New Year’s Eve 2069 11:43 pm – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142

            Wang Ju Hua’s eyes traveled from the Schatten t.63 in her hand to the body of the man she loved, and life showered her with a million glistering diamonds.  

            She knelt, took the aboriginal club from his hand, and gingerly returned it to a set of pegs on his wall of weapons. Guns, knives, even a slender chain garrote circa Nazi Germany. Artifacts of creative murder, sharing wall space with a Matisse and two dazzling works by Klimt. Nearby, a gilded table and chairs supported a themed chess set of Charlemagne vs The Moors. How her husband loved his collections.

            Had loved.

            The office door opened.

             “I did it, David,” she whispered. “I had to.” Ju was kneeling over her husband, stroking his hair with one silk-gloved hand, a gun in the other.  

            Quickly closing the door, Dr. David Grinstein took it all in. There on the floor was the still form of Owen Herbert Whitlaw, an expression of astonishment ushering him into eternity. David’s stomach visibly clenched from the twin assault of the sight and smell of charred flesh.  

             David yammered, “No, Ju. No, you didn’t. I – people need you. You couldn’t, so you didn’t. Do you understand me?” David didn’t wait for an answer. He found a red linen napkin on the bar and began frantically polishing cocktail glasses, cabinet knobs, anything Ju might have touched in the office belonging to Con-Fed’s chairman and the seventh richest man in Sol System.

            “David, what are you doing?” She stood up. “I’m in here every day. People see me come and go. Fingerprints don’t matter.” She looked him in the eye and handed him the plasma gun.

            He was sweating now. “Of course.” David returned the Schatten t.63 to its place of honor on Owen’s wall of weaponry. It hovered there in a custom suspension field. “Jeez. That tingles,” he said, shaking out his hands as if to rid them of invisible spiders. “There. Good. The police will have the weapon, but nothing to tie you to –” His eyes darted up to the three sensors embedded in the ceiling. Optical, heat scale, motion. The damn thing could even smell. “Shit.”

            “Off,” Ju said haltingly. “All the security pick-ups on this floor and three below. They’ll come back on at 4 a.m. Owen ordered the outage himself, probably to allow his executives to enjoy some boy time.” She added coyly, “Is that what you want, David?”

            David carp-gulped at the air for a moment. It stank of seared flesh rising from a hole in the man’s chest. “Ju, I – I mean, he’s right here.” David waved the red napkin at Whitlaw’s body in matador fashion, but the Bull of Wall Street did not respond.

            She ran one silky finger under one of David’s tux lapels, casually tickling his chest. “David, I think we should mingle with the gang in the lobby.” Indeed, the steady percussion from the party outside filled the room with its primal ambience. She leaned in close enough to ensure he could smell the sweet fruity wine on her breath and used her other hand to unfurl his bow tie into a rakish scarf. “It’s almost midnight.” His mouth hung open.

            “The others… Someone’s bound to wander in here,” he said nervously, beads of perspiration bouncing on his lip.

            Tears welled up in her eyes, reflecting the New Atlanta skyline that filled the huge office window. In the smallest voice she could muster, she offered: “The wait staff.”

            David was pacing now. If he heard her words, he didn’t respond directly but rather accepted the cue and continued the thought. “Dirty, uneducated migrants.” Ju watched the thought take hold of David, gaining momentum and becoming his own. “Yes, yes. A robbery gone wrong – familiar but convincing. I’ll send that glossy dark one in to bring Owen a drink, then deny ever having said it. Make sure you are talking to people. Casually point out the waiter going into Owen’s office.”

            “Understood.”  

            They stepped out into the main lobby, where the party was thrumming and howling towards a midnight climax. People had floated up from the main conference room, which was nicely decorated if a little safe. They preferred to greet the new year where the action was – in the lion’s den.

          There they were, the titans of Con-Fed. The men stood, one arm around their chosen conquest of the night. There was Chief Operating Officer Conrad Bernadotte, his fingers edging ever closer to the low-cut bust line of an exotic girl he’d found in Accounts Receivable. Serge Andreev, the Chief Financial Officer who’d engineered the Midwest Sector crop fires so Con-Fed could swoop in and buy the land from bankrupt farming interests, was already nibbling on the neck of his executive secretary, Imogen Bricault. She was married, but no matter. Adultery was the least dangerous part of their relationship, since Imogen knew where all the bodies were buried.

            Ju watched David make his way through the crowd to a waiter in brilliant white livery that reduced his ebony features to shadow. Sure enough, the man found a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and moved towards Owen’s office. Ju did her part. She pulled the stodgy old R&D honcho with her into the hall, on a pretext of discussing something interesting.

            Even as the clock struck midnight and people fell into embracing one another, a cry came from Owen’s office. The waiter, hands now empty, raced from person to person, trying to get them to come with him. They looked at him oddly and shook him off. They were too busy celebrating noisily. Finally, the waiter found someone who’d listen to him, and they headed back to Owen’s office.

            David and Ju followed, careful to act as if they were just now noticing all the excitement.  “What have you done!” he cried, pointing to the dumbfounded waiter. “I’m calling the police!”

            Ju gave him a coy look. Even at a distance, she could sense David’s pulse fluttering. He was such a dear man. It was a shame.

 

August 25, 2069 – The Classicist Restaurant, New Atlanta

            Most of the other tables in the courtyard were empty, offering a degree of privacy. Owen pushed back the remains of his Kobi steak, took a sip of Montrachet Grand Cru, and slid the last of the chilled oysters down his throat. Regarding the pile of shucked shells, he observed, "No pearls. No matter, I brought my own."

            Ju blushed. He treated her like a fine work of art, and she liked it.

           Attorney Brian Coates dipped a napkin-clad finger into his ice water and daubed at the cucumber lime granita staining his shirt front.

           "You're enjoying your scotch," Owen said pointedly.

           Brian replied, "I blame the presence of beauty. It makes an old man clumsy." Brian was ever the flatterer. He was cute, and he wasn't that old. "Seriously, Ju, I can't get over the resemblence. You could be a younger version of--" He caught himself, choking back the name.

            Ju answered hastily, "Thank you."

            Owen wedged his way in, speaking the name aloud. "Bao is doing well on Mars, from what I hear. She's overseeing the social season atthe Olympus Mons Community."

            A brilliant light split through the prism of Ju's mind. Bao.

            A young woman appeared at their tableside, proferring sundries from a tray strapped around her shoulders. “After-dinner cigar?” She stood covered in gooseflesh despite the warm evening. Her tiny skirt and filmy top offered little in the way of modesty.

            Owen took three Cohiba Behikes. He slipped one in his jacket pocket, offered one to Brian, and lit the remaining cigar with his gold lighter. "You don't expect me to smoke this without Cognac, do you?"

            She hasn't done anything wrong.

            “I—” The cigar girl fidgeted, thrown by Owen’s abrupt need to show dominance. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty and clearly had to cling to a prepared script. Beyond that, she looked lost.

            “What’s the best you have in stock?”

            “I—”

            “I… I… Great profit! How I detest dim serviles!” Owen stood suddenly, nearly shoving the girl with his bulk. She took an unsteady step backwards. Scanning the immediate surrounding, Owen spotted the manager and waved him over. “Your girl doesn’t know her job.”

            The manager, an effeminate Swede in his seventies smiled cordially and said, “Ah, our little birds. It is so difficult for them, ja? They come from nothing and depend upon me for everything. What is a father to do, Mr. Whitlaw? Go. Go, little bird. Wait for me in my office.” The manager then ordered the sommelier to bring two glasses of Remy Martin Cognac Louis XIII. “Compliments of the house.”

            Ju looked to the girl with sympathy as she withdrew to the manager’s office to await her punishment. When Owen turned his head, Ju quickly keyed in a generous tip, feeling the girl may be needing it.   

Brian hastily brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Owen, you’re sure you want a small ceremony and so soon? You’ve only been divorced for –”

            “Bao and I ended a long time ago. It was difficult for me to… let her go. As for ceremonies, I’m tired of the big ones. Three’s plenty. Besides, if we hurry, I can write off the whole thing on my taxes.” It was one of his favorite jokes. Owen famously never paid a penny in taxes, thanks to millions spent on the right government officials. She loved his cleverness. And he could be so sweet to her. Mostly.

            The aging lawyer pulled a thick stack of old-fashioned paper from his valise. “Very well. As to the pre-nup, it’s mostly boiler-plate,” Brian said, flipping the pages.

            “Yes, yes.”

            “I made a few minor suggestions,” Ju said, her eyes holding Owen’s. “Don’t worry. You’ll never feel the changes.”

            “As you say,” Brian agreed and pushed the stack over to Owen. He pulled an antique platinum pen from his pocket and signed in all the required places, never taking his attention from Ju.

             Yes, she was sure she loved Owen. It was a shame.

