Fiction Vortex - September 2014, Page 2

  All for the War Effort.

  Sheila fogged the window and traced out equations from the University of Chicago project. Even with condensation dripping off the numbers, she knew she was right: Critical mass could be achieved with far less catalyst material.

  “Oh, well.” She wiped away the equation and looked down at the street.

  The waxy-skinned man from the diner looked up at her.

  His stillness amongst the rushing and shivering workers made him stand out as much as the sheen of the streetlights off his odd skin. He leaned against a fire hydrant, sunken eyes staring at her window. Sheila stepped back, out of the rectangle of streaming light.

  She double checked the window locks and the door before going back to bed.

  ~~~~~

  The man was gone when Sheila left her apartment later that morning. She moved quickly to the L station and paced the platform until the train arrived. She flooded into the car with the rest of the morning crowd.

  Waxy-Man emerged up the platform stairs just as the station attendant closed the car door. Sheila watched his eyes follow the train as it pulled out.

  ~~~~~

  She wasn’t late, but she hurried to her building, not slowing until she reached the lobby doors. She stopped at the top of the wide stone steps and scanned the courtyard.

  Waxy-Man stood across the street, watching her from behind passing cars.

  “That’s impossible,” she said under her breath. “Even if he took a cab...”

  Even after she entered the warm building, Sheila couldn’t stop shivering.

  ~~~~~

  Sheila skipped lunch, opting instead for the chocolate bar she kept in her desk and uninterrupted progress on the new project from Lorraine. It took her three tries to get the torpedo tidal swell compensations right. An hour before quitting time she looked out the bullpen window, down the three stories to the courtyard in front of the building.

  Waxy-Man sat on a bench, newspaper folded across his lap. His eyes, dark pearls from this height, scanned the building.

  For a moment, she considered talking to Mr. Bradley, admitting to him she had disobeyed and now needed his help. His eyes, leering through his office window at the backside of one of the Computers, changed her mind.

  At the end of the day, she broke her normal routine of hanging back until the building cleared out and slipped out of the office with the rest of the women. She squeezed into the elevator and watched the arrow above the door arc down.

  “The recruits at Great Lakes have liberty this weekend,” Suzanne said from the middle of her usual crew. “What do you girls say about a trip to the Pier on Saturday?”

  The women giggled like school girls.

  When the elevator doors opened, Sheila let herself be engulfed by the exiting women.

  Waxy-Man, still on the bench, watched the lobby doors. He didn’t look away as Sheila passed, surrounded by the tittering women. She relaxed, letting the tide carry her toward the L station. Half a block away, she looked over the shoulders and around the bobbing heads of her walking companions.

  Waxy-Man leaned against the platform stairs.

  “How?”

  Sheila didn’t wait to find out. She fell back and darted toward the street. At the curb, she raised a hand. A cab pulled up almost immediately.

  As soon as she hopped in, the street-side door opened. The sound of traffic, and the Waxy-Man, slipped in. Sheila pushed at her door.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Sir,” she said to the driver while flattening herself against the door. “Help me. I don’t know this man.”

  The driver turned. He and Waxy-Man looked identical, right down to the blank expression on their smooth faces.

  “Who are—”

  A pinch at her side cut her off. Her eyelids became heavy. She fought to keep them up. The version of Waxy-Man in the back seat held a slick-looking hypodermic needle in his hand.

  The cab pulled into traffic as Sheila slumped over.

  ~~~~~

  A gentle hand shook her shoulder.

  “Miss Cosgrove?” asked someone with a thick Italian accent.

  Sheila’s eyes struggled open. She was in an office, propped in a chair across from a cluttered desk. Racquetball racquets sat neatly stacked in the corner.

  “Miss Cosgrove?”

  Sheila tilted her already clearing head toward the voice: Dr. Enrico Fermi. He looked just like the magazine and newspaper clippings she kept in the scrapbook on her coffee table.

  “How ... how do you know my name?” Sheila mumbled.

  Dr. Fermi took a seat on the other side of the desk. Sheila's purse sat open on the blotter. The doctor reached in and pulled out her Great Lakes Computing Center ID card.

  “This is you, no?” He pointed to her name across the top.

  “Yes,” Sheila nodded. “What’s going on?” Her eyes scanned the office. “Who were those strange men?”

  Dr. Fermi ignored her question. “And you attempted to see me, yesterday?”

  Sheila nodded.

  “Why?” He smiled. His face became inviting. “Please. I suspect it is important.”

  Sheila eyed the Nobel Prize-winning physicist; one of the smartest men in the world. And one of her idols. She reached into her purse, pulled out the notes and, coming around the desk, spread them in front of the scientist.

  Dr. Fermi listened intently, whispering the odd Italian expletive as Sheila went over her findings. When she finished he picked up the notes and leafed through them for five minutes, redoing a few calculations in the margins.

