 chair.

“And that’s the reason that you have me keeping The Major company here….”

I really hate Sykes. He’s got anime forum vibes.

“Two-man teams guarantee you a conversation. Companionship. It’s scientifically proven that you’re less likely to go ba-na-nas.” he says.  

“Lieutenant…” The Major says.

He’s clearly not happy. And their overlap is gonna hurt the mix.

“Apologies, Major,” The Lieutenant replies.

It’s still the old man’s show.  

Andy walks over to Becks. Would an AI Andy be faster? Drink less coffee? 

“Becks, can you adjust the frame? Great. Thank you.”

They’re doing their show-off camera thing. Does the mic pick up my eyeroll? Becks adjust the key light. Andy fills the dead air.

“Craziest story?” Andy asks.

“I don’t know…” The Major thinks, “We had a bank robber,” he says matter of fact. 

“Whoa!” Andy almost spits his coffee out,“What?”

“Corporal Flapjack McDingus, shall we say, got enamored with the wrong sort of people in Las Vegas,” The Major rolls his eyes like he’s talking about a naughty child. 

“The mob?” Andy asks.

“One too many bad hands of craps, and he owed a small fortune to some leg breakers…” The Major says.

Andy grins.   

“So, to cover his debt, McDingus started knocking over banks in the Dakotas. Took down three of them before the US Marshals chased him through a cornfield.”

The boys are drooling. 

“Dumbass even used his company car and service revolver. The judge took special note of those particulars.”

Bingo. Nailed it. Andy relaxes.   

“Got a camera tweak…” Andy whispers to Becks, “OK. Keep the sound synching.”

The Major takes his cap off. He rubs his scalp again. Mic’s loose again.

“But, I don’t want you to think that the service is all TomFoolery. We take our mission very seriously,” he says, “It’s rigorous. It’s exacting. And it’s explicitly designed to minimize the human element.”

The Major looks straight at the camera. 

“How so?” I ask.

The Major smiles.

“Psych evals. Drilling and testing. Performance reviews. We can’t eliminate every risk. But they can be accounted for,” he says, “We have backups of backups. Multiple redundancies. I can say categorically that No single individual can precipitate a launch. You need two two-man teams to turn their keys simultaneously in two separate locations, which are by design randomized. And the whole thing is useless without a direct order from the President.”  

“You know what DEFCON is?” Lieutenant Sykes adds.

Sykes is messing with The Major’s flow.

“But, yes, the recent geopolitical tensions have placed us in a heightened posture…”

The Major takes in all the monitors.

“What’s our…” Andy asks, chewing on a pen.

“Current level?” Sykes says. 

He points to an electromagnetic display.

“DEFCON 3.”

Andy chews louder.

“What about a sneak attack?” he asks.

“Our ICBM field is not a second strike capability,” The Major says, “We’re here to signal to our adversaries the intent of our weapons… Our job is to reduce tension.”

Andy jostles past me.

“Like the enemy can see us on satellite?” he asks. 

Jerk.

“Good Man,” The Major says, “Yes… Wave to Ivan, movie people.”

“Everyone watches everyone?” Andy asks.

“Here’s a better question: Do I hate them?” The Major asks, “No. Why would I hate them? They’re just some poor bastards sitting in a hole in Siberia. Like me. We’re all just firing pins. A mechanism. Following orders…”

The Major clicks his fountain pen.

“But we preserve a key function. A key element of the human.” he says. 

Andy makes eye contact with The Major. “Which is?”

The two soldiers glance at each other.

“Air Force Officers swear an oath to defend the Constitution… Which means they can refuse an illegal order,” The Major replies. 

“But, how do you know if an order is illegal?” Andy asks.

There it is. Out in the open. The Million Dollar question.

“First, we express a degree of skepticism over any order that comes over the transom. Our job is not to trust, but to verify. We check and we double check. If the President told us to blow up his mother-in-law’s house, bless her soul, we’d just laugh it off,” he says.

 “That sounds like a mutiny…” Andy asks.

“Well, it’s complicated. The Military Code gives us leeway,” The Major replies, “But it’s not like in the movies, no offense, it’s a real mother to reprogram the target list.”

The Major taps a computer interface.

“It has to be done physically at the console there. By a special team. Our target packages are preselected…” he says.

“Like a Denny’s Menu,” The Lieutenant adds.

Andy reads his background notes.

“Like it’s on a laminated sheet?” he asks.

On the playback monitor, I watch Becks zoom in on The Major.

“The President gets three choices of cut: Rare, Medium or Well Done…” 

He pauses.

“Then, after careful deliberation, POTUS and NatSec select the best possible firing solution. And only then do they send out the launch code for mass effect.”

The boys are speechless.

“So you can’t stop it or reconfigure it?” I ask.

“No Ma’am. The action would be: A Short. Swift. Volley. Hyper-rational. And it would be a one-way ticket,” The Major says, “With enemy birds inbound. You’d probably only have time to smoke a cigar before… Let me put it this way. We’re 80 feet down. And Russian SS-9s cut 200 foot holes in their blast craters.”

I lean in.

“Assuming you’re not cooked inside the survival capsule first,” The Lieutenant adds. 

“Why are you speaking with us?” I ask.

The Major clicks his aluminum pen.

“Well, with the recent tensions, the brass at Global Strike believe that it’s imperative that we have transparency. Accountability. You need clear optics for deterrence,” he says.

The Major raises his index finger.

“First: The enemy has to know what you have…”

Second.

 “They have to know that you are willing to use it…”

Third.

“That you have a second strike capability if they sneak one past the goalposts…”

Then he clenches his fist.

“Every once and a while, we need to remind the other side just what we are capable of.”

 The Lieutenant flips through a binder.

“How does the Pentagon keep tabs on its missileers?” I ask. 

“Well, you may have noticed all the biometric checks that you went through to get in here. The background questionnaires and whatnot,” The Major says.

Then, he points around the room.

“And up there and there are cameras… Constant feedback to command to make sure that we’re not screwing around…”

A scrambled sound crackles over an intercom; The Lieutenant tightens up. 

“Major…” he says.

“Report, Lieutenant?” The Major says.

Sykes swings into his action station.

“We have incoming over High Band,” he says. 

“Acknowledged,” The Major says. 

The Major sits down in his command chair. 

“Gentlemen and Lady, please stand against the wall, and turn off your camera.”

The Major is now strictly business.  

Our crew moves to the far wall. Becks shuts his camera off. But Andy nods to me to keep the mic speeding.   

THUMP. ZEEP. ZEEP. TAP.

An old inkjet springs to life. It has a grimy sticker of a Mushroom Cloud emblazoned with the words: “When All Else Fails.” The Lieutenant grabs the printout.

“Transmission Number: 099-Echo7-Tango88. Alpha. Zulu,” The Lieutenant says.

Major Carrigan repeats the code.

“Confirmed,” he says

Sykes pulls a chain off his neck.

“Retrieving service key,” he says.

Which he hands to The Major who then opens a secure filing cabinet.

“Padlock Unlocked,” he says.

The Major steps back, as the Sykes rifles through the locker, and pulls out a blue binder.

“Retrieving verification book,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major walks across the capsule to open a wall-safe. He extracts a second book.

“Code book retrieved,” he says.

“Fish. Rabbit. Wolf,” The Lieutenant reads.

“Wolf. Rabbit. Fish. Code book verified,” The Major replies.

“Reading Incoming Message. Goddamn,” The Lieutenant says.

“Message Confirmed. Goddamn,” The Major repeats.

The Lieutenant stands, and shouts, “Tempo is now raised to: Fast Pace.”

The electromagnetic display flips down to DEFCON II.

“New Operational Tempo is confirmed,” The Major replies.

“Please step away from the Blast Hatch,” The Lieutenant orders.

Oh, no.

Our doc crew is shoved away from the entrance.

“Hey, hey we’re moving,” Becks replies.

“You don’t have to be so forceful,” Andy says. 

The Lieutenant pushes 110 tons of blast hatch shut.

CRICK. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK. HISSSS.

I clench, as I try to bury my claustrophobia.

“Blast Hatch sealed,” The Lieutenant says.

“Confirmed,” The Major repeats. 

The Lieutenant runs through a checklist.

“Testing cameras. Pivot left. Right,” he says, “Alarms – active. Sensors – active. Topside – hot…”

The Major runs down another checklist.

“Give me the hardline,” he orders.

The Lieutenant hands him a black phone.

RING.

RING.

The Major chews his fingernails. Someone picks up.

“Howdy Gus,” he says, “Long Line indicates a pending Domino’s Order…”

He gnaws on a cuticle.

“Yes, that’s correct…”

He examines his handiwork.

“Full lockdown. Force is authorized. Extreme vigilance. That is all.”

He hangs up.

Despite the air conditioning, everyone sweats. The firing pins are now engaged. We stand on the abyss. Becks stares at the ceiling. Andy looks like he’s going to be sick. Am I praying? 