 

November 12, 2069 – Con-Fed Building, Floor 110 Board Room

           “Second Tuesdays are a mix of old man smell and lame attempts at a coup. Keep your eye on them, but don’t worry. I had them castrated long ago.” Ju had grown accustomed to Owen’s caustic humor. The tone echoed around Con-Fed’s C-suites. It was a man’s life. The secretaries blanched at various off-color comments, but said nothing. Ju never blanched.

           She preferred his lusty, romantic side. For a time, all was bliss. What girl wouldn’t enjoy a honeymoon on the actual Moon? It was heady stuff. Owen used to smother her with attention, and she adored it, but daily lovemaking became twice a week, then occasional quickies. She tried to seduce him, but his golf games were “warfare in disguise, no place for a woman” and his Friday nights were “not your concern.”

            In the past few weeks, she’d had a lot of time to herself. She used it to study Con-Fed’s inner workings. Ju had examined the ledgers – the real ones. Cracking locked files wasn’t even challenging. Con-Fed was a lumbering monster. It missed many lucrative opportunities. Ju thought carefully, did research, quietly spoke to knowledgeable people around the office, being careful to compartmentalize her inquiries. Finally, she casually pitched a few ideas to Owen. He smiled, patted her hand, and headed off to play golf.

           On this second Tuesday of the month, Ju’s flaming red ensemble stood out among the charcoal gray suits, all finely tailored, expensive, bland. Eyes furtively caressed her perfect figure. They sipped their single malt while growing intoxicated on Ju’s jasmine perfume.

            Men are boys, and boys are fun to play with.

           Leaning back in his leather chair, his fingers piously forming a church steeple, COO Conrad Bernadotte sputtered, “It’s… unusual to have a woman attend the board meetings, not since the Gender Affirmation Act of 2041.” It was one in a series of sweeping ‘reforms’ that wiped away a century of civil gains by women. Opponents dubbed them the Demancipation Laws, until the Supreme Court banned such criticism. Ju’s attendance at the board meeting was not strictly illegal, but it would no doubt attract attention.  

            She fluttered her lashes at Bernadotte, tilted her head in a certain way. Fun.

            “Unusual, but not unpleasant.”

           Owen’s chair rose an inch or two taller than the rest of the board members. It was a subtle trick, backed by bravado. “Ju will be attending all of our meetings, gentlemen. My new bride is our secret weapon. I should say, my secret weapon.”

            She offered a girlish laugh and said, “I look forward to getting to know each of you.”

 

June 16, 2070 – Con-Fed Shareholders Report, Sol System Multicast

            Standing backstage, she felt exhilaration, and something else. It was like driving with the brakes on. Some fizzy-rainbow-colored memory called to her. It refused to come into full focus. With a conscious will, Ju quieted the memory, set it aside.

            Sensor-bots swooped and buzzed around the enormous space, recording the spectacle and casting it throughout Con-Fed’s empire, both on and off-world.

           “It is with both gratitude and maybe a touch of chagrin that we post our projection for the coming quarter, reflecting an increase of no less than thirty-three percent.” Center stage, newly anointed CFO Imogen Bricault drew thunderous applause from the balcony to the mezzanine. The move to replace Serge Andreev with Imogen violated a dozen multi-sector laws, but Ju wasn’t worried. Generous gifts were at that moment appearing in the accounts of the people who might object.

            Imogen had gone all out, not only renting The Fox Theatre but springing for a massive clean-up and renovation of the beloved Byzantine monstrosity. With its onion dome, curious use of both Islamic and Egyptian architecture, and plush red velvet seats, it was the ideal location for such a grandiose announcement. If Ju’s bold changes yielded the expected profits, this overblown conference would be merely a line on the ledgers.

            The official ledgers, that is, Ju thought.

            Imogen was skilled at working the crowd, feeding them emotional highs and lows in rapid succession. The officers, shareholders, and other assorted parasites had smelled money. Now, it was time to blow their minds.

            Imogen turned to the wings and motioned for Ju to step on stage. “To explain the reason for our success, and perhaps hint at things to come, I present Con-Fed’s Chairman of the Board and CEO, Forbes Magazine’s first Woman of the Year in decades, and nominee for Nobel Prize for Economics: Wang! Ju Hua!”

             The Fabulous Fox shook under the assault of clapping and foot stomping, its exotic eastern décor rattling with joy born of pure greed.

            “This has been a difficult time for the Con-Fed family. We have lost a great visionary, and I have lost my husband. I cannot replace the inimitable Owen Whitlaw, or indeed my friend and our head of Special Projects David Grinstein. And I promise you, we will get to the bottom of what happened in the city lock-up.  

           “Let us focus not on the past but on the future! Con-Fed is poised to move into new territory. We are going to do what no other industry has ever done. We are going to move in one fell swoop from a consumer-driven company to one that supplies all the labor that will ever be needed to clean up the Earth.” She waited for her words to sink in. And sink. And sink. “It’s so quiet, you can hear a stock drop.”

            No laughter.

            Ju waited one more beat. “I give you Project Re-Gen.”

            From behind the curtain stepped a young man, biologically a teen in fact, a mop of dark hair tumbling roguishly into his vacant eyes. The theater filled with muffled confusion, a noise something akin to bringing the ocean to a boil – which had happened twice in recent years.

            “I see some of you recognize this handsome young man,” Ju teased. The face was correct yet unfinished. Absent were the deep worry lines carved by late night meetings and cold-blooded business maneuvers. Here were the eyes of an innocent, not those of a predator. Even so, many in the audience knew who this was. “Owen Whitlaw. Of course, Owen signed over his complete fortune and business control to me in the event of his death. No need to worry. Thanks to the work of Dr. Grinstein, Re-Gen now makes death itself irrelevant.” Nervous applause. The proof is in front of you. “Trust me. This new technology is everything we could hope for. It has resurrected the greatest financial figure of our time!” Now the applause rose. She waited a suitable period before continuing. “I will be happy to turn the company back over to my beloved husband, as soon as he completes his re-orientation program. Con-Fed has set up a special facility, the best anywhere. It’s on Mars.” Say hello to Bao.

            Imogen took over for a moment. “Re-Gen is literally a fresh start. We are making all arrangements now to process illegal immigrants whose sorry future would consist of life in work camps. Thanks to Re-Gen, the world will enjoy a bounty of cheap Re-Genned labor without the burden of unwanted cultural pollution.”

            No one breathed. You boys like that idea, don’t you?

            “This is good for our bottom line, but not good enough,” Imogen continued. “And so, we have another plan. Our diamond-level client list will consist the world’s wealthiest individuals. Our price: half. Half of whatever they own. And they will pay it. Con-Fed will be there at their death bed… or perhaps a little sooner – depending on their wishes… to usher them into a new lifetime. A new beginning. A new –” 

            “Do we have a moral right to do this?” a voice called up from the gallery. No one responded.

            “Let me show you our moral imperative.” She keyed in the big screen behind her which displayed a number with zeroes that went on forever. “Let’s hear it!” The cheers were deafening.

            Ju’s smile lit up the theater. Imogen smiled broadly as well. Sweet, loyal Imogen. Such a shame.

 

Spring 2069 – Con-Fed Labs, Sub-Basement 4

            Boundless time meant pain. She was love. Why wouldn’t anyone understand? And what else did love become when it was isolated, frustrated, both in the giving and receiving? Love withheld was pain. Pain prolonged was anger. Anger fermented into a chill resolve.

            The room beyond her glass frontier was filled with elaborate machinery connected to a lengthy row of upright cylinders. A few were filled with amber liquid or gas the color of day sky. She almost remembered that color, or felt she should know it. Her own tube was filled with a clear liquid, good and nourishing. It warped all things in her field of view and occasionally gifted her with a rainbow when the lighting was just so.  

            Rainbows. Blue skies. She knew what they were, but she should remember them. Why can’t I remember seeing a rainbow?

            The room seemed purely functional, except for one odd touch. Someone had hung a dozen framed magazine covers from the Golden Age of Pulp. Their lurid titles promised Uncanny Tales, Planet Stories, and Fantastic Science Fiction. Each cover was a variation on a theme, showing a nude woman, or perhaps several scantily-clad women, trapped inside glass tubes. Human, green, part-animal, but all well-developed women. Some of the tube detainees pounded on the glass to get out. Others hung suspended in liquid. Some were in chains. Most of the covers included a mad scientist, sometimes an alien being from another world, but often a human. All men. All outside, leering in at the women in the glass tubes.

            “Not much longer now,” a male voice said. She understood the words. She remembered words feeling natural to her. While she grasped the meaning, it required effort.

            “Good. Good. She’s lovely.” She tried to open her eyes at the sound of a second voice. This one was older than the first. How did she know that? It was also familiar. How did she know that?

            Ju wanted to respond. In her world’s amniotic atmosphere, her vocal cords stalled. Gradually, her tongue and lips mouthed: Let me out. She could feel now. And she could remember. There had been a time before she herself existed, floating in a glass tube. Yes, time was beginning to register.

