Speculative Fiction
(Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror mix)
Date Published: August 4, 2020
Publisher: Mictlan Press
There’s magic and mystery around every corner, if you know where to look…
This collection of eleven short stories from fantasy and science fiction author Terri Bruce explores the hidden corners of our world. Blending fantasy, horror, magical realism, and folklore, these tales will delight, mystify, and unsettle. Unicorns roam the New Hampshire countryside disguised as a biker gang. Portals to other worlds hide on commuter train platforms. And be careful of what really lurks at the bottom of those quaint wishing wells that dot the countryside. Strip away the veneer of everyday life and dare to see what lies just below the surface.
Excerpt - from Before the Evolution
Comes the Smoke
Magda clutched the red satchel to her
chest, trying not to breathe in too deeply the stench of tightly-packed bodies
and vomit. If only she’d had the money to book a private transport to Orbital
Station Six instead of using the public courtesy shuttle.
She breathed as shallowly as she could
through her mouth as she looked around at the dozen or so other pinched and
nervous faces, all apparently as overawed as she to be on their way to meet the
witch face to face. From somewhere toward the back of the transport, the sound
of retching continued.
When she’d booked the ticket from Iada and
indicated she needed to rendezvous with the Orbital Station Six shuttle, the
chat bot had typed back, “Pardon?” She’d never seen a technical script express
surprise before. It transferred her to a video chat with a human agent, who
raised an eyebrow, speculation reflected in his dark eyes, as the last of the
credits in her account counted down, one by one.
When they’d checked her in at the transfer
station and when she’d boarded the transport, the attendants had all looked at
her the same way. Surprise. Speculation. Doubt. They’d all had the same
question in their eyes: Why her? Why her wish? Of all the millions of petitions
directed at Piscinarius, why had the great wizard of the deep chosen to grant
her an audience?
To board the shuttle, she’d waded through
a crowd twenty deep, all of them wailing and beseeching. They grabbed at her
arms, tried to latch onto her legs, thrust valuables and tins of food into her
face.
“Please, I just need…”
“Please, I’ll be ruined…”
“Please, my son is dying…”
That last one hurt, because it was so
close to her own situation. She jerked away and stumbled through the gauntlet,
head down to avoid eye contact. She wasn’t any more worthy than them; she’d
just gotten lucky. No one knew how the witches decided which petitions to
grant. Locked away in their orbiting stations, they toiled away, sifting
through the requests, using unknown algorithms to accept or deny.
Those able to touch her as she passed
through the jostling crowd had thrust Ofuda-type charms into her pockets, the
sleeves of her coat, into her shoes—any crevice they could find to lodge a
scrap inscribed with their name. It was said that if the Ofuda made it into the
audience chamber, then the petitioner’s wish would be granted—a shortcut or loophole
to the entire, wretched crap shoot of requesting an audience with a witch.
She had wanted to remove the Ofuda—it
hardly seemed fair for others to get free wishes after all she’d gone
through—but to throw them away seemed cruel or unsporting or some intangible
that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She needn’t have worried—all the
little scraps had jostled loose and fallen by the wayside as she boarded the
flight and buckled herself in. They drifted about the cabin now, looking
strangely sad and powerless.
The communication system crackled to life
overhead, the pilot’s voice overloud in the confines of the tiny passenger
cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing
our final approach to Orbital Station Six. We should be docked within thirty
minutes. Attendants, please complete final docking checks and secure the
clamps.” A bustle of activity followed this announcement as two attendants clad
in yellow flight suits unhitched themselves from the wall and moved about,
checking harness fasteners, stowing free-floating items, and removing the puke
bag from that one passenger in the back.
Magda’s stomach sloshed uneasily as she
once more questioned her choice to ask Piscinarius for help. She’d really
wanted Circe, but the charts said Circe wouldn’t be in range for another
hundred and fifty years. Magda would be long dead by then. John Dee, on the
other hand, would enter Iada’s system next year; perhaps she should have waited
for it.
Magda shifted uncomfortably in her wall
harness and fumbled in her breast pocket for a packet of antacids. She gulped
down two to quiet her stomach. She wanted to blame the queasiness on the half
grav, but nerves were more likely the cause. Of the thirteen witches,
Piscinarius was the most intimidating. A bit of a hard ass with unpredictable
results.
In theory, they should all be the same.
After all, they shared the same basic programming. However, everyone knew the
witches each had quirks, peculiarities, and preferences. For instance, Holda
hadn’t summoned a demon for as long as anyone could remember. All petitions to
it were greeted with the same response: Cannot request exclusive semaphores at
interrupt time. Older folks would nod sagely when Holda’s name was raised and
say this was because the AI agreed with them that humans shouldn’t be messing
around with demons.
She’d tried Mwindo, which had passed
through the Iada system eight years ago. Her petition had been summarily denied
with the message, “Fatal Error.” She’d learned afterwards this was always its
response when solicited for anything other than wealth, property, or material
goods. Those older folks who thought Holda was making a value judgment with its
refusals didn’t have much to say about an AI that prioritized material concerns
over life and death.
If Agrippa hadn’t disappeared two hundred
years ago, it would have entered the solar system before any of the others and
might have agreed to help. It was rumored that, back in the day, it was rather
liberal in granting petitions, though there were others that said Agrippa had
agreed with Holda about not dealing with demons and had simply left populated
space to put an end to petitions for its help. Others said that its home,
Orbital Station Eight, had been demolished by a rogue comet, and the fragments
now drifted aimlessly in the frozen reaches of space. Some said the acolytes
had rebelled, refusing to recognize the authority and autonomy of the AI, and
destroyed the computer with which they’d had an uneasy alliance as neither
masters nor servants. And then there were those who said it had been the victim
of another demon rampage and it was a judgment and Magda should stop talking
about witches and demons before she called down bad luck on them all, and then
they would cross themselves or spit over their shoulder or tug a lock of hair
or make other signs that were supposed to ward off the all-seeing eye of
whatever witch was in the system at the time.
The communication system crackled to life
again.
“Attendants, engage clamps and ready doors
for debarkment.”
Magda clutched the red satchel tighter,
hugging it to her like a child, reassured by the feel of the egg’s boxy
container pressing through the fabric against her stomach.
With a final, hollow clang that reverberated
throughout the cabin, the transport came to a stop. The alert sign overhead
flashed, warning passengers not to disengage their harnesses, but all around
her, people ignored the instructions in a rising symphony of metallic clasps
unhitching. Click. Click. Click. Click.
She was jostled from the right and the
left, and she clutched her bag tighter, fearing the precious cargo would be
broken. She wondered what all these others had brought to Piscinarius. What had
the witch demanded of them?
About the Author
TERRI BRUCE is the author of the paranormal / contemporary fantasy Afterlife series, and her short stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies and magazines. She produces hard-to-classify fantasy and science fiction stories that explore the supernatural side of everyday things from beautiful Downeast Maine where she lives with her husband and various cats.
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