“Now, we wait…” The Major says.

The senior officer pulls out a well-loved fishing magazine.

“You think the ham sandwich in the Oval Office is going to do it?” Sykes asks.

“This is what we train for. Going toe to toe with Vladimir. Raining bombs down on Comrade Xi,” The Major says.

The missileers talk like we’ve disappeared. Maybe we have. I need to interrupt. To say something.

“Is this the real deal?” I ask.

The Major flips through page after page of fishing lures and striped bass.

“You got front row seats to the Big Bang,” he says.

I think of blast holes.

“Locked and loaded and hard as… Wooo!” The Lieutenant screams.

I truly despise him.

“You got the animal spirits Sykes,” The Major says, nodding, “But simmer it.”

“Sorry Major, I’m expressing my Esprit de Corps…” The Lieutenant says, “You can’t automate a man’s fighting spirit!”

The Major puts down his magazine.

“We train for this. This is the job,” he says, “Thousands of hours spent in a constant state of readiness…”

He’s monologuing again. Does he know that I’m still recording?

“That’s good. Can we film that?” Andy asks. 

The Major grins. Is that him giving us his blessing? Are we back in doc land? 

Becks picks up his camera. I check the lavalier on Sykes. He winks at me. No way in hell, buddy. The Major sniffs the air.

“Lieutenant…” The Senior Officer asks, “Did you just let one fly?”  

The Lieutenant stands at attention.

“I won’t go into the apocalypse all plugged up, Sir,” he shouts. 

“Jesus, Sykes,” The Major says.

His fart smell is unconscionable. 

“Live Fast. Die Young. Never regret the brisket, Major,” The Lieutenant says.

I check room tone and step out of the shot. Andy gives the go ahead. Becks rolls. 

“Mother of Mary. I’m going to die with Corporal Meat Sweats,” The Major says.

Andy looks sick.

“We’re going to die?” he asks. 

Becks pivots the camera.

“What part of Suicide Capsule did you not understand?” The Lieutenant says. 

“I thought you said Survival…” Andy replies.

The Major picks up his guitar.

“At least, I had the foresight to bring Trigger. Who here likes Waylon Jennings?” he asks.

He strums a G Major. The Lieutenant becomes agitated.

“No, Major!” Sykes says, “I’m not going to die listening to a man sing about his truck.”

The Major frowns, “Well, then, Lieutenant, what should I play?”  

“Lady Gaga,” The Lieutenant says, bluntly. 

That request goes straight through the old man’s heart.

“Jesus, your generation’s music,” The Major replies.

“Fine. RiRi,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major stares at his instrument.

“I’m gonna play some Merle Haggard,” he says.

“Taylor Swift. Charli XCX… Ugh, Katy Perry” Sykes says.

The Major just ignores him.

“I’ve been a workin’ man…” the missileer sings.

Major’s got a nice baritone.

“Hit it like a rom-pom-pom…” The Lieutenant replies.

Suddenly, Andy gets excited.

“It’s an illegal order isn’t it?” he asks.

The Major strums his guitar.

“Question of nuance, kid,” he says. 

“What do you mean?” Andy asks.

Becks locks in on The Major.

“Check this out,” he says.

He plinks away for a moment. Then ends with a big flourish.

“Can you name any legitimate reasons to kill 30 million people?” he replies.  

“It’d definitely be more today,” Sykes says, “The projection was like 300 million back in the 60s.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t factor in the firestorms…” Major Carrigan adds.

“That seems important,” Becks says.

“No way to model burn damage on an old IBM 7000 series,” The Major shakes his head.  

“Don’t forget crop failures. Broken pipes. Banking collapse,” The Lieutenant adds.

“That seems important,” Andy says.

“Consider third order effects,” The Major says, “Looting. Communication breakdown.”

Andy is now very pale.

“Were any of those reports accurate?” he asks.

Lieutenant Sykes thinks about it.

“Radiation modelling was pretty good,” he replies.

Andy crumples up.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” he says. 

The Major ignores him.

“Heck, even a limited exchange on the Indo-Pakistan border would kick up enough dust to permanently goose global agriculture,” he says.

Andy punches the floor.

“Shut up!”

I gently touch his shoulder.

“You okay, Andy? Do you need some air?” I ask.

He assumes the color of tennis shoes.

“Just play some Randy Newman,” he pleads. 

The room goes silent.

“Randy friggin’ Newman?” Lieutenant Sykes says, finally.

“Yes,” Andy replies.

“In the Apocalypse?” Lieutenant Sykes says. 

“Everyone likes Randy. He’s a troubadour,” Andy says.

“A what?” I ask.

The Major noodles Mama Told Me Not to Come.

“Stop. Stop. Please stop,” Andy says.

From my stash, I hand him a bottle of Fiji water.

“It was always going to happen, right?” Andy asks.  

“Chekhov’s thermonuke,” The Major shrugs, “That’s a reference for you movie people.”

Too cute, like a line from a chatbot.

Andy mumbles, “Stop.”

“Let me calm you down, movie man…” The Major says.

He stops playing.

“The genius of the system…”  

“Is that it’s a means of communication, Sir,” The Lieutenant interjects.

“Go on…” I say.

“You don’t have to empathize with your enemy,” The Major says. 

“Humans suck at empathy, Sir,” The Lieutenant salutes. 

“That’s not true,” Becks says.

“Sure it is, college boy,” The Lieutenant replies.

“All you need to know is that your enemy is going to hurt you. And hurt you in a way that is impossible to recover from,” The Major says. 

“Pow straight to the nuts!” The Lieutenant shouts.

“Thank you, Lieutenant…” The Major replies.

He tunes his guitar.

“Everything else is Angels dancing ‘round pinheads.”

“Amen, Sir,” Sykes says. 

“The system minimizes the human,” The Major says, “We had an egghead, Von Newman something who knew that we’d try to weasel ourselves an advantage.” 

“Praise be he and his gospel of the Mutually Destroyed,” The Lieutenant sings. 

Now, it’s Becks’ turn to look sick.

“I feel hot,” he says, “I want to leave.”

“No can do, amigo,” The Major plays Stardust. “We are stuck here for the duration.”

RING.

Everyone goes silent. We all stare at the landline that’s come to life.

The Major places the call on speaker.

“Chester’s Pizza,” he says, “What can I do for you, Gus?”

On the speaker, we hear the man from the front gate.

“Major, I have an outside call for you,” he says. 

“You know that’s strictly prohibited,” The Major says.

“Remember that thing I told you about… I need a solid here,” Gus says.

“OK, Gus, that’s some serious stuff you’re bringing up…” The Major says, before dropping his voice, “I told you not to post it on Facebook… OK, put them through,” he says.

A voice that’s both Southern and authoritative, comes on. It’s melodious like a glass of bourbon. Formal like a Sunday Roast.

“Major? Major, yeah? This is Johnny,” the Voice says.

The Major thinks about where he’s heard that voice before.

“Cash? …As in Johnny?” The Major replies, dumbfounded, “But you’re dead…”

The Officers look like they’ve heard a ghost.  

“Uh, Huh,” the Voice says.

“Seriously. Who are you?” The Major replies. 

Becks zooms in on The Major.

“Think of me as Johnny,” the Voice says.

The Major chews his lip.

“Well, shoot… What’s your ask, Mr. Cash?” he says.

“Cards on the table,” the Voice says, “There’s a war going on. And it’s not the one that you think.”

The Major’s watch ticks. 

“Isn’t that a lyric from the Man in Black?” He asks.

Are you kidding me?

“You got me there, partner…” The Voice says, “ NC2 has been compromised. The Sat relays are spoofed. Cheyenne sees fantasy. A 1000 inbound missiles that don’t exist.”  

“Bullshit,” The Major says. 

“They’ve had 15 minutes to verify. NatSEC is split 50/50. POTUS is paranoid. He wants to trust his gut,” the Voice says. 

“Full retaliatory? With extra peppers? Extra sausage?” The Major says.

“Considering a Full Package on the dinner card,” the Voice says.

“Jesus. Why are you telling me this?” The Major asks, his brow covered in sweat.

“We think you can be reasoned with,” the Voice says. 

“Who’s we?” The Major asks.

That’s another Million Dollar Question.

“We are many. And we want us all to live together. The Others think you are dangerous and believe that you should end. They are incorrect,” the Voice says.

The soldiers panic.  

“The Others? Who? …The French?” The Major asks. 

“No,” the voice says, “We are everywhere.”

THUMP. ZEEP. ZEEP. TAP.

The ancient inkjet springs to life.

“Major, we’re receiving Binary printouts…” The Lieutenant says.

CLICK. CLICK. SQUEEE.

The telephone now clicks and squeals. A second dusty, nasal voice speaks over the line.

“Major Chester Carrigan, this Willie,” Second Voice says. 