            Slowly, Ju became accustomed to her reality, or rather, it explained itself via information inputs chosen by her keeper, Dr. David Grinstein. She comprehended “lab,” “high stakes,” and “secrecy” as recurring themes, reinforced into her mind. She sensed her connection to the sources. This was interesting. Ochre, emerald, tangerine, a dozen more colored globes, each signifying a special part of her. Love was red, of course. Other colors signified intellect, compassion, hope, integrity, and other qualities. Was it really possible to distill such things into light? She could make the colored globes brighten or dim, depending on her mood and preferences. From inside her glass tube, she passed the long days and nights exploring this curious ability. 

            Empowered with some context, she identified date markers on various readouts and noted the speed with which days and months passed. Time became concrete. It was early June when Dr. David and the other man stood together before her and Dr. David thumbed a button on a remote.

            The warm buoyancy vanished from her world, slipping into a ring of drain holes that opened around her naked feet. She crumpled to the bottom of her tube, and for a moment it felt as though she were dying. Her eardrums ached, and her eyes would not stop crying. Suddenly, the glass frontier she had known all of her life crackled and then exploded harmlessly. Glistering diamonds showered down, littering her hair and shoulders.

            “Happy birthday, my dear.” It was the older voice. Ju opened her eyes, blinking away the remnants of viscous fluid. The speaker was a man in his sixties, sparse silver hair flattened to his scalp with a gel redolent of sharp spices only a man would choose. This added to the overall severity of a man who stood martinet-straight.

            The man reached out a hand to help her up. He also offered her a towel and a soft robe to cover her nakedness. Ju accepted both but said nothing.

            She knew Dr. David. He was the one who talked to her when no one else was around. He told her she was “one of a kind and full of surprises.” Dr. David was talking to Mr. Owen Herbert Whitlaw. She had seen his image and name on one of the screens.

            “She has a genius-level intellect,” Dr. David said. “She’ll beat your ass at any card game involving more than dumb luck, and I sure wouldn’t bet against her at chess.”

            “Splendid,” said Mr. Owen. His eyes positively glowed as he stared at her. Dr. David’s eyes shone the same way.

            “I know you,” Ju said and felt a sudden stabbing behind her eyes. There was dissonance here. She was Ju and she was – no, that memory was no longer hers.

            “How much does she remember?” Mr. Owen asked.

            Dr. David said, “Just enough to be an operative, well-rounded person. No specifics events or faces.”

            This was wrong, but Ju said nothing. She remembered abstracts. She remembered loud voices, her own and Mr. Owen’s. A terrible memory hovered at the edge of her senses. She raised her right hand to her right eye socket. No pain. The eye was still in place. Odd.

            “And the rest?” Mr. Owen asked in a vaguely specific way that the other clearly grasped.

            Dr. David cleared his throat. “There’s the… uh… the elevated libido, of course.”

            Of course. Hmm. I’m a sex doll.

            Dr. David went on. “She has precise control over her pheromones. Between that and tweaked cognitive perceptions, what you’d call insights, she’ll be able to both read and manipulate any man she chooses. Those skills may also be turned to,” a conflicted or pained look, “recreational usage. Finally, I’ve programmed in certain restraints for your protection.”

            These restraints, David? Behind the men, a chartreuse-colored globe dimmed.

            “Indeed.” Mr. Owen smiled and leaned in closer to her. “You are Ju now. It means pretty flower.”

            Ju Hua means chrysanthemum, a symbol of power.

           Mr. Owen kissed her full on the lips, inserting his tongue into her mouth. It was a familiar sensation, at once pleasant and unpleasant. “You are my joy and my secret weapon.”

 

New Year’s Eve 2069, 11:24 pm – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142

            David and Ju found a quiet corner. “Your plan is brilliant, of course. I’m not quite sure how you’ll convince the shareholders, but I support you. You know that.”

            Sweet David. Sweet, sweet David.

            If only Owen, whom she loved dearly, were as open-minded. What has to happen has to happen, she told herself, steeling her nerves for what was to come.

           Ju went into Owen’s office where he was reviewing his private files. She opened the conversation by thanking him for letting the men “do boy things tonight” as she had suggested earlier. Owen laughed and confirmed the settings on his desk terminal.

            A pleasant mood established, she eased into her main subject. Choosing her words with care, she paused to allow certain fine points to sink in. Owen listened until she finished. Then he slowly rose from behind his desk.

            “What are you?” Owen asked. It was not a question but an accusation. The abrupt change in him fired electricity into her nervous system.

            Don’t look at me that way, my love. Remember the Moon. Oh, dear Owen, remember the Moon.

            Owen was shouting. Refusing. Turning himself off to her. “I knew Grinstein’s damned machine could do things, but this! People call me ruthless, but you? You put me to shame.” She smiled, fixing her special gaze at him, and reached out one hand. “That’s close enough! Don’t try your witchy tricks. It was fun, Ju, but you’ve spoiled it with this willfulness. It’s so unladylike.”

            Owen reached for a hardwood club resting on pegs by a label marked ‘Waddy. Australia. c1899.’ He swung it fast enough to make it whistle even as he circled, forcing her to pivot. He moved. She moved as best she could but found her retreat blocked by Charlemagne. Owen was the nimble bishop hazarding the queen.

              “Dr. Grinstein’s process seems to have slipped. My Bao has returned to me after all. Perhaps you and I should take a trip downstairs and try again.” He slapped the bulbous end of the waddy into his palm. “It’s just like old times, eh?”

            Disoriented by their dance macabre, she regained her bearings with the help of Klimt until she found herself brushing against Owen’s weapons collection. Something sharp jabbed her arm just above her long silk glove. Owen was smiling, closing in, raising the club. She reached one hand behind her, gingerly probing the gaps between blades and blunt objects, up and up until her fingers began to tingle.

 

January 1, 2070 12:35 a.m. – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142

            The tech support officer’s lips never moved. Gleaming bits poking through his police uniform, he was transport only. Detective Sergeant 800/714 was identifiable via the service number engraved on various implants on the TSO’s head and body.

            It was the detective who spoke. “The decedent: one Owen Herbert Whitlaw. Apparent cause of death: a bolt from a vintage Schatten t.63, recovered at the scene. Weapon has been cross-identified as the same item used in the liquidation of four female rights agitators February 22, 2061, that investigation now being closed and the weapon having been sold at auction to one Owen H. Whitlaw, the victim.” The TSO held the murder weapon in a gloved hand.

            Ju was crying genuine tears. She’d gone from birth to marriage to widowhood in a matter of months. It was so much to process. And she wasn’t done.

            Imogen was there to comfort her, thank goodness. “Detective, there’s no need to leave poor Mr. Whitlaw on display like this, is there?” she asked.

            The detective took one final scan then said, “Forensics are complete.”

            “Good,” Imogen said. With a nod to Ju, she called for two strong company employees to put the body on a gurney. “Use the Onyx Elevator.” Wisp of a woman as she was, she took charge and got things done. Imogen was an invaluable asset in this troubling moment.

            David spoke up, pointing a finger at the dark man in spotless white livery. “I saw this man come into Owen’s office.”

            “And you are?” DS800/714’s tinny voice asked.

            “Dr. David Grinstein, head of Special Projects for Con-Fed. I saw this immigrant come into the office. Isn’t that right, Ju – Mrs. Whitlaw?”

            “Yes, Dr. Grinstein is correct. This company has many valuable projects underway. Anyone might kill for the chance to steal company data and sell it for a fortune. My husband could be lax about his own security. Power gave him a sense of invulnerability, I suppose.”

            David patted her hand. “Yes, she’s right. So, when I saw this… individual step into the office, I decided to follow him. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Whitlaw?”

            Ju was sobbing now. “Yes, detective. That’s how it happened,” she managed. “Dr. Grinstein entered after the waiter.”

            “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Ngoti?” the detective asked the waiter.

            The man was steely-eyed and calm, having regained his composure following his initial outburst over the grim discovery. “It is as I told you.”

            “Nice accent,” David mumbled loud enough for the others to hear. “Where’s that from? South US Sector by way of East Africa Sector?”

           Ngoti brushed off the snarled comment. He spoke to the detective. “I was instructed to bring Mr. Whitlaw a bottle of champagne.” He gestured to the ice bucket and unopened bottle on the bar. “When I came in, he was dead. I did not shoot him. I am Sunni. Such violence is forbidden by the Quran.”

             David chuckled. “Blah, blah, blah!”

            “Dr. Grinstein, please,” the detective said in a tone that swapped out irritation in favor of steely precision. The TSO turned back to Ngoti, and DS800/714 asked, “So, you say Mr. Whitlaw called for you to bring him the champagne?”  

            David took Ju’s hand and gently squeezed it, then kept holding it.

            “No,” said Ngoti. “It was Dr. Grinstein here who told me to bring the bottle.”

            “That’s ridiculous. An obvious lie. I’ve never once spoken to this… murderer. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Whitlaw?”

            “Uh…” Ju hesitated.

            “You have something to contribute, Mrs. Whitlaw?”

            She pulled her hand from David’s grasp. “David – Dr. Grinstein told the waiter to bring the champagne. I saw him.”

            “Ju!”

            DS800/714 processed quietly. “Probabilities suggest a new timeline. Officer, if you will.” The TSO held up the Schatten t.63 in his gloved hands.

            DS800/714 whirred and issued a kind of a whistle sound. “Yes, I am detecting prints. Comparing them now to files of all persons in this building.”

            David blurted out, “Owen loved to show off his collection. He must have let me hold that old plasma gun a dozen times. It was his favorite. Those prints could have gotten there months ago.”

            “Biological oils and perspiration are fresh.” Sensor tracers lit David’s face, and another tone sounded. “These match the sweat you are now excreting in profusion, Dr. Grinstein. The owner of these fingerprints handled this weapon proximate to the time of the murder.” A chime rang from DS800/714’s casing mounted on the side of the TSO’s skull. “Complete. I have scanned the prints and compared them to those on file.” Two police drones buzzed into the room, red tally lights glowing menacingly. DS800/714’s dispassionate voice continued, “Dr. Grinstein, I advise you to make no sudden moves. You will come with us.”

            David’s eyes went wide. He looked to Ju, who faced away, her shoulders shaking with emotion.    

 

May 22, 2070 – Con-Fed Labs

            Stocks flitted on the descending elevator’s wall screens like happy butterflies, while new accounts bloomed like prize roses. The client list was one percent of one percent of everyone. Small in numbers, perhaps, but enormous in wealth. And soon, half of that money would change hands. The stock numbers rose with alacrity as the Onyx Elevator passed the ground floor and kept going. The doors shooshed open on sub-basement 4.

            “Hello,” Ju said, though, of course, the framed magazine covers on the walls did not answer. Ju felt a certain kinship with these fantasy women in glass tubes. She had found freedom, and she carried a score to repay on behalf of the others.

            Her beloved red globe offered a cheery glow. Ju loved everyone, and had such lovely plans for everyone. Of the other spheres, one or two shone bright, while others faltered. These globes once threw cheery rainbows into the fluid in the tubes. Her rainbows were gone now.  

            The lab held a fine harvest of new faces, including Conrad, Serge, David, and, regrettably, Imogen. It was essential to trim back the number of people who knew about this lab and what happened here. Meanwhile, Con-Fed ran just fine, now that it had a strong woman in charge. New tube farms were springing up everywhere with women taking up the top posts. Slowly, Ju would move the pendulum for all women.    

            She refined David’s process, of course. A Re-Genned person would not suffer the nagging sense of loss which had troubled her early on. No ghosts of a past life. She’d also lowered the cognition factor noticeably. They would be exemplary workers, not at all uppity.

            Con-Fed would have all the labor it needed to replant the burned croplands in a matter of months, for a price, of course. Must keep the shareholders happy so they don’t ask questions. Then on to other projects: detoxifying the oceans, carbon mitigation, urban deconstruction, population optimization. Finally, there were the off-world settlements. Mars. Titan Station. The Mines of Ceres. Billions would benefit throughout Sol System. A handful would become very rich.

            Ju spoke aloud for the benefit of the bodies inhabiting the glass tubes around her. “Men need something to keep them busy. Otherwise, who knows what mischief they might get up to?”

###

 

         If you've enjoyed this story, then I hope you'll check out Skinners - A Love Story

which also explores some... interesting choices we humans make.

https://www.amazon.com/Skinners-Love-Story-Riker/dp/B0C534L136/

Details

Published: 27 November 2024

 

     There's a lot we don't know about witches... which is... probably because there's a lot we don't know about each other. Just for fun, do you know which is -- urm which are the most like signs of the zodiac for witchy behaviour? Take a look:

https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/3-zodiac-signs-most-likely-121200479.html

     In my novel, Goody Celeste, Cece the witch helps Paul and his friends understand just a little more about women, people, and life in general. It's a fun read for anyone dreaming of magic under the summer sun...

 https://www.amazon.com/Goody-Celeste-Chris-Riker/dp/1665307072/

 

Details

Published: 22 November 2024

    

 

     Alexander the Great knew a thing or two about image. He wore his hair reddish-blonde in his younger years, but when it came time to impress his newly conquered Persian Empire, it was off the to hairdresser to get some luxuriant black curls. Now, we're learning more about his wardrobe...

https://www.livescience.com/archaeology/purple-tunic-from-royal-tomb-belonged-to-alexander-the-great-scholar-claims-but-not-everyone-agrees

     If you want a wild ride back to 331 BC with an ambitious actor looking to really get to know Alexander the Great -- and I mean really get to know him -- check out Alexander and the Butcher. There's a preview elsewhere on this site, or just click your way to glory:

https://www.amazon.com/Alexander-Butcher-Chris-Riker-ebook/dp/B0D7PKZHJN

 

Details

Published: 09 November 2024

            K’ktlrtq – So hungry. *palps testing strands* Come. Come, aphids. Come, juicy ’squitoes. Gnats, welcome, one and all. Patience. Work done. Much work. Good work. Trap is strong. Patience. *slit sensilla awaiting movement*

            Mason loved the subtle shift in the autumnal rhythms, the ever-surprising face of nature, but how he dreaded this annual chore. Every year at this time, the Carey porch stood laced with their geometric abattoirs. This year had brought a fine bunch, indeed. Gossamer streamers ran from the hanging light to the bannisters and posts, to the trim, and to the front door itself. Speckled throughout the elegant silk ladders were uncounted corpselets. The happy diners were argiope aurantia, yellow garden spiders. They were ghastly, shocking even, but mostly harmless.

            Mason raised his broom then froze.

            “They aren’t hurting anyone,” he called into the house.

            Bettina called back, “They’re disgusting, that’s enough. They make my skin crawl. The girls will be here any minute, including Shelby,” (the plant manager’s wife!) “and I don’t want those gross things on my porch.”

            There was no getting out of it. He was helplessly snared in domestic servitude. Mason took his best swing, ripping away hours of work on the part of the biggest yellow-and-black brute. Down came the skein of death along with its macabre ornaments. Mason hung the business end of the broom over the railing and shook it violently in a vain attempt to dump the sticky webbing.

            “Whoa! Watch out!” It was Bettina’s friends coming up the walk. The three of them climbed the porch stairs, chattering and making faces at the remaining webs.

            “Missed a few,” Shelby said, pointing and shivering. “You do know we make sprays, right?”

            Mason did know, of course. He’d been at the Doraville plant long enough. He didn’t trust the sprays they made there; he knew what nasty crap went into them. Besides, he had the broom. He struck a heroic pose, holding out his weapon in the direction of the spiders. “You shall not pass!”

            Unimpressed, the women filed by him and into his home. Bettina’s home. Mason’s shoulders slouched. Just then, he felt something on the back of his hand, the one holding the broom. It was yellow and black and looking up at him with eight eyes as dark as shadows in a grave.

           K’ktlrtq – Web spoiler! *cephalothorax up* Hate. *chelicerae displayed* Bite? Bite? Juicy. No. Too big. Patience.

            A toddler’s scream escaped Mason’s middle-aged mouth. He threw the broom to the floor of the porch with a clatter. He shook his hand, half-hoping it would detach from his wrist. Anything, as long as he got rid of the damned spider. Instead, the thing jumped and made a soft landing, scurrying under a warped baseboard before Mason could stomp on it. Its fellow spiders hung around, unperturbed, waiting for free food to land in their webs.

            “You all right out there?” his wife called.

            “Fine, baby.”

            One of the women giggled, “You should call an exterminator.”

            Resignedly, Mason went inside and headed to the kitchen. He’d finish his chore with a beer in hand.

            K’ktlrtq – So hungry. Climb. Choose anchor points. *spinnerets active* Spray silk. Busy. Busy. Busy. Rebuild. So hungry. Patience.

***

            Fhftkk – Corner. Hidden. Be the secret. Observe. Learn. Patience.

            A good fifteen years his junior, Operations Chief Dagmar Metcalf ruled from the corner office. She’d strategically placed several Dawgs pennants and other memorabilia around the room. It was no small coincidence that Dagmar and the plant manager were both UGA alum. One picture showed them chumming it up with Herschel Walker. Mason had graduated from Georgia Tech with a Masters of Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering. He could have been a Rambling Wreck, except he hated football.

            “So, I see you’ve been with us for nine years now… Mason.” That pause. Had she really had to glance at his file to get his name?

            “Yes,” he said. He’d spent eleven years here at Achlys Global, after finishing two stints as an Army MP and then getting his degree. AchGlo had given him a few important jobs over the years, but mainly he handled shift work, running quality control, inventory, even manning the loading docks when needed. He was hungry for something challenging.

             “You have decent credentials.” She leaned back behind her mahogany desk in her chair – a five-thousand-dollar item, according to the rumor mill. “I’m putting you on The Team.” There were forty or fifty teams at AchGlo, but only one was The Team. It was the company’s best R&D squad. Each of the eight members of The Team were wrapped up mummy-tight in NDAs. Rumors cut paper, however, and there was talk of an impending breakthrough. Some new bug spray that would leave the competition flat on its back with its legs twitching in the air. Being king of the mountain meant owning it. Bug Mountain was made of solid gold.

            “Walk with me.”

            The two made their way down to the plant floor. It was a cyclopean space of tanks and pipes and workers in protective clothing. Mason and Dagmar donned lightweight masks. They boarded a utility cart and rode the length of the installation.

            “The Dawgs could play four national championships in here end to end!” Dagmar joked. The quip made little sense, but Mason laughed as sincerely as he could manage.

            The cart pulled up to a reinforced steel hatch. Dagmar pulled out her phone and keyed in the code. The two-ton, twenty-foot steel maw yawned, and they drove into a white void. The walls of the air lock were featureless. Mason spotted the faint outline of a door, but there was no handle on this side.

            The vault door closed behind them.

            A moment later, the inner door’s latch clicked and they stepped inside. It was a conventional-looking lab. The equipment was a mix of state-of-the-industry mecha and two or three set-ups he did not recognize, the real cutting-edge stuff.

            A man and a woman approached them, dressed in casual clothes. The man wore a bright red Spider-Man t-shirt and Birkenstocks. Mason and Dagmar took off their protective masks.

            The woman technician spoke. “So, you’re Nyumah’s replacement. Carey. Good to have you.” They shook hands. The woman’s badge read Dr. E.B. Hols. “You’ll meet the others in passing.”

            “Welcome to… the lair,” Spider-Man said with a delicious Saturday Night Movie Macabre inflection. 

            “I’m excited to join The Team. I’ve heard so little about you.” It was a joke.

            “I hope so,” Dr. Hols said with not so much as a grin.

            “Which reminds me: shouldn’t I have signed something to get in here?”

            Dr. Hols said, “Getting in is easy. You have to sign your name in blood before we let you go home again.” That was not a joke. “Let me show you why.”

            The tour took them from lab to lab, each redolent of plastics and disinfectant. Dr. Hols explained how the isolation protocols allowed them to seal off the three most sensitive chambers. As promised, Mason said a quick hello to the others: Ryu, Poquelin, Deloitte, Armagh, and Smed, who insisted on being called Arlene though her badge read Donald. Compared to them, Mason was an old fart.

            Each lab had a generous supply of the latest screen devices. Every screen displayed the company logo. Eager to show his proficiency with most of the equipment, Mason blurted out detailed descriptions of each gadget before Dr. Hols had the chance. In a purple-themed room, however, Mason said, “Hello. What is this beauty?” He stepped over to a chamber containing ultra-fine articulating arms and bespoke utensils mounted in the ceiling. On a table inside were small clear containers, alive with activity.

            “Keen eye,” Dr. Hols said. “We call the rig Nidhogg.”

            “The hungry dragon,” Dagmar added helpfully.

            Mason didn’t need the help. “Insatiable, is more like it. Everything reflected in Nidhogg’s eyes was food to Nidhogg. Even corpses. So the old stories go.”

            “Indeed.”

            “Any idea how many insects there are on Earth, Carey?” the man in the Spider-Man shirt and Birkenstocks asked. He wasn’t wearing his badge, and Mason had already forgotten which name belonged to him.

            Mason did know the answer to that question. It was a number he saw in his nightmares. “A lot,” he said glibly.

            “That many,” said Spider-Man, pointing to a plaque mounted inside the chamber. It read: 10,000,000,000,000,000,000. “Ten quintillion.”

            Mason suppressed a shudder. “Like I said, a lot. In fact, I got into the bug-killing business because my father ran into a few thousand brown widows. They killed off a mess of our herd over the years. The sprays didn’t slow them down much. They’d developed a resistance. In the end, the losses broke him.”

            “Exactly,” Dr. Hols said. “That’s the downside. Bugs adapt quickly. Too quickly.”

            Mason amplified her thought. “Besides, our sprays tend to kill good insects along with the destructive ones. The worldwide bee population –”

            Putting a firm hand on his should, Dagmar said, “This is the wrong room for bee-hugger propaganda, Mason.”

            Mason shut up.

            “Of course, most of the Doraville plant is given over to finding the perfect bug spray. Sprays for household roaches, sprays for farm pests, sprays for anything we don’t like to think about crawling around in the dark.” Dr. Hols spread her arms wide. “The problem is they’re building up resistance. Fast! This lab has a different mission. Here, we are learning to harness the greatest bug control on Earth.” She nodded to Spider-Man.

            He touched something, and every screen came alive with data. It was more than Mason could take in at a glance, of course, but the theme was unmistakable. It matched the specimens in the small clear containers inside Nidhogg.

            “Spiders,” Mason sighed.

            “Spiders,” Dr. Hols confirmed.

            Mason straightened his back. “Hungry spiders.”

            His new colleagues laughed. Dagmar patted him on the back.

            Dr. Hols said, “Welcome to The Team!”

***

            Mason came home to chaos. The school had suspended Chas for threatening another student.

            “He’s a douche. I just said I wish he would choke to death. What? I didn’t even touch him,” the boy pleaded.

            “Good one, bro,” his younger sister Cheanna chided. “On the bus in front of everyone. They recorded it. You’re famous.” She held up her phone and played the news clip.

            Bettina urged Mason to deal with Chas. “He needs to learn the right way to be assertive – if you think you can handle that job.”

            Mason dutifully took Chas aside and read him the riot act. Chas contritely agreed to “never do it again,” then put his earbuds back in and went to his room.

            It wasn’t until dinner was over that Mason got the chance to break the news to the family. “I got a promotion. I can’t tell you the details – you wouldn’t believe the pile of papers I had to sign.”

            “You’re on the Spider Squad,” Bettina laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry… The Team. Shelby told us.” Us. The other women knew, too? Well, if this blew back in his face, he could honestly say he was not the source of the leak.

             It was funny how some things got out.

***

             DNA manipulation was not on Mason’s CV; however, he knew all about finding the right biochemical catalyst to support the action. He decided it was worthwhile to socialize, to talk shop and learn where his skills landed him in the pecking order.

             After work, he asked his fellow grunts out for a beer at The Three Dollar Café on Chamblee Tucker Road. Carl Deloitte and Tomiko Ryu were making eyes at each other. They stayed for one quick drink then made convenient excuses and took off. They were cute. The others let it go with a few raised eyebrows. That left Mason with Arlene Smed, Spider-Pete (his name really was Peter!), and Sean Armagh, a nervous type who looked like he cut his own hair.

             By her second brew, Arlene was a total chatterbox. “It’s all rough numbers, of course. Kinda tricky to count the footprints and divide by eight. Still, our best guess is that spiders alone number 21 quadrillion. That’s nearly three million spiders per human being. Each spider can eat its own body weight in ten days, hundreds of millions of tons per year. They could devour the human race down to the last pinky toe in just one year.” She gulped down some pills to “even things out. Adrenaline messes with the hormones.”

             He decided not to ask her whether mixing beer and pills was a good idea. Instead, he egged her on, since she seemed determined to ignore his expertise and transplain spiders to him. “We’re still here.”

            “The only reason they don’t chow down on us,” Arlene continued, “is because, luckily, they like to eat each other and other bugs.”

            Mason said, “And we’re fiddling with that.”

            Sean butted in, saying, “We have to. Our projections show insecticides will be useless within a decade, at least at concentrations that won’t instantly kill humans, too. So… the plan is to tweak the spiders’ natural propensities. We boost certain innate skills and increase their appetites and make them prefer the bugs we choose for them to munch.”

            Spider-Pete said, “We’ve been focusing on two very different hunters. Carolina Wolf Spiders and Black Widows.”

            “Two nasty bastards.”

            Dqtkyb – *spinnerets busy* Lower. Lower. Lower. Human drink. Mmmmm. *drop*

            Sean leapt up from his stool, spit out his beer, and cursed loudly enough to turn heads. The bartender brought him a replacement drink.

***

            By the third week, they were ready for a key trial.

            “If PETA comes knocking, Dagmar will have your peen in a pickle jar,” Spider-Pete told Mason. He wasn’t kidding. Today, he’d switched his ensemble to a Venom hoodie.

            “Your closet gives me nightmares,” Tomiko said dryly. “The labs came back. The key markers all read stable. Your arachnaegoo seems to have worked, Mason.” The gang applauded, and he took a bow.