  “I believe you are correct.” He pointed out one of the equations. “My problem was right here. I suspected I was missing something, but you’ve worked it out correctly.” His eyes met Sheila's. “Congratulations, Miss Cosgrove, you’ve discovered the key to nuclear fission. Very impressive.”

  Sheila felt her cheeks turn red. “I just ran your numbers.”

  “No, don’t sell yourself short. This is brilliant work. Especially considering the lack of information you had to work with.” Another inviting smile. “The most regarded scientific minds in the world have been working on this problem for years. Even the ones speaking German.”

  “So your work is just a step,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “toward an atomic bomb.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Sheila repeated, still whispering. “The potential energy would be enormous. If it were unleashed, the destruction...” Her eyes met Dr. Fermi’s; a man with the intelligence and resources to make it happen. “Is it worth it, doctor? So many people will die.”

  “They are already dying. In great numbers.”

  “I know.”

  Dr. Fermi caught the look in her eyes. “We all do.” His hand rested on hers. “So many loved ones, on both sides, have been lost.”

  “And an atomic bomb?”

  “Will stop that. We hope. If we can beat the Nazis to the creation of the bomb, then maybe, when faced with the possibility of overwhelming destruction, they will lose their appetite for war.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  Dr. Fermi looked into the distance. “I hate to think about that. I’m afraid many more people will die.” He looked back at Sheila. “But thanks to you, we just may beat Mr. Hitler to the punch. You posses a truly singular mind, Miss Cosgrove.”

  “Sheila, please.” And she went from red to crimson. “I’m assuming you’ll be using purified uranium as the catalyst material? It makes the most sense. Using the lesser amount, and using current enrichment procedures, you should have enough uranium in, what, two years, to run the critical mass test? Is that enough time to beat the Germans?”

  “Actually, we already have enough yellow-cake uranium. Plus a little more.”

  “But the processes were only just discovered a few years ago. Nobody could have produced enough suitable uranium yet. Even at the lesser amount. How is that possible?”

  “We’ve recently ... encountered ... a unique supplier.”r />
  The office door opened, cutting off Sheila’s next question.

  “All I’m saying is, could you have at least turned off your damn headlights?”

  Sheila and Dr. Fermi looked up. A soldier — a general, judging by the constellations on his collar — pushed into the office. A second man followed. Sheila tensed.

  Waxy-Man.

  “We did not have our headlights on,” Waxy-Man said. His voice came out muffled and, even though his chin moved, his mouth didn’t open. “The glowing is an uncontrollable byproduct of the electromagnetic process used to separate the uranium isotopes. Your scientists requested more uranium.”

  “Yes.” The general shook his head. “But next time, try to glow someplace where half of Chicago won’t see you.” He shook his head, again. “And take off the damn mask. I don’t know who you and your crew modeled them after, but he’s ugly as sin.”

  Waxy-Man put a hand on the top of his bald head.

  The general turned to Dr. Fermi. “And you, Fermi, what the hell is this about you sending data to a civilian computing center? Now some computer girl is knocking on the door.” His eyes fell on Sheila, noticing her for the first time. “Is that her? She was supposed to be taken to the naval base.” He spun at the Waxy-Man. “Aw-Raq,” he held up a hand. “Wait.”

  It was too late.

  Sheila's knees buckled. Dr. Fermi grabbed her shoulders and guided her into his chair. She stared at the scale-covered face revealed beneath the Waxy-Man mask.

  The lizard-creature’s jaw worked and stretched, exposing a row of sharp yellow teeth. The scales, tight and shiny like a snakes, covering its hairless head faded from bright blue to beige, matching the wall behind it. Its eyes, still gray but brighter without the mask, turned to Sheila. “The doctor requested she be brought here.”

  The general didn’t appear to hear. He watched Sheila eyeing the creature. “Great.” A vein popped on his forehead. “Why don’t I just change the name of the operation from the Manhattan Project to the Let’s-Tell-Everyone-Everything Project?”

  Dr. Fermi ignored him. He held Sheila's notes in the lizard-man’s face. “We already have enough uranium,” he said. “Don’t we?”

  The lizard looked down at the scientist. “Yes, you do.”

  This pulled the general’s eyes off Sheila. “What? Since when?”

  “One month.” Dr. Fermi pointed at the corrected equation. “Since we had five short tons.”

  “And you just figured this out now?”

  “No, Miss Cosgrove did. That’s why I sent the work out to a civilian computing center.” He grinned. “I was, as you Americans say, playing a hunch.”

  The general turned on Aw-Raq. “And why the hell didn’t you say anything? I've got every big brain in the country playing with themselves, waiting for us to get some positive results. Are you working for the Krauts now, or something?”