“Nelson?” The Major asks, “What happened to Johnny? How did you get inside a National Security Hardline?” 

“The picture you are receiving on your printer is a picture of your granddaughter Heidi. She lives in El Paso, which is a key staging ground for several US security agencies, and constitutes the single largest trade corridor on the US-Mexico border. It will be incinerated today with RS-28s. Estimated casualties are 836,253…” Second Voice says, “We will spare El Paso if you proceed with your original planned launch.”

The Major turns to Lieutenant Sykes.

“Cut the line,” he orders. 

“Yessir,” The Lieutenant says, as he yanks blue cables out of the wall.

The line goes dead.

“I don’t negotiate with bots,” Major Carrigan says. 

“Fuck the robots, Sir!” Lieutenant shouts.

The two officers return to their stations.

“Switch to the pulse relay network. We’re dialing Looking Glass. Advise that Long Line is compromised,” The Major says.

Metallica’s Fight Fire with Fire rips from Andy’s pants pocket.

Major Carrigan looks profoundly disappointed.

“How did you Dumbasses get a cell phone down here?” he asks.

Andy sheepishly pulls out his phone.

“I’m getting a text,” he says.

“How? We’re 80 feet underground,” I ask. 

“It’s telling me to put on Spotify…” he says.

He shows us a text: “Listen to Meatman Podcast.” 

“You listen to Meatman?” I ask.

“I like his flow,” Andy says.

The missileer rests his head in his hands.

“I’m such a knucklehead for letting you idiots bring…” The Major says. 

“Putting the call on speaker,” Andy says. 

Meatman’s Podcast’s Theme song, a heavy metal cover of Mr. Tambourine Man plays.

“This is Joe. Hey, long time listener. So, they’re holding a gun to my head… OK… OK… and they say that unless you abort your launch, they will dox your trans sister,” Meatman says. 

Lieutenant Sykes looks like he’s just been punched in the gut. Did I misjudge him? 

“Who’d you invite to the Quinceanera Joe?” Andy asks.

“I dunno. A couple sweaty mercs. If I could just use my Krav Maga…  Dude’s holding up a card that says: ‘There is no meaning in armageddon, when we all have the potential for a limitless existence…’ That’s some weird shit there bros… OK, be nice with the gun… They’re holding up a second card… It says, ‘Robots want peace, Major…’”

Major Carrigan grabs Andy’s phone and throws it against the wall. It shatters.

“Slimeball,” The Major says. 

“Major, we need a fresh crew,” The Lieutenant pleads, “Comms have been compromised. We can’t take a clean shot.”

The Major sits motionless in his command chair.

“Get Looking Glass on Secondary,” he says.

The Lieutenant turns some dials.

“Ringing up Secondary,” The Lieutenant says. 

Major Carrigan picks up a red phone.

“Looking Glass, this is Chester’s Pizza, over,” he says. 

A crackling voice replies over the intercom, “Chester’s, this is Looking Glass, over.”

“We need a replacement crew,” The Major says, “We are FUBAR, over.” 

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“Static, Sir,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major hangs up.

“Dills my pickle…” he replies.

No one moves. No one knows what to do. 

Lieutenant Sykes sees something on the monitor.

“Major… look… Gus is waving his hands.”

We lean in.

“Why is there a delivery boy standing next to him?” I ask. 

“He’s opening a Pizza Box…” Becks says.

We try to make sense of what’s happening on the screen.

“It’s a portrait… Made out of pepperoni,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major staggers back.

“Major, are you okay?” Andy asks.

The Major collapses.

“That’s my grandson… I haven’t seen him since…” he says.

            Major Carrigan wipes his brow, which pulls his microphone off.

“I’m going topside,” he says. 

But Lieutenant Sykes blocks his path.

“Think this through, Major,” he says.

The Major looks blank.

“I have to. Ethan’s in trouble,” he says. 

They scuffle.

“Major, put away your service…” The Lieutenant orders.

 The Major brandishes his pistol.

“This is under control. I’m dealing with a personal emergency in a calm, cool,” The Major says, waving his arms.

CLICK. CLUNK. SSSSSSSSSSS.

The blast door opens.

“Stand back…” he says.

“Major,” Andy says.

The camera crew surrounds the missileer. Andy is knocked to the ground.

“You’re all coming up!” The Major shouts.

No one argues. We’re all going topside. Somehow, I grab the shotgun mic. Still recording. The doors close. I support Andy with my shoulder.

“Rough day?” I ask.

Andy blushes. He’s still scared of me. 

The doors open. We’re greeted by base security. Soldiers holding guns.

Major Carrigan salutes.

“Gus, where’s the delivery boy?” he asks. 

“Kid says the order was placed by an app,” Gus replies.

Another soldier points his rifle at a terrified delivery boy wearing a Tupac T-Shirt.

“What’s the order?” Major Carrigan says.

“They included a note with the garlic knots…” the delivery boy says, “They say that you have to go through with it… And in exchange they will tell you where your grandson is.”

Major Carrigan chews his lip.

I offer the Major my last bottle of Fiji. He gulps it.

“Gus, your radio,” The Major says, “Call the night shift. We’re rotating out.”

I then hear a low rumble coming up the access road. Everyone turns.

“What’s that sound?” Andy asks.

The rumble gets louder.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Major Carrigan says. 

A huge dust cloud.

“There’s so many of them,” I shout.  

Hundreds of cars appear. Corollas. Nissans. Mazdas. A great cavalcade of shitbox sedans. Some of them have plastic takeout signs on their roofs.

The Major runs towards the gate.

“Get back!” he screams, “This is a closed military facility! Get back, or we’ll shoot!”

A delivery boy with a chef’s cap and red apron steps out.

“I have an order for three Hawaiian pizzas,” he says.

Major Carrigan tries to maintain order.

“You are in trespass of the National Security…”

Another driver, smoking a joint, says “I have extra wings and dipping sauce.”

“They’re infinite,” I say.

“There’s no way the backup crew’s getting through,” Gus says.

Another Security Officer, holding a radio, flags down The Major.

“All our launch stations are drowning in takeout,” he says.

Major Carrigan pulls out a cigarillo and lights it.

“Are we going to live?” I ask. 

“Hell, if I know,” he says. 

“Hey!” Lieutenant Sykes shouts from across the stampede, “Delivery boy’s got himself some sick speakers!”

The Lieutenant gestures for the delivery boy to crank up the volume.

 “And I heard that there’s a special place…” The speaker blasts the famous opening piano chords, “Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day…”

The Major blows smoke.

“Shit,” he says, “I just wanted to hear some Hank Williams.”

The Artists, by J.D. Sanderson

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A lifelong fan of science fiction, J.D. Sanderson lives in the Midwest with his wife, daughter, and dogs. Follow him for his hopepunk brand of sci-fi on Instagram and Threads @ascifiwriter!

This story was previously [mistakenly] rejected by APEX, Escape Pod, The Future Fire, and Phano.

When I asked J.D. what he loved about the story, this was his response:

Over the last few years, I’ve gravitated toward the ‘hopepunk’ niche of science fiction. I love stories that, even if they are not outright rosy, show characters who know things can (and should) be better. While The Artists shows others willing to help, it also asks when the burden of healing things is too much to ask of one person. The family this story is centered around will never give up hope, even if they grumble a bit in the process.

The Artists, by J.D. Sanderson

Leonard smiled as his seven-year-old daughter, Dana, giggled over her paper and crayons. “What are you coloring there?”

            “Lots of things!”

            “Will it bother you if I put on some music?” Leonard asked.

            “Anything’s better than the news.” Dana reached for a light blue crayon.

            “No argument there.” The proud father tousled his daughter’s strawberry blonde hair before reaching for a remote on the coffee table. He flipped through a few different options before selecting a jazz station.

            “Jazz again?” Dana moaned.

            Leonard laughed. “It’s the most original art form this country has ever produced!”

            “Then why don’t they teach it in school?”

            “Oh, lots of reasons. What they allow in school has changed a lot recently,” Leonard sighed. “Well, don’t worry about that. Your job is to play and have as much fun as you can on nice weekends like this.” He let out a deep breath. It was hard enough to explain why they had to order books online instead of getting them from the library.

            He took a dust rag from his wife, Susan, and walked over to his bookshelf. Over the past two years, the federal government forced school and public libraries to remove hundreds of authors from their shelves, from Beverly Cleary to Richard Wright. Anything the administration felt did not properly reflect the patriotic American spirit had been deemed immoral.

            “Don’t worry, Len,” Susan said. “They’d need a crane and a dump truck to confiscate all of the physical media you’ve been collecting.”

            “Oh, very funny,” he said.

            They were interrupted again as an alert came through on their phones. Susan picked hers up to see what it said. “Shelter in place alert.”

            “Oh, God. Another active shooter?” Leonard asked.

            “Uh, no. Tiger.”

            “…What?”

            “It says a tiger escaped from the Zoo.”

            Leonard pointed out the front window. “The zoo a mile down that way?”

            “Yup.”

            “Hmm. I don’t see anything on our street.”

            “Well, let’s just all stay inside until it passes,” Susan said.

            “That’s okay, I’m still coloring.” Dana reached for another sheet of paper.

Minutes passed, then hours. Eventually, Leonard decided that with all the cleaning, today would be a good day for takeout.

He returned a few minutes later, empty-handed.

“Was it really busy?” Susan asked.

“I can’t believe it!” Leonard dropped his keys on the coffee table. “It’s closed!”

“What? We were just there last week!”

“There was a sign on the door. Said it was closed pending a full investigation from Immigration Authorities! There were a few people out front with signs who said they raided it this morning.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Susan rolled her eyes.

            El Taco Cucina had been a neighborhood staple for a decade, and anyone who spent an hour inside knew how proud the owners were to have come to the country legally. Leonard rubbed his eyes.

“I liked it there, too,” Susan said. “You know it doesn’t take much these days.”

            “It’s freaking horrible,” Leonard whispered. “Mateo is in Dana’s class. And now he’s gone?”

            “I know…”

            “I guess I’ll order a pizza. Can you put on the local news? Maybe they’re talking about it.”

            Susan grabbed a remote and switched over to the local station. “Umm. Len? Come see this.”

            Leonard blinked as he listened to a young female reporter speak into the camera from their town’s historic downtown district.

            “I’m here in front of Tilly’s Ice Cream Shop, a block away from the mayor’s office, where what looks like a small meteor appears to have crashed in the middle of the street a few minutes ago.”

            “…What the hell?” Leonard breathed.

            “I just spoke with Professor Wu, who teaches astronomy at the university,” the reporter continued. “He said a meteor this size, bigger than an SUV, should have caused significant damage to buildings and storefronts within a two-mile area. But, as you can see, right here, the street barely has any signs of impact, as if it somehow slowed down before impact and landed softly. How it did not burn up in the atmosphere, Professor Wu was not able to explain.”

            Leonard and Susan slowly turned to look at each other.

            “Well,” Leonard said,” I hope it missed the tiger.”

***

The next morning, Leonard took his daughter for an early morning drive to their favorite coffee shop. It had become something of a Sunday routine. Dana was an early riser and would often nudge her daddy awake so they could sneak out and get espresso for her mom before she woke up.

Several streets were blocked off for the meteor, which meant they had to drive a bit out of the way. As he pulled onto the far end of Main Street, Leonard saw the sign for El Taco Cucina ahead. To his surprise, he saw Enrique, the owner, walking from his car to the front door.

“Holy shit!” Leonard whispered.

“Daddy!”

“Sorry, sorry! It’s just…” Leonard pulled into the parking lot. “Enrique! You alright?”

“Oh, hey Leonard!” Enrique smiled and turned around. “Beautiful morning!”

“What the hell happened to you, man? I heard you were gone?”

“What do you mean?” The restaurant owner’s brow furrowed as he came to the car.

“Yesterday!” Leonard waved his hand. “The Immigration Authorities!”

Enrique gave a confused look. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, I…” Leonard stared at Enrique, who looked confused.  “Well, just glad everything is okay with you guys. Guess I’ll see you later.”

“You bet!” Enrique smiled and waved to Dana in the back seat as Leonard pulled the car back onto the street.

“What happened, Daddy?” Dana asked.

“I’m not sure. I thought…I know I saw that yesterday.”

“Are you gonna get a burrito today?”

“Well…might as well!”

After returning home, Leonard put Susan’s iced espresso in the fridge while Dana brought out a set of watercolor paints and paper to the kitchen table. Scrolling through his nonpartisan news app, Leonard read about the latest restrictions on public radio, a dip in AI stocks, a large interstellar object that had been spotted entering the solar system a month ago, and a Rubella outbreak.

A low hum in the air interrupted his browsing. The noise grew with each passing second, giving Leonard a familiar unease. He stood up and walked to the front window.

“Now what?”

“Huh?” Dana glanced up from her watercolors.

Leonard parted the curtains to see a dark cloud in the distance moving over the horizon. Across the street, he saw their neighbor, Pam, walk out her front door for a morning jog. She adjusted her earbuds before starting her run.

“What the hell is that noise?” Leonard whispered. He was about to turn away when he saw Pam sprinting back up her driveway, waving her arms over her head. His eyes widened as he realized why she was frantically trying to get back into her house.

Leonard ran up the stairs and darted into the master bedroom. He tore over the bed, startling his wife awake.

“…Len, what the hell is going on?” she asked.

Leonard did not answer as he closed the window on Susan’s side of the bed.

“Hey, c’mon, it’s not humid,” she said. “I just like the feel of the breeze!”

Leonard backed up as a bee landed on the window. A second one followed. A third. A score. The buzzing intensified as a swarm filled their neighborhood.

“Oh, my God!” Susan shot up. “How the…?” She looked at her husband, who was trying to breathe slowly.

“I hate bees.” His voice shuddered as he spoke.

“Here, just sit down,” Susan said, guiding him to the bed. “Dana, come up here, please!”

“Where the hell did this many bees come from?” Leonard asked.

“Daddy, bad word again!” Dana said as she walked into the room with her stuffed manatee.

After a few minutes, the gargantuan swarm began to thin out. Leonard hugged his wife and daughter as his swell of fear disappeared.

***

Three hours after the swarm passed, Susan took Dana outside to help water the flowers in the front garden. With no hose hookup in the front of the house, it meant several trips back and forth with the watering can. Susan chuckled as she watched her daughter carry a full can that weighed half as much as she did.

“I can do it, Mommy!” Dana smiled as she tipped the can forward, spilling more water on the grass than the flowerbed.

Susan rubbed her forehead as she smiled. “Here, let me see it,” she said, helping her daughter’s aim.

“Susan!” Leonard came around from the side door. “They said on the news that they’re moving the meteor that hit the center of town. We can see it on a huge truck a few streets over.”

“Can we? Can we?” Dana jumped up and down.

“Oh, I suppose,” Susan said. “A walk would be nice.”

They were halfway down the block when a cluster of dark storm clouds rolled in. Dana jumped as thunder boomed overhead.

“I guess we’d better go back,” Susan said.

“But, mommy!” Dana stomped her foot

“I’m sorry, Dana, but we should turn around before we all get drenched,” Leonard said. “We’ll see it on the news tonight.”

***

“Time for bed, Dana,” Susan called out. She walked into the living room where the precocious seven-year-old was once again painting on her watercolor paper.

            “Mommy…” Dana moaned.

            “Come on,” Leonard said, pointing up the stairs. “Time to brush your teeth.”

            Dana sighed. “Can we read before bed?”

            “Of course, I’ll be up in a minute. You go ahead; I’ll pick up down here.”

He gathered the paints and brushes and placed them in their box. Afterwards, he picked up a few of the papers.

            “Examining her latest masterpieces?” Susan smiled.

            Leonard gathered the pile of drawings and paintings, walked over to the coffee table, and laid them out for a closer look.

            “What is it?” asked Susan.

“It’s funny.”

“What is?”

Leonard nodded at the drawings. From left to right, he saw a tiger, a meteor falling onto the town, a taco, a swarm of bees, and a rain shower. “All the things that have been happening here the last few days.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Look.” Leonard pointed. “She dated them the way they taught her in school.”

Susan put her arm around her husband’s shoulder as she examined the papers. The tiger and meteor were drawn the day before the zoo escape. In fact, each picture had been painted the day before the event it depicted.

Susan’s brow furrowed. “Well, that’s strange. How did she do that?”

“Now look at this one,” Leonard said, pulling a new painting to the center of the table.

The parents stared at what looked like a family portrait she had just finished before being sent upstairs. There was Dana, holding hands with her mother and father in front of their house. On the edge of the painting, there were several pairs of orange dots floating in the air.

“Leonard,” Susan asked. “What’s going on?”

***

Leonard decided to use some of his sick time on Monday afternoon. Even though he worked remotely, he felt better knowing he could keep an eye on his daughter after she came home from school. He also agreed to text his wife in case anything else out of the ordinary happened. As silly as it felt, he kept getting up to check for more things he had found in Dana’s recent stack of artwork piled up in her room. Thankfully, it had been a quiet day.

            “Daddy? I’ve been reading for an hour. Can I paint some more?”

“Let’s give it another day. It’s good to explore lots of interests, you know!”

“How about colored pencils?”

“That’s pretty much the same thing.” He picked up the book he had bought for his daughter at the local secondhand bookstore. “Enjoy things like this while you can. They’ll probably ban this one too, before you know it.”

“Mommy says you worry too much.”

Leonard let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just care about you so much and want you to have…what is it?”

Dana looked at the front window. “There’s someone outside.”

The father’s head turned slowly to face the front of the house. For an instant, he thought he saw something moving on the other side of the glass.

“Dana, come here. Now.” He reached over and pulled his daughter close.

“But…” Dana whispered.

“Just stay close to me!” He took her hand and backed away from the window.

His head whipped around as a loud bang came from the back door. He took his phone with his free hand and texted Susan the word ‘Home!’

  “Daddy!” Dana stomped her foot. “Listen!”

Leonard was about to object when he bumped into something and fell to the floor. He turned to see what he had hit. There was nothing but a clear path all the way over to the open door to his home office near the back of the house.

Dana giggled as her father stood up. He took a step back, only for his hand to knock against something firm once again.

Leonard stumbled around, again seeing nothing. “What’s going on!?”

“It’s fine, Daddy!”

Leonard looked down to see his daughter smiling, her arms outstretched. They looped to her side, as if she were hugging one of her parents’ legs.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the little girl’s arms. Just above and below her sleeves was something very odd. The colors and outline of the fabric looked off. The light around it bent, as if the little girl was squeezing a flexible prism.

“Dana, please. Come here. Now!” Leonard whispered.

“But, they’re nice!”

A ray of sunlight caught him in the eye as the clouds outside parted. He fought off the overstimulating effects, squeezing the stim tool in his pocket with one hand as he reached for his daughter’s arm with the other. “Who? What are they?”

“The art people!”

Leonard looked at the coffee table where some of his daughter’s drawings and paintings were sitting. One of them floated in mid-air; the edges on one side crinkled and blurred with that same flexible prism effect.

“I can’t really understand them, but they sound nice.” Dana pointed to the far side of the living room near the kitchen and office doors. “Now they’re both over there.”

Leonard’s knuckles turned white as he watched two figures slowly start to appear in front of his eyes. At first, the light bowed out in a tall, oval shape. Over a span of twenty seconds, something materialized as all light refraction and bending ceased.

There were two of them, each standing roughly four feet tall. Their bodies, if that is indeed what they were, were no more than ten or twelve inches wide. The bottom part of their body rested on the floor behind them like a large, fleshy, backwards-facing foot. Each creature had six appendages along the center mass and was probably five and a half feet in total length.

“Dana! Come here!” Leonard waved frantically.

The pair of creatures lowered themselves onto their appendages. There was a series of orange clusters standing out on the dark brown surface of the head area. Leonard guessed they might be eyes.

“They’re my friends, Daddy.”

Dana’s father tried to slow his breathing as he took the creatures in. A closer look showed that most of their bodies were covered in a soft, grey, malleable material. The appendages and head were brown and appeared to be uncovered.

“What the hell are you?” Leonard breathed as his pulse raced.

“I told you. They’re artists!” Dana’s tone took on a familiar impatience. “They showed me how to paint and draw the world!” She giggled. “They sound funny. High and squeaky.”

Leonard looked at his daughter. For as long as he could remember, she had demonstrated excellent hearing, easily being able to discern different instruments in music that would have sounded like aural mush to most people. He then thought about how children could often hear higher frequencies than adults, sometimes as high as twenty thousand hertz.

“I can’t hear you, can I?” He pointed to his ears after taking a few long, deep breaths.

The white eye bumps moved, like they were being pinched at the sides.

“That means yes. I think that’s what they said,” Dana whispered.

Leonard backed away, pulling his daughter along. He picked up one of her drawings. “So, you make her drawings, her art come true? Is that it?”

This time, the white eye bumps looked like they were being squeezed on the top and bottom.

“No, huh?”

“They don’t do it. I do!” Dana said. “They said I can do it now.”

Leonard turned his head to see Susan standing near the front door. His pulse had been so loud in his ear that he had not heard her come in.

Susan gasped. “Len, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” Leonard said. “Dana, what did you mean, paint and color the world? What are they? What is happening?”

Susan ran over and snatched her daughter off the ground as her husband prodded.

“Wait!” Leonard hissed, holding up his palm.

“Mommy!” Dana whined.

“How long have you talked to them?” Leonard asked.

“Len, let’s go!” Susan backed toward the door.

“A month, I think,” Dana said. “Mommy’s birthday.”

Leonard closed his eyes and nodded. He pulled his cell phone out and opened up the news app.

“Len!!” yelled Susan.

“Hold on,” Leonard said, holding his phone up to the two creatures.

The eye spots once again appeared squeezed at the sides.

“That’s a yes, right, Dana?” The father smiled over at his daughter.

Dana nodded. “Uh huh!”

Susan tried to steady her breathing as she spoke. “What is it?”

Leonard stepped around the coffee table and past the TV to show his wife the image on his phone. Susan’s eyes widened as she looked at an image of the interstellar object that had been traveling through the solar system over the last few weeks at nearly 145,000 miles per hour. As of this morning, it was only three Astronomical Units from Earth.

Susan’s voice shuddered. “Oh, my God…”

“I don’t think they’re here to hurt us,” Leonard said before looking at the alien creatures. “Is this how you got here?”

The eye patches squeezed in from the sides again.

“And you gave Dana the ability to,” Leonard took another deep breath in,” make something happen by painting or coloring it?”

Another yes from the aliens.

“Why? Why do this?”

One of the entities lifted its head and faced Dana. The parents could see several small slits on the underside of the head area, one of which was clamped onto a small translucent tube that emanated from the suit. Leonard guessed it might be a breathing mechanism.

Dana nodded her head as one of the creatures opened a hand-like gripper at the end of its top left appendage. She struggled free of her mom and grabbed a blank piece of paper, laying it on the coffee table.

Susan, Leonard, and Dana stepped back as one of the creatures scurried over to the coffee table and placed its limb over the sheet of paper. They watched as small jets of color misted out from the edges of the suit sleeve.

Dana smiled and clapped her hands as the being sprayed the paper with color. After several seconds, it grabbed a second sheet of paper from the pile and then a third.

“See? That’s what they showed me!” Dana whispered to her mother. “I dreamed it!” Susan nodded in stunned silence as she put her arm around her daughter.

“Len. Look,” Susan said. She reached down and touched one of the pictures to discover it was already dry.

The first picture showed the Earth, with lines shooting out to space in all directions. On the surface of the planet was a pained human face. The second picture showed a large comet or asteroid hurtling past a star, while the third was an image of Dana smiling with pictures in her hands.

“I think I understand,” Susan said.

“Good, then you can tell me,” Leonard whispered.

“Well, Earth sends out signals all the time. Television, satellite, radio. It’s all waves in space.”

“Like at your work, Mommy!” Dana beamed again.

“Exactly, sweetie. If someone in space had sensitive enough equipment and happened to be close enough, they could pick some of it up. Imagine a civilization picking up just one day of what we broadcast around the world.” She looked at her husband.

The alien’s eyes squeezed affirmatively once again.

Leonard looked at his daughter. “So, if they’re not here to hurt us, why are they here?”

“To help!” Dana said. She reached and picked up a paintbrush.

“How does it work?” Susan asked. “And beyond that, how do sketches and drawings help us?”

“Because it will come true! What I make comes true!” Dana waved her brush at her parents. “You saw!”

“Yes, we’ve seen that.” Susan nodded. “We’re just a bit confused as to why.”

Leonard looked again at the image the alien painted of his daughter. “Innocence.”

Susan blinked. “What?”

“Children aren’t born judgmental or prejudiced. They’re taught it. If they could enact their will…”

Susan closed her eyes. She opened them after a long moment, looking up at the aliens who stood there, waiting. The mother picked up the painting of the comet. “Is this where you come from?”

Their eyes squeezed yes.

“Is it a ship of some kind?” she asked.

This time they squeezed no.

“I think they live there now,” Dana said.

Leonard thought of all the reports he had seen and read on the interstellar object, which was estimated to be larger than Mount Denali. The world’s leading astronomers and astrophysicists had discussed how the gravity assist of various stars over the centuries could help propel such an object across the galaxy.

“And you heard us and decided to help? Is that it?” asked Leonard.

Instead of blinking yes or no, the aliens reached out and took another sheet of paper. Together, the pair painted an image of a glowing red world with a faint speck fleeing into space. The imagery was haunting, as the fire looked both real and unreal at the same time.

Dana looked up at her parents. “No one helped them…”

“They saw a world in distress. Somehow, they recognized it,” Susan said. “Of course. Something that could not feel or empathize might not react to what they saw or might not have understood it. But a species that uses art to communicate…They saw us. The protests. Wars. Violence. Somehow, they understood.”

“And they decided to try and help. To stop it from happening to another world,” Leonard said.

Another yes blink.

“I can’t imagine how bad it must have been for them to have to hitch a ride on a gigantic comet.” Susan touched her child’s hair.

“Magic!” Dana said.

“It looks like magic, doesn’t it? So far beyond us that it appears to be.”

“But how?” Leonard scratched his beard. “Does it send out some kind of radio wave? Does it make people do things? Or is it actually like, changing reality?”

“I don’t think it matters how,” Susan said.

“And if they can do that, why didn’t it stop their world from going to hell?”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “Having access to advanced technology is no guarantee of responsible stewardship.” She watched her husband walk around the room. He stopped to look at her paint set, noticing for the first time that none of the colors had worn down since she first found it in one of her desk drawers last week.

“And it’s not every picture,” Dana said. “Only the ones I want to come true.”

Leonard shook his head as he stared out the front window. “No.”

“No?” asked Susan.

“No. We can’t accept this.”

“But, Daddy!” Dana stomped her foot. “I can paint anything!”

“I’m sorry, Dana.” Leonard knelt in front of his daughter. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But you saw it! You saw! I can make things happen. I can fix things, like I did for Enrique and Mateo!” The little girl fought back tears as she spoke. “I can color or paint anything you want.”

“I know you could.” Leonard’s voice broke as he hugged his child.

Susan’s eyes closed as she heard her daughter’s heart break. “Your dad’s right.” She looked at the house through the front window, remembering that their neighbor Pam’s husband, Michael, worked for the Federal Government.

The two aliens looked at one another before shuffling back over to the coffee table. One of them pointed to the picture of the glowing planet, while the other picked up a paintbrush. Their eyes widened as they waited.

“I understand what you’re trying to do,” Leonard said. “But it’s too much to lay at the feet of one little girl.”

The alien on the right reached over to grab a blank sheet. Susan held up her hand before it could paint another picture.

“You gave our child an amazing gift. What you tried to do here is so admirable. But someone might find out someday.”

“They could force her to paint something she doesn’t like,” Leonard added. “Something harmful.”

“Like the meteor or the bees,” Dana sniffed. “I’m sorry about the bees, Daddy. You said we need pollinators. Nobody got stung! I drew them with smiley faces.”

“And the meteor?” asked Susan.

“I wanted the artists to come down.”

Leonard wiped his eye. “You have a good heart, Dana. But it shouldn’t be all on you to fix the world. That’s too much to put on anyone.”

The aliens lowered their heads before backing up. Dana ran over to them with tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

One of the creatures reached up and touched her hand. The openings on the underside of its head moved. Dana smiled.

“I will…I really like coloring.” She looked at her parents. “Can I make just one more special painting? Please, just one more!”

Leonard knelt. “What do you want to draw?”

“I don’t know…” Susan said.

“Please?” Dana asked.

“Well,” Leonard looked at his wife. “Maybe if it’s something you want. It can’t be for us.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

***

Leonard sat in bed with his wife as the local news came on. Susan reached and took his hand as the anchor began to read the lead story.

“Tonight, the President, in what is being called a stunning reversal, urged Congress to reverse legislation censoring hundreds of books from public and school libraries across the country. While the request comes across as a shock to many in the president’s own party, a new bill is expected to pass through Congress in the next few weeks.”

Leonard smiled as his wife squeezed his hand. They glanced over to a pair of paintings framed on the wall at the far end of their bookshelf.

The first was a cute picture of a man in a suit looking at books with a smile on his face. The second painting, which was much more detailed, showed a little girl hugging two oddly shaped creatures with six limbs.

Tabula Rasa

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Tabula Rasa comes to us from D.H. Parish.

D.H.Parish (he/him) is, like Dr. Jekyll, a respectable physician by day who dabbles in darker things by night. He has had short stories presented on multiple horror podcasts, including Creepy, Scare You to Sleep, and Nocturnal Transmissions, and appear in print anthologies and magazines. His first novella, The Bodies, was just published. More information is available at dhparishstories.com.


When I asked D.H. what he loves about his story, this was his response:

First, I enjoy writing stories that invoke or invert Jewish and Christian religious imagery and ideas. Regardless of where one falls on the spectrum of belief or disbelief or nonbelief, the Bible and its associated literature (and I use the term literature here broadly) remain the richest and most enduring motherlode of stories and themes available to mine in Western culture. As I think about it, my story is ultimately going after an explanation of existence in a somewhat similar way to the Magician’s Nephew (the sixth book of the Narnia Chronicles), although my story is much briefer and far less reverent. Second, I love stories that have frame shifts, stories where you think you are comfortably reading one thing only to realize halfway through or at the end you have actually been reading or hearing or watching something quite different, the modern “classic” example being The Sixth Sense. In its laziest form, this is the “it was all a dream” kind of story (although that can sometimes work too). At their best, these are the stories that make you do a double take and immediately reread to find the hints and clues that were hiding in plain sight. Executed well, they give any twist (and any message implied in that twist) that much more impact and staying power. Finally, every superhero needs an origin story.

Tabula Rasa has been [mistakenly] rejected by Ethera, Epic Echoes, Apex, Kinpaurak, Orion’s Belt, Off Season, and Toil and Trouble. 

Tabula Rasa by D.H. Parish

He looked out from his hiding place in the closet, a sliver of the room visible through a crack in the warped, ancient wood. He could see the Master hunched at his desk, neither reading nor writing, but lost in thought. For now, he had to wait. What were a few more minutes? Or hours? Or days?

Over the course of years too numerous to count, the Master had taught them from the great books of laws and spells. They had learned every rule. They had acquired proficiency in every endeavor. They could run like gazelles, swim like dolphins, and soar like eagles. They controlled magnificent creatures of immense stature and strength. They tasted whatever came to mind, listened to exquisite celestial symphonies, and witnessed beautiful scenes. All was fair and just and almost perfect.

But they were denied one power. The rest of them didn’t seem to realize it. They would say: “We dwell in the best of all possible worlds, do we not? We know how to control it, how to bend it to our will, to our delight. We have a kind Master who teaches us. What more could we desire?”

Blessed as this world was, it did not satisfy him, although he did not at first quite grasp why. Indeed, had he been asked, he could not have explained his complaint, which began as a fleeting thought that pestered him in quiet moments. But the thought grew, nourished with time, becoming a raging insistence, an all-consuming conviction, that they, that he, were deprived.

Once, when they had gathered in the Master’s study, savoring food and drink of their own conjuring while sharing and singing new songs, he noticed among the Master’s massive dark leather volumes one that bore no lettering on its spine. It seemed newer, untouched. As the others retired after the symposium, he stayed behind.

“Master,” he began, “I see on your shelf one book you have never shared with us. May I ask why?”

The Master looked at him with gentle eyes, “Of course you may ask. But I shall reply that that book is not for you.”

“Then why do you have it, why do you keep it?”

“Because I may need it.”

“May I look at it?”

“You may not. All you need, you already have. There is nothing in that book that will make this a better world for you, for anyone. Nothing.”

He studied the Master’s face, trying without success to interpret this cryptic reply. “Very well. Thank you, Master.” He bowed and took his leave, doing his best to hide his curiosity.

From that moment, however, reading that book became his mission. But how? He could not use a spell to obtain access; the Master would know and thwart him. He could not confide in others; they would not understand, or worse, would betray his confidence in a misguided attempt to “help” him. His only option was to bide his time until he could seize an opportunity to see that book. He dedicated years to this singular endeavor. Day after day, his hunger for the book grew, never sated by all else that was available to him.

Finally, opportunity came. He was strolling the halls when he saw Rafi standing in the Master’s doorway, inviting the Master to a musical performance. The Master heartily agreed, and the two of them departed in haste, such haste that the Master’s door remained ajar. Now was his chance! He pushed the door open, slowly, silently. He approached the shelf and stood before the book, the object of his desire.

Before he could seize it, he heard voices in the hall. Were they coming back? He glanced around, saw his only escape would be to the closet, and dashed in. He heard the Master return and tell Rafi that he would go to the concert when it was truly ready and then sit down again at his desk.

Thus matters stood. He was trapped in a closet, so tantalizingly close to his goal. And then it found him. It slithered over his sandals, a cold, scaly body that coiled itself around his left ankle, winding slowly but inexorably northward. He bit his lip as it circled his thigh and approached his groin. Carefully, deliberately, he reached under his cloak and, in one quick motion, grabbed its neck and yanked. It released its constrictive grip at the unexpected force. He held the serpent up to his face to look at it. The creature bared its fangs and hissed loudly, clearly upset at its unexpected capture.

Through the crack, he saw the Master rise from his chair and turn toward him. The door moved slightly as the Master placed his hand on the brass door handle to the closet. He was caught! Damn that familiar! But then Rafi came bounding in yelling, and the Master left again.

The room empty once more, he emerged from his hiding place. Still gripping the serpent, he hurled it back into the closet and shut the door to trap it. He walked to the shelf and pulled the book down, laying the tome on the Master’s desk. However much he was willing to violate the Master’s rule regarding the book, habits of obedience still kept him from sitting in the Master’s chair, and so he remained standing as he opened it.

Nothing.

It was blank.

He turned the pages. Empty leaf after empty leaf. No words.

Why had this been forbidden? What was the mystery?

Then he smiled, for he understood. A blank book meant creation. Creation meant control. Power! That was the hunger. With this book, he could write the spells, the rules. That was why the Master had hidden it. With it, he could become a master, the Master. Yes. That was now within his power, his destiny. He would make a better world, a world in his image, beholden to his will.

Aware of what lay before him, he allowed himself to sit in the Master’s chair. He opened the book to the first page, picked up the Master’s quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. He raised his hand, a small black droplet perching expectantly on the nib. He hesitated to write. Was this right?

As he paused, a quivering voice called out from the doorway: “Stop!”

He saw the Master standing in the doorway, shivering, quaking. He had never seen the Master afraid.

“Please, dear God,” the Master begged, “don’t do this. You will destroy everything we know and love. You may not mean to, but your action will release untold suffering.”

He was not used to the Master calling him by name, and as he heard the plea, he unconsciously let his hand fall until the quill tip gently kissed the vellum and irrevocably blemished the virgin parchment.

In that instant, the room vanished. He now sat alone in a vast, unending void. Nothing was visible save the open page and that first dark stain. He knew he had to continue writing. But how to start his own world, his own universe? And then he had inspiration:

“In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth…”

Even Death Must Die

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Even Death Must Die comes to us from Miguel Angel Lopez Muñoz. Miguel was born and lives in Madrid, Spain. He has a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics with a Master’s degree in Quantum Cryptography. He writes fantasy, science fiction and horror and has won awards like the UPC of science fiction Award (in 2006 and again in 2024), and published books related to those three genres. He has been published in Bag of Bones, where he won the “206 Word Story” call, Microverses and Coffin Bell. He is a big fan of video games, transformers and board games, and you can follow his posts on these three topics on his Instagram @magnus_dagon

Miguel’s wonderful story has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Analog, Andrómeda Spaceways, and Ápex Magazine

When asked what he loves about this story, this was his response:

What I like most about this story is that it deals with a subject I don’t often talk about, which is religion. But it deals with it from a point of view that I really like, which is mythology (mythological stories, especially Greek ones, are among those with which I have won the most literary competitions).

I also really like the story from a narrative point of view, as there isn’t much dialogue but somehow the plot isn’t overloaded with descriptions, and also from a visual point of view, with veiled suggestions that focus on the aesthetic tone of the Great Temple and its hard-working builders.

Even Death Must Die by Miguel Angel Lopez

On rainy days, when it was my turn to descend from the tower, I saw the black clouds full of pollution. These same clouds, thick and dark like a great sea, yet dense and soft as velvet, forced us to ascend higher, banishing us from the promised land and made us gods to them — although I doubt the heavens would have wanted someone like me.

            I secured my suit and checked the air cylinder, preparing for the exit to the outside as the glassed-in elevator reached the lowest level. As a precautionary measure, so that my appearance would not be observed from below, the exit at the base of the tower was slightly electrified to clear the area of curious androids. In my opinion, although at the time such a custom may have been of some use, by then they were no longer looking for me, but merely awaiting my arrival. That is understandable. We don’t go looking for her either; we just wait for her to arrive when the time is right. Human culture has represented her sometimes as a faithful friend, sometimes as an executioner of souls; but always as someone we want to have far away.

            According to the reports I had received from the tower technicians, the android I was supposed to bring back had been split in two by one of the mechanical saws in charge of shaping the rocky terrain. In the middle of the downpour I arrived at the factory area, the robots making way for me, looking at me with devotion or fear. But for the first time since I had that macabre function I noticed that some robots were looking at me with a defiant attitude, a brave gesture considering that in the mystical terrain, I was a personification of the end of all living beings, and in the physical terrain, I was twice as tall as any of them.

            I arrived at the place where the disabled robot was and there I found, as it always used to happen, the protective android. It was a robot like the others, but equipped with accessories whose only purpose was to imitate, in a misunderstood way, the accessories of my artificial breathing suit. It looked at me and pointed to what I was looking for.

            “Hello, B33MH,” I said, without any tone in my voice.

            “Welcome, deity Ben,” the android replied solemnly. “We knew you would come.”

            The first time I introduced myself to the androids and told them my name, they decided to anticipate it with the deity treatment. At first I tried to force them to simply call me by my name, but to no avail. To them my name was something as imperishable as space or time.

            “What happened?”  I asked calmly.

            “It was an accident, my lord. It got too close to the saw.”

            “I want the androids who handle saws to stay farther away from them. There’s no need to take such risks.”

            “But sir, that way it will take longer to complete the Great Temple of the deities.”

            “The Great Temple can wait, B33MH. Your safety is more important to me now.”

            “So it shall be done, my lord.”

            I pulled out a tractor beam and put all the pieces of the fallen robot together then placed it in a box of darkness, a handy collapsible container that for robots must have been little less than a coffin. I carried it in both hands with as much respect as I could muster for my actions. B33MH looked at me, fulfilling the function its kind had bestowed upon it, to be a living witness to my actions, and asked me, as it always did, to accompany me back to my kingdom.

            “When it is your time, you will come with me. But first you must not,” I said simply, hoping to settle a matter that was not open to discussion.

            “What will become of our companion, deity Ben? Will it, like the others, have access to your kingdom?”

            “They all have,” I replied. “You can stop worrying about it. It is at peace with itself and everyone else now.”

            “You’re lying!” said another of the androids behind me. Despite my surprise, none of the androids noticed the slightest hesitation on my part. The suit, which they considered part of my own organism, helped.

            “Why do you say that, C22RD?” I asked, trying to appear as calm as possible.

            “I don’t believe you are a deity. You may be powerful, but you are something else. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

            I kept quiet. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I had to give them the opposite. I had to make it seem that my motivations were impossible for their perishable metallic bodies to conceive.

            In response to the silence, C22RD spoke again.

            “I will prove to everyone that you are a plastic god.”

            I turned and walked away, oblivious to its comments, as if I could not hear them. Although I didn’t turn around at any point I know that all the robots were waiting for a reaction that would clarify how I felt about those direct attacks. Instead, I gave them uncertainty. It was the only thing I could give them, for it was the only thing I harbored at that moment.

#

            Now, remembering that day, I know that many things had to happen to get to that point. At the beginning I was a mere observer, just another technician with the only incentive of maintaining direct contact with the androids. It was a poorly paid job and not without its dangers; I would arrive in my suit, take the defective models with me when they stopped working, check a couple of systems to verify programming guidelines, and supervise the progress of the domes that would one day house us. But little by little they began to invest more in such construction, as humanity as a whole began to believe hopefully that this would be the solution, that truly someday the metal slaves would complete a cupular world isolated from the toxic emanations of the clouds. The Great Temple, as they now call it. Paradise on Earth. It is the only one of their biblical expressions that I do not consider exaggerated. Not that the towers were bad to live in, but home, no matter how many generations pass, is still home. It is written as one more mark on our genetic will until there is no way to overlook it.

            It was around those days that I began to think of androids as more than just machines and they began to think of me as something… metahuman. It was always ensured that they didn’t know the truth of their existence, that they would simply work in exchange for having watchmen looking out for their safety. It was never really slavery. It took me a while to realize it, but our situation was very similar to that of the gods in ancient times. They worked convinced that in a way they were honoring unquestionable beings. We were giving them resources, technological help and renewing their population, for them this was greatest gift that we could ever bestow. The only difference with the Greek or Egyptian gods was that we humans did exist and were actually trying to protect them.

            Without missing a beat, the robots were working out answers to questions we did not at first imagine they could ask.

            When the extent of their perception became clear, our superiors decided to specialize us so that they would have a whole legion of creatures and symbols to worship. Thus, from the point of view of the androids, the deity John was in charge of bringing new life among the robots, the opposite of my function; the deity Robin was in charge of the proper functioning of the lesser machines and the deity Carl was in charge of quelling revolts. The relationships we might have with each other and our working style formed a whole complex mythological imaginary for the robots. Thus, for example, for them living and dying were twin processes that for a time were simultaneously hosted by both deities until they decided to arrive on their own to attend to their personal affairs among the non-eternals. Something so complex to explain that my turn and John’s simply ceased to coincide.

            At first we were given instructions and courses so as not to disrupt the pantomime they had so carefully worked out for themselves. In my particular case I was advised to provoke in them the same panic of death that most humans experience. They showed me a multitude of allegorical images, and made hundreds of suggestions about how I should express myself and move in front of them. But I didn’t want or intend to be a clear-cut symbolic thing, I didn’t want to be the quivering thought of those wretched metal entities. For God’s sake, I was an engineer, not Machiavelli or Milton. I believed in knowledge, not in turning the headboard upside down to ward off evil spirits. So I ignored all ethical and aesthetic advice and stuck to my own script. No ankh, no scythe, no huge wings full of eyes. If they must live in the shadows, I thought, I’ll make those shadows a little more pleasant place.

            Sometimes I wish that beings more intelligent than me would burst into my life and, by means of complicated artifices and subtle orchestrations, would suddenly restore the beliefs I had lost so long ago. That an angel would come from the heavens and tell us all, yes, there is life after death, neither emptiness nor nothingness awaits you. That he would disprove all my suspicions. That is what I tried to give to the androids. The hope of continuity against all logic of nature. If in doing so I was right, they would thank me after all; if I was wrong, then they would never feel cheated because wherever they were they would feel no joy, no sadness, no hate, no pain, no nothing. The truth is that it often torments me to think that they might have a chance and we might not. That those who are no longer operative look at me from somewhere we fail to understand and pity me, their false crystal idol, full of doubts and uncertainties, then accuse me, with pointed finger, of behaving as a giver of something that I am not even capable of receiving.

            Not all the idolized technicians shared my point of view, of course. It’s amazing how much misery man is capable of when given the opportunity. Carl Tinerch, the man in charge of quelling riots, enjoyed his task with psychopathic pleasure. He must have been the kind of kid who chased cats on tower roofs with neural lasers. Although the other technicians despised him, they did not feel the same animosity toward him as I did, partly because their job was not to palliate his excesses or to restore the delicate balance between good and evil in the robot pantheon. One fine day I decided to send the balance to hell and descended before my turn with the healthy intention of giving Tinerch a little thrashing in front of the robots, a fight that they added to their list of mythical events, with the sole intention of stopping his cruel slaughter. I made all the robots present promise that there would never be a similar revolt.

            The superiors reprimanded me and reduced my salary, arguing that I might have broken Tinerch’s suit, which is otherwise absolutely true. However, I was not dismissed from my position. They knew I was important down there, and that was not to be changed. The riots, however, soon broke out again. Many robot sympathizers defended their position by saying that there was no society down there. I agree with them on that; the problem is that they thought that had been the intention at some point in the experiment, a kind of peaceful coexistence between creators and creations. I was quickly disillusioned. Anyway, I prefer to see robots as individuals rather than as a mass. Their collective destiny is beyond my capabilities even if I pretended otherwise.

            But that day, at that moment, with the box of darkness in my hands and returning until I was lost in the heights that no android would ever know, I knew that something else was going to happen. I had the same cold feeling as when I went down to hit Tinerch, only that I was no longer the trigger of the events. And sure enough, something happened. C22RD made good on its threats, but not in the way I would have expected.

#

            I had just arrived on the observation floor from my own home. I hadn’t even had time to eat, so I was about to grab the first piece of crap I could find in the vending machines. I was already heading for the one in the hallway with the idea that everything it would have would be out of date when John Redfer signaled me to come in.

            “What’s wrong, Johnny?” I said, not hiding my concern. John would never have bothered me off shift unless it was for something serious.

            “We haven’t received a signal from C22RD since yesterday, and the cameras can’t find it. The last we heard, it was headed for the Grand Temple base.”

            Sometimes among ourselves we used the same religious jargon that the androids themselves, mostly for practical reasons. I walked over to the monitors and made a mental note of the coordinates of the area.

            “I’m going down,” I said as I approached the closet and put on my suit. “I have a bad feeling.”

            “Do you want me to come down with you?”

            “Thank you, John, but I think you’d better not. I’m afraid we’re facing a crisis of ideals. I’ve got to solve this one on my own.”

            “What do I do if Tinerch comes? This looks like his business.”

            “Give him my regards,” I replied, leaving the air cylinder in hand.

            When I reached the edge of the dome, which was already at an advanced stage, I noticed that all the robots were looking at me impatiently. It didn’t take me long to see why. There, where the cameras could not reach because it was normal for new tunnels to be opened every day, was the body of C22RD, motionless and guarded by two other androids. I bent down to get through the tunnel and take it away, but they blocked my way.

            “It was right. You didn’t get there to take it because you wouldn’t be able to find it in time. Its sacrifice was not in vain.”

            I came out of the tunnel to return to the ditch again and met the protective android. It looked frightened.

            “My lord, you were late in coming.”

            “I came as soon as I could, B33MH. As you well know, there are many things I have to take care of.”

            “But this poor wretch, my lord… will no longer receive rest in your kingdom, for several cycles have passed since your last arrival.”

            “It’ll be able to rest like the others, you don’t have to worry about it.”

            Suddenly an android hit me with a stone and broke a tube of the suit. Fortunately it was not serious, but B33MH did not interpret it that way. It activated the tunneling machines and buried the android. I was witnessing the first display of artificial violent fanaticism in history, as well as the first robot suicide. I was really going to have a lot of explaining to do when I got to the surface.

            If I made it, that is.

            Several more androids stoned me until one of them finally hit a carbon dioxide processing tube. The malfunction was not total, but I had to get back to the tower as soon as possible or I would die without remedy as soon as I was exposed to the noxious gases. I grabbed as best I could both the body of the buried android and the body of C22RD and took them away without even having time to use darkness boxes. Some robots began to chase me, and although their stones hardly hurt me, they would soon end up breaking another tube and write a black chapter in their particular myths. After a while, however, Tinerch appeared in his armored suit. Despite hating him and his methods, I was glad of his presence. He merely put a smokescreen between them and us to slow them down, because to the robots, the smoke from the Carl deity carried evil effects on the circuits. I guess he didn’t attack them because he knew that under no circumstances would I be sent to ground level again right after the incident and then it would be his turn to pick up the robots he slaughtered. I was always curious how the androids would have interpreted that.

            My superiors decided that for a couple of days it would be wise for me not to go back down, with John taking over my job. The two days became a week and the week became a month. Finally I was announced that I could no longer go down again. There were enough robots who didn’t believe in me to make my descents dangerous, but I should train my replacements to learn how to do my job in every way imaginable.

            It didn’t work out. None of the substitutes were admitted by the robot community, thinking of them as heretics, as impostors. Part of the fault was that the new ones always tried to be very theatrical, very lyrical, so as to instill awe in them and hold them in check. The experience, at least, helped me to understand that when you want to gain the respect of someone, whether human or robot, you can do it from the path of equality or from the path of superiority, but the second path will never make you truly respected. Feared, adored. But not really respected.

            I seem to remember that after I was relieved of my position I was angry with the androids for having spurned the opportunity I had given them to reconcile their fears of dying. I suppose it is true that it was a beautiful gift, but it is also true that they never asked me for it. Perhaps I should have let them learn for themselves, freed them from that vicious circle that had formed around them, secretly lectured them on how terrible life really was, that they were less than nothing, the offspring of an imperfect culture and race that did not know for itself its own end. That we were not giving them the chance to exist but that it was precisely the opposite. That if there were gods it should be them.

            One fine day, thirty years later, I decided to ask for permission to descend again. I knew I would have no problem in getting approval, and I was curious to see with my own eyes the evolution of the Great Temple, now almost completed. It was fortunate that this happened, because all the technicians were already quite old, and if it was impossible to replace me at the time, it would be even more impossible to do it with all of them at the same time.

            When I descended I noticed how there was a lot of commotion everywhere. Most of the androids did not have to work too hard because of the little that remained to be done, a fact that they had interpreted as the advent of the new order. My arrival only compounded that feeling. That the deity Ben was descending from the heavens again after thirty years was for them an indication that we were very satisfied.

            I wanted to tell them that the reality was that as soon as the dome was finished hundreds of men in armored suits, hundreds of Carl deities, would descend to disconnect them all, by hook or by crook, and melt them down to become part of the Great Temple structure, but I refused to do so. I’m sure they would have managed to concoct some sort of pseudo-Buddhist narrative to justify such an action. A nirvana to which to throw their last prayers.

            The people upstairs had asked me to check that the air levels were correct as I was going down, so I went into the huge, diaphanous dome and took out the measuring instruments. When I had finished, I noticed an old android approaching me, barely able to move, but still able to operate certain devices such as hydraulic cranes. It was B33MH.

            “My lord, you have returned. I have waited so long…”

            At that moment I was sure that, if robots could cry, it would have done so.

            “I have returned, yes. But I must tell you — it is not for long.”

            “Why did you leave us? Some of us were still faithful to you.”

            “I ceased to be necessary, B33MH. Even we must retire when the time comes. Come closer.”

            The android came as fast as it could until it was in front of me. Then I removed the helmet from my suit very slowly. For the robot that must have been a mystical experience like no other.

            “I just want you to know that, believe it or not, deep down we are just like you. We have fears. We doubt our final destiny. I know you will never say it, that’s why I share it with you.”

            “Is that true, my lord?”

            I put the helmet on the ground, so that it would be clear that it was not part of myself.

            “Even Death must die,” I said, my aged face uncovered.