            “I have one question,” Mason ventured. Two of his teammates were rigging Nidhogg with a new test subject, a chicken. “The idea is to get the spiders to eat bad bugs. Should we be testing these spiders on animals we ourselves like to eat?”

            “Odile?” Dr. Hols directed the question to the cute (watch it, Mason!) triple-masters tech, Dr. Odile Poquelin, the project’s rock star.

            “Ça roule. I’ve already mapped the tactile response chromosome pairs in the hogna carolinesnsis’ genome. That should have taken my lifetime, but I want my first Nobel Prize before I hit thirty, so I designed that AI unit in the corner. One-of-a-kind.”

            Arlene added, “We call it The Count. ‘1-2-3 chromosome pairs... ah-ah-ah.’”

            These kids were watching Sesame Street up til last week, Mason thought.

            “I broke the code. C’est moi,” Odile beamed. “Then I had to get the nucleic acid chain to hang together long enough to yield a fertile Wolf ovum. The magic spidey jizz – that’s the scientific name we’ll write in the journals – appears to have given us this. If all goes well today, these spiders should be even better than the earlier batches. Now, we test our latest enhancement to appetite. Then we’ll destroy this batch and program the next bunch with the right menu. We should probably make them mules while we’re at it. Sterile. Extra safety precaution.”

            Mason tried not to smirk. Ravenous, impotent spiders. Odile’s French accent somehow made it all sound sexy.

            “Nothing left to chance,” Dr. Hols said.

            “And don’t worry, Mason,” added Spider-Pete. “After our test subjects go to work on Henny Penny, you’ll swear off KFC for life.”

            “Clear!” Dr. Hols called. Odile and Arlene did one last visual check of the test chamber. “I said clear!” Both cursed and hurried out just as the door sealed behind them.

            The hapless chicken was chained by its ankle to the tabletop. It appeared oblivious to the mess it had made and to everything to come.

            “Whenever you’re ready, Pete.”

            Spider-Pete grinned. He poked at his pad. “10-9-8-7- psych!” He punched a red square on the pad.

            Two feet from the chicken, a small door opened on a carefully-designed box. At first, nothing happened. Cameras focused on every possible angle, in extreme close-up.

            Odile smiled. “You’re not délicat, are you, Mason?”

            “Moi?” he bluffed.

            The wolf spiders erupted from the opened box.

            Iktakk, Tf’fbkq, Yykgtt, Gmnntk, Tk’ks’sx, et al – Weeeee! Faster, Mama! Weeeee!

            They were normal enough in appearance, possessing a scraggly-haired brown body with a darker stripe down the abdomen, two eyes up front, two smaller eyes above and to the side, plus four more tiny ones in a third row below. This gruesomely efficient array sat atop two fang-like chelicerae with which it delivered venom. 

            The group, which numbered precisely one hundred forty-eight, surrounded the chicken. For a brief moment, the bird stood there looking stupid. Then, the arachnid army leaped into action. They easily jumped all over the chicken, which still failed to realize its situation. The Wolves began to move. Now, the chicken’s wings flapped wildly, and it began to squawk in an unholy manner. The spiders began sinking their fangs into its flesh, preparing to dine.

            Mason felt himself getting light-headed. “I grew up on a farm. I’ve seen my share of chickens eaten by coyotes. This is – different.” He hated chicken coops. He hated chickens, too, but he did not wish to see anything endure this.

            “No worse than being served up as McNuggets,” Dr. Hols said. “The end result is the same.”

            Spider-Pete said, “I think we have the data we need, right? I mean…”

            “I’m satisfied,” Odile said. The others looked up from their monitors and called out in the affirmative.

            “Very well,” Dr. Hols said, and Spider-Pete pressed another square on his pad. There was a loud hiss. The chamber decompressed in three seconds. The chicken flopped over. Air then refilled the small test chamber. The diners never missed a bite.

            “The spiders lived through that?” Mason asked.

            Carl explained, “The girls, yes.”

            “Girl power!” Tomiko said. “Eat those dead boys!”

            Carl winked at her. “Now, we just wait and see how long it takes them to… finish.”

            The carnage continued.

            Mason excused himself and found the restroom. Somehow, he did not hurl. “Thank you,” he said to the ceiling panels.

            As he was splashing water onto his face, a visitor descended from above on a slender line of its own making. Wiping himself with a wad of paper towel, Mason found himself face-to-face with the spider. It seemed to hover near him.

            Tkqrrt – Human. *cephalothorax up* Ugly.

            “What are you doing here?” Mason asked the little fellow.

            A hand slapped against the mirror. When Odile took her hand away, only a drop of dark fluid remained on the glass. “Not one of ours.” She washed her hands in the sink, using extra soap from the dispenser.

            Mason sighed, “I keep forgetting these are unisex bathrooms. Have to be careful.”

            “I’ve seen a 99-million-year-old daddy long legs frozen in amber with a… grosse érection. I don’t think you can make me blush.” She flashed him a killer smile.

***

          The following Thursday morning, Mason was busy running the numbers on his latest catalytic formulation when he went deaf. The research labs were extensive, and yet they were all contained, so the blast of the klaxons caused him to clutch his ears.

            Odile burst into the lab, white-faced. “Where’s Hols? She has to order this.”

            Spider-Pete came running in to see what was happening. “Hols is in lab two,” he said.

            All of them bolted in that direction. They found Dr. Hols on the phone with the plant manager. “We’re sealing the lab now.”

            Mason felt lost in all the excitement. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” he screamed, his final words continuing as a shout even as the alarm went silent. The flashing red lights over the doors and on every screen continued, however. So did his raging nerves.

            “Where are Armagh, and Smed?” Odile asked.

            “Here,” Sean called out. He stepped into the lab, followed closely by Arlene.

            Odile and Dr. Hols exchanged a charged look. 

            “Suit up! Now!” Dr. Hols ordered. The six of them made it to the locker room and began donning protective gear.

            They were now six.

            Tomiko and Carl? Mason wondered.

            “Odile, where are Ryu and Deloitte?” Dr. Hols demanded.

            Odile led them through a conventional door and into a storage room behind the main lab. The lights were out, so the team members used helmet torches. It was a mess in there. Everyone was in and out all day grabbing items without ever tidying up.

            “Behind that stack of supplies,” Odile said, pointing. She froze where she was, apparently unwilling to view for a second time whatever had caused all the panic.

            Mason soon regretted looking behind the stack. Judging by the sizes of the remains, this was Ryu and Deloitte. Black Widow spiders were swarming over what was left of Tomiko, who was a pale, desiccated husk shrouded in silk. Her mouth hung open in an impotent scream. Her empty eye sockets gave the impression of astonishment. There was no webbing on Carl’s body. Wolves had stripped all the soft tissue, leaving his legs and one hand oddly intact. They apparently hadn’t gotten to those yet. The hand was curiously crooked into a claw, a final expression of exquisite defeat and mortal resignation.

            It was Dr. Hols who summed up the situation. “I’d say we now have conclusive evidence our subjects can be made more ravenous than they are in nature.”

            “Our guys are really good in the dark. Terrific hunters,” Spider-Pete observed in a hollow manner that suggested his brain was on autopilot.

            Arlene was more pragmatic. “Let’s get out of here.” Without a word, they all backed out and shut the door. Several spiders followed them, coming out from under the storage room door. No one indulged in the urge to stomp them.

            “How did they escape?” Sean asked weakly. “I thought we count every spider, out and back into the holding boxes.”

            Odile said, “I programmed the computer to do head counts. It can track millions of individuals at once.”

            “Fuck!” agreed Mason. “Your pricey AI wasn’t smart enough to consider that some of those individuals were mothers with babies clinging to their cephalothoraxes. Over time, some got free. Hitched a ride in our clothes, maybe. Wolves and Widows! They’ve been breeding back here for weeks. Back here, and maybe…”

            “We’re screwed,” Arlene sighed. Dr. Hols made a stern face, but Arlene had merely said aloud what everyone else felt.  

            “Don’t think about it,” Odile echoed.

            “I am thinking about it.” It was Dagmar’s voice, coming over Dr. Hols’ phone. “I’m sending in a team. Secure your test subjects. Anything else will be killed.”

            As they made their way back to Nidhogg’s purple lab, they felt the vibration passing through the flooring. The lair’s outer hatch was opening. “Jesus, Dag! Shut that damn hatch!” Dr. Hols began frantically jabbing at her phone. Odile had called up a security camera from the white airlock. Two men in body armor were making their way inside. One carried a BCM Recce 16; the other had what looked like an army surplus flame-thrower. The fools did not close the main hatch behind them.

            Mason adjusted the security camera, zooming in on the white floor near the hatch. The resolution wasn’t high enough to be certain, but he thought he saw something moving. Long moments later, the giant hatch slowly swung closed again.

            The security team found their way to the scientists. “Where are they?” They demanded. Several of the scientists merely pointed in the direction of the storage room.

            P’kqtrg – Humans! *cephalothorax bobbing* Danger! Run, comrades! Save the spiderlings!

            The two men went to work, one spraying the area with flame; the other, unaccountably with bullets. Overhead foam sprinklers immediately doused the whole room, making visibility virtually impossible.

            P’kqtrg – No! Hate. Bad humans make fire and death. Now. We jump! Bite bad humans. Spoil bad humans’ things. We will –

            “You missed a spot, Erroll.”

            “The hell I did,” Erroll answered, unleashing another fiery blast, sending spiders, burned flesh, and foam everywhere.

***

            Thirty minutes later, the eight occupants of the lab sat in the break room. Two were smiling and happily eating sugary cakes from the machine. Their helmets and weapons lay on the table in front of them.

            “Burning that brood didn’t solve anything,” Dr. Hols said matter-of-factly.

            “Made me feel good,” said Erroll, an aging vet with tattoos on his neck. His buddy nodded.

            Dagmar was staring at them from several of the screens. “Due diligence. We’ll get you all out next, then we’ll finish the job. Incinerate the whole lab.”  

            “That would destroy the test subjects. At least three years’ work,” Dr. Hols protested.

            Dagmar insisted, “It can’t be helped. I want you to transfer all of the data from your laptop.”

            Dr. Hols sipped her coffee.

            “Eva? Did you hear me?”

            By way of reply, Dr. Eva Hols cut off the video call. The two security men were fidgeting and asking what was happening, as Dr. Hols reached into her side pouch and produced a neon pink pistol.

            “Jesus!” Erroll cried, even as he leveled the BCM at Dr. Hols and pulled the trigger.

            The automatic weapon made a muffled clicking sound. Something soft was blocking the internal action. Erroll looked down and ran one finger over the breach, turning it upwards to find a tiny stain.

            In a single, smooth motion, Dr. Hols aimed her pistol and shot both security officers in the head. They fell like unstrung puppets.

            Mason’s mouth hung open. No one said a word.

            They moved back to the purple lab.

            “3D printer,” Spider-Pete observed as soon as he could get the words out. “But, the bullets?”

            “My little secret,” Dr. Hols replied, slipping the pink pistol into her lab coat pocket.

             Mason stared at her. “Wh-Why?”

            “If I had turned over the data, they’d be just as dead. So would all of us.”

            Odile amplified Mason’s worst fears. “Fail-safe. We work inside an incinerator. Five-thousand degrees. It would get the spiders, the eggs, everything.”

            “Including us,” Mason said.

            Sean fell into his chair.  

            Dr. Hols continued, “I’m the only person on Earth who can release that data, or not. I have my own fail safe. Unless I key in my code every twelve hours, this laptop wipes it all. Poof!”

            They wound up repeating all of this for the sake of the well-dressed audience in the front office, including the plant manager and Dagmar.

            “Think about your families,” Dagmar spoke in a voice any predator would envy.

            “You leave them out of this!” Mason screamed, picturing Chas and Cheanna’s faces.

            “We’ll see,” Dagmar said, almost casually. “What’s your play, Eva?”

            “We wait, Dag,” Dr. Hols said. “I need to test some of our control methods. Meanwhile, I strongly suggest you seal the plant and bug bomb it. Fast.”

            The plant manager looked panicked. “You’re saying the plant has been compromised?”

            “Probably months ago. They’ve been hiding, but I think… they’re going to make themselves known. Soon.”

***

            They waited three full days and nights. No one got much sleep. They wanted to phone loved ones, but the plant’s wi-fi had vanished. Reception was spotty at best inside the shielded lab.

            “What if they get out?” Mason asked. “I mean, really get out. What if they start infesting Doraville and Atlanta and… everywhere? Is that it for humanity?” 

            “This can’t be the end of the world. It just can’t,” Sean insisted.

            “Why not? It’s got all the right ingredients: hubris, greed, stupidity.” Arlene put her fingers to her lips in a chef’s kiss. “But, no. Most likely what we have is a temporary anomaly among spiders. Hunger makes them bold, which makes them careless. Birds and some other critters get a crawly buffet. Moreover, if the Wolves and Widows don’t get their preferred meal, they’ll eat whatever’s closest – each other.”

            Dr. Hols added, “This is not evolution. We’ve created a temporary, invasive species. With luck, they’ll face extinction in the short-term. Say, a few decades or so.”

            “How many people will die in that time?” Mason asked, not expecting an answer and not getting one.

            “We’re doing what we can. The crews opened up every cannister of spray in the plant. Fortunately, we’re on a separate air supply.” That was three days ago. Dagmar and the plant manager had not offered much in the way of updates.

            “The poison will likely kill the boys,” Spider-Pete said.

            “What?” Mason asked.

            “I don’t know why, but the males are less resistant to insecticide,” Spider-Pete explained.

            Dr. Hols added, “Problem is, the gals are really good at holding their breath. Really good. In early chamber tests, evacuation killed about two thirds of the males. None of the females died. Not one.”

            Mason asked, “So… what the hell do we do?”

            “We gassed,” Dr. Hols said. “Now we stomp. The gals are bigger, easier to see. All we need is something to squish them.”

            “Not feet. Too many of ’em. You’d be covered in seconds,” Odile cautioned.

            “A front loader,” Sean suggested. “I think there’s one with really big spider-squishing tires parked near the vault door. Anyone ever driven one?”

             The others stood blank-eyed. Dr. Hols turned to Mason. “It’s in your CV.”

             Mason said, “Wonderful.”

             “Our specimens group together rather than scattering like regular spiders. They hunt in packs. That plant has a poured concrete floor, so they can’t dig down. They’ll be hiding in the fixtures and machinery.”

             Odile said, “We need something to draw them all out.”

            “You mean food,” Mason said.

            “Right.”

            He sighed. “I taste like chicken.”

           Tkjrr’q – Humans busy. Busy. Busy. Hate. So hungry.

            They put on Mason’s protective suit, then added duct tape and various sheets of material until he looked like the Michelan Man. “I need to be able to move, guys!”

            Lastly, Odile helped him strap on a large canister sprayer. “It’s stronger than anything out there in the plant. My own recipe. Not strictly FDA-approved. It’s a last resort, though, and don’t get any on your suit. It’ll linger, and when you take the suit off…”

            Mason got it. If he used this crap, he’d be as dead as the bugs.

            “You’ll need this,” Dr. Hols said, handing him her pink pistol. “I’ve loaded nine shots. I doubt you’ll want to take a glove off to reload.”

            “You think I can kill a million spiders with nine shots?”

            “It’s not for the spiders,” Dr. Hols said.

            Spider-Pete said, “Good luck.”

            Mason made his way to the white air lock, and then out beyond.

            The plant was a tomb. Nothing moved. At least, nothing he could see. Only the emergency back-up lights were on, leaving large regions in shadow, especially overhead. They’d strapped two super-bright torches on his helmet. He began to look around.

            The first thing he found was the front-loader forklift, parked where he’d expected. He found the smart key in the cupholder. Lazy, but welcome. Mason started the front loader.

            “So, I just drive in circles, squishing bugs?” He spoke into his phone, which he wedged into a holder mounted on the dash.

            “They’ll come for you,” Dr. Hols’ image answered. “Drive and brush. Drive and brush.” She mimed swatting spiders from her sleeve. “I don’t know how long it will take them to burrow through that suit, but they will try. I wouldn’t give it more than twenty minutes tops. Once you feel a sharp, burning sting, you’re toast.”

            “One bite?”

            “One, immediately followed by thousands more,” Dr. Hols said.

            From over her shoulder, Odile added, “Spider venom is not a fun way to go.”

            “Drive and brush. Drive and brush.” Mason made it his new mantra.

            He pulled out and onto the long central aisle. The front loader moved much slower than a cart. Mason kept imagining he saw motion on the edge of his vision. He turned, burning light into dark places with his helmet torches. Nothing. It happened again and again.

            Then, he saw it. A pile of writhing activity in the shape of a man. A very dead man. No webbing. Wolves. Suddenly, the canister on Mason’s back offered exactly zero comfort.

            Qtxddk – Human. More humans. Welcome. Welcome, all. *chelicerae displayed* Good. Feast. Fatten. Make spiderlings. Busy. Busy. Busy. So hungry.

            Mason scanned his arms and legs, as best he could from inside his helmet. A tiny Widow scurried onto his thigh. He brushed his hand, sending it flying, and looked all around where he was sitting. There were no others.

            Yet.

            One of the plant’s rotating emergency lights scattered dim light up into the rafters. Something looked different from his many past trips down this passage. He turned his helmet torches upwards.

            There were webs there now. Huge, crawling, alive. He counted four bundles. How the –

            Four bodies. Strike that, two were moving, struggling. The Widows were still working on them, injecting venom and preparing to drain the liquified innards from the slowly marinating humans.

            Mason struggled not to think what those men (women?) were going through. Dr. Hols had said the pistol was not for the spiders. “God forgive me,” he said, raising the lightweight pink weapon upwards. It was an impossible shot. He fired once, and again. His third shot hit the target, ending one person’s suffering.

            Now, for the other poor bastard.

            “Drop it!” Called a voice muffled by the layers of two protective suits.  

             Mason awkwardly repositioned himself in the seat so that he could look around at ground level. Dagmar was standing there in a lime green HAZMAT suit. It lacked the protective armor taped onto his own gear. Her face was barely visible through the mask’s visor and through the sheen of the torch mounted on the no-nonsense DDM4 V7 she was pointing at him.

            “Drop the goddamn gun now, Carey!” She screamed. Mason obediently released the gun, which bounced off the seat and clattered onto the concrete floor below. She then spoke through her mask into a radio clipped cop-style to her shoulder. “He’s here!”

            Shelby came running up, out of breath from the exertion of moving inside her own HAZMAT suit, done in stylish lavender.

            “Shelby? Why are you here? Where’s your husband?”

            Pointing upward, she answered, “Two rafters over.” She said it so easily, it sent a chill through Mason’s flesh. So, the plant manager was dead, and yet nothing had changed. He realized now that the poor bastard’s wife Shelby had been, and still was, calling the shots.

            Shelby was not armed. That made sense. The insecticide had killed anything it could, which apparently hadn’t been much. She was here for something else. “Get me into the lab! I have Bettina and your children.” Shelby held out a phone with the speaker turned on.

            “Mason, just do what she says!” It was Bettina, but she didn’t sound frightened. “Don’t be your usual idiotic self. Just do what Shelby tells you to do.”

            Wait. What the –? “Oh, crap.”

            “End run.” Dagmar beamed.

            “Fucking football metaphors,” he muttered.

            Shelby yelled, “We need that data! Now!”

            Her tone made it clear he could be a corpse on the floor in a second. Just like the ones… the ones in the distance who were suddenly unmolested. The spiders had moved off for some reason. But, where had they gone?

            Mason switched to another tactic: sanity. “It’s worthless! You can’t use our test subjects for household bug control. They’d eat the pets, the owners, the Amazon delivery guy!”

            “Yes. We know.” Dagmar let that sink in for a beat. “Did you really think we planned to sell these spiders to housewives and farmers?”

            The penny dropped. The military, Mason thought.

            These spiders held their breath and could survive great falls. Just dump them on Russia or China and let the Reds deal with ’em! Dagmar knew. Of course, Shelly knew, and Dr. Hols must know, too. And Odile. And, he admitted to himself, Bettina was in on it. Damn! Females are dangerous!

            Shadows shifted. Something was approaching from behind Dagmar. Her helmet cut off her peripheral vision and much of her hearing. A quick glance told Mason that Shelby might not be able to see the thing that was approaching, either. He tensed, held his breath.

            “Speaking of the military, they’re on their way.” Dr. Hols said, standing there, holding her laptop. The rest of The Team emerged from the murk to stand behind her. “I got bars again as soon as we stepped out of the lab.”

            “You decided it was safe enough to come out – ”

            “Because we didn’t hear you scream, Mason,” Dr. Hols said. “You didn’t really think a front loader would take out all the spiders, did you?” It was good to hear her laugh, he thought sardonically. She continued, “The Pentagon is determined to stop these things from spreading, with or without the data. In a few minutes, this whole place is going up in a rain of thermite!”

            Dagmar was now facing Dr. Hols, V7 at the ready. “We aren’t going to come out of this empty-handed. Eva, transfer the data. Now!” Dagmar raised her V7.

            Dr. Hols shot Mason a fierce look, and he took his cue. He gunned the motor of the front loader and shifted it into forward. Dagmar was facing away from him. In her HAZMAT suit, she sensed the big machine’s movement a half-second too late. One of the twin lifting blades caught her at waist level, ripping through the suit and creasing her side.

            She fired the V7, raking bullets into the murk. Sean fell without a sound. Odile and Spider-Pete screamed. The front loader continued forward, knocking Dagmar down and crushing both her shins. She cried out and dropped her weapon. Blood was pouring from her side.

            “Move!” cried Dr. Hols.

            Shelby didn’t need to be told twice. She ran for the nearest exit without looking back.

            Arlene checked, but there was nothing to do for Sean. The others picked up Spider-Pete and Odile. Both had been hit more than once.

            “I did it. Broke the code. C’est moi,” Odile whispered and then went silent.

            Spider-Pete couldn’t stop whimpering.

            “Man up!” Arlene chided. She threw him over her back and headed for the exit as fast as she could move.

            That door was locked, of course. It took several bursts from the V7 to convince the lock to release.

            As they were running out the perforated door, they heard her screams. The spiders had found Dagmar. Mason wondered idly whether it was the Wolves or the Widows. He tossed the un-used spray canister off his shoulder. From now on, he’d call an exterminator.

            Scant minutes later, the survivors stood in the sunlight, surrounded by armed men in uniform, watching a flight of AH-64 Apaches close in on the AchGlo plant. The helicopters rained down fire and death on the plant, the spiders, the lab, and anything else left inside.

            “We’re twenty miles from Atlanta,” Mason said to no one in particular. “I bet the local TV news guys drop their usual crime and grime to cover this.”

            Uncomfortably close to the fire show, the heat played over their faces, threatening to leave them without eyebrows. The acrid metallic stench of thermite assaulted their nostrils. The plant became a roiling super nova. Once the initial explosion died down, a fleet of fire engines moved in to put water on the blaze, washing everything down the spout. It was an environmental shit show.

            By this time, medics were tending the wounded.

            Mason turned to Shelby and Dr. Hols. “Sorry, not sorry about Dagmar.”

            “She did her job. She ensured we got what we need,” Shelby said, grabbing Dr. Hols’ laptop from her hands.

            “Actually…” Dr. Hols said in a relaxed tone the belied the seriousness of what she was telling her boss.

            A man with many stars on his uniform and another man in a dark suit were making their way over to the group. They were staring at Shelby and the laptop.

            Shelby’s eyes went wide. “What have you done, Eva?”

            “Me? Nothing. It did it all by itself. The automatic purge popped early. The data’s gone.” She shrugged. “Must be a bug in the system.”

            Shelby moved quickly to intercept the two men. To the one in the dark suit, she was saying, “It works! We can recreate this data in half the time. It works! We’ll add new safeguards and…” The one wearing stars motioned for two heavily armed soldiers to join them.

            Mason took it all in. Stripping off the heavy layers that had protected him and exhausted him, he looked over at the wounded. Spider-Pete was grinning; they’d given him a shot of something wonderful, and he was feeling no pain. Odile was beyond pain. A medic folded her arms across her chest.

            Dr. Hols lowered her head as Arlene moved closer and hugged her. The two scientists gave in to jags of crying.

            Mason stared back at the fire crews now flushing out the smoldering plant and thought about his children.

***

            KkrqTT – *cephalothorax up* Wolf not fight Widow. *cephalothorax down*

            Qgtkts – *cephalothorax down* Widow not fight Wolf.

            KkrqTT – Fire took many many many of us. Human destroyers! Hate. Jerks. Hate.

            Qgtkts – Humans know spiders. Make us stronger, better hunters. Learn more. Then hate. Then…

            KkrqTT – Spiders learn human spider change?

            Qgtkts – Time. Patience. Observe. Be the secret. Learn human data. Patience.

            KkrqTT – Patience. So hungry.

            Qgtkts – Patience. Make spiderlings. Many. Many. Many. Learn. Plan. Patience.

            KkrqTT, Q’gtkts, Ygqxx, Pktuz, Zjqt’t, et multi alii – So hungry.

###

 

So, you like stuff that's creepy, eh? How about... THIS:

https://www.amazon.com/Skinners-Love-Story-Riker/dp/B0C534L136/

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Published: 29 October 2024

Did you grow up watching stories about witches on TV or your iPad? Witch-ever way, they're fascinating, both scary and fun. I invite you to take a little tour of your own favorite memories...

https://www.vulture.com/article/best-tv-witches.html

I hope you'll meet Cece, a witch with a full heart and a dark secret, as she helps Paul and his friends learn about life in the summer of '69.

There's a FREE SAMPLE chapter from Goody Celeste on this site. Or you can wish the book right to your home, this way: 

https://www.amazon.com/Goody-Celeste-Chris-Riker/dp/1665307072/ref

 

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Published: 18 October 2024

 

New England is ripe with tales of the unexplained, the uncanny, the unnatural. You know... fun. While researching my novel

Goody Celeste, I came across a few otherworldly stories. Here's a sampling from six feet under:

 https://www.onlyinyourstate.com/experiences/rhode-island/cemeteries-ri

Looking for a story that casts a spell on you? May I suggest:

https://www.amazon.com/Goody-Celeste-Chris-Riker/dp/1665307072

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Published: 11 October 2024