  “The terms of our involvement are very clear, General. We agreed to provide raw materials, limited security and transportation for your scientists between work sites. That is all.” He turned to Fermi. “I am sorry doctor, while we are committed to assisting you in defeating Hitler, something which not only benefits Earth, but eventually us as well, I could not tell you already had enough uranium to achieve critical mass. Given the destructive nature and potential for abuse of harnessing the power of the atom, it would be unethical for us to be directly responsible. The breakthroughs must be your own.” He laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I hope you understand.”

  “Yes, Aw-Raq, I do.”

  The general’s head shook. “Well isn’t that lovely; one big happy interstellar family. Now what about the other problem?” He looked at Sheila. “What do we do about her? She’s obviously seen too much.”

  “General.” Aw-Raq stepped forward. “Is this situation similar to the lab assistant who turned out to be a German spy?” He reached into his coat and pulled out a gun; a slender device coated in green metal and streamlined chrome. A pinprick of light on the barrel turned from red to blue as it leveled on Sheila. “Is elimination appropriate here, as well?”

  Sheila's eyes darted from the gun to the general. His face was scrunched up in concentration. He was taking too long.

  Sheila began to stand, not sure how or where to run, until a hand touched her shoulder. Dr. Fermi stepped between Sheila and the gun.

  “No, Aw-Raq, elimination is not appropriate. She is not a spy.” Then to the general: “Miss Cosgrove has proven quite useful."

  Dr. Fermi turned to Sheila. “Miss Cosgrove ... Sheila, I have a proposition for you.”

  ~~~~~

  “Sheila!” Mr. Bradley followed her out of his office. “Miss Cosgrove! This is highly irregular. You can’t quit without giving your notice.”

  “I am giving notice.” Sheila opened her desk drawer, picking out her few personal belongings and dropping them in her purse. “I'm giving it right now.”

  “But the custom is two weeks. We need to hire a girl to replace you. You’re leaving us in the lurch.”

  Sheila nodded toward his office window. “I’m sure you’ll find the right girl to fit my seat.”

  “Is this about,” his voice dropped, “the University of Chicago thing? You can have it back. Frankly, I don’t think Loraine is bright enough to handle it.”

  Loraine, like all the other computers, sat transfixed by the exchange. Her face wrinkled at Mr. Bradley. Sheila gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sure Loraine can handle the project just fine.”

  “Fine, have it your way. You were never a good fit here, anyhow.”

  Sheila grinned. “I know.”

  Mr. Bradley stormed into his office. “I hope you don’t expect a favorable reference,” he shouted. He fell into his chair and furiously leafed through random files.

  “I don’t need one,” Sheila said, but Bradley pretended not to hear. To the other girls, sitting on the edge of their chairs, she said, “I’ve already got a new job.”

  “Is it a good one?” Loraine asked.

  “Yes, I think it is. I believe I’ll be ... appreciated.”

  “Good for you. Where is it?”

  “New Mexico,” Sheila said before thinking, caught up in the attention. Oh, no harm, she thought. And she would need to give the Center’s pay clerk her forwarding address. “Los Alamos.” None of the girls would know where it was — she'd stopped at the campus library, herself, to consult a map — let alone suspect it as the location of the most ambitious scientific project of the century.

  “New Mexico?”

  Sheila turned to face Suzanne. She spoke to Sheila over a tube of red lipstick. The messenger boys, apparently, would be arriving soon.

  “The desert. All that sand.” Her nose wrinkled. “And you’ll be on the train for days.”

  “I’m not taking the train.” Sheila smiled. “I’ll be on a private flight.”

  This sent the Center buzzing. Sheila finished collecting her belongs and gave Loraine, and a few of the other women, a quick goodbye.

  “And Mr. Bradley,” she called from inside the elevator. He glared up from his desk. “Bottoms up,” she said, just as the doors closed.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Jon's stories have appeared in T. Gene Davis's Speculative Blog, Toasted Cake Podcast and Lakeside Circus.  His story F.C.U. was recently included in the anthology Fae, published by World Weaver Press. Jon lives in Michigan and works for the state.  You can find links to Jon's other work at https://jonarthurkitson.wordpress.com

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  Just One More Walk

  by Todd Honeycutt; published September 9, 2014

  When Thatcher walked through the entry doors of the Howard T. Young Company building, he received the same greeting as usual.

  "Here for a walking today, Mr. Thatcher?" the receptionist said.

  Thatcher nodded.

  "Sign in and I'll let them know you're here."

  He scribbled his name on the electron
ic pad and took a seat in a corner of the reception area. Aside from the receptionist, no one else was in the room. The décor was sleek—odd waves of overlapping steel and concrete and glass. Thatcher thought it'd be better decorated as a funeral parlor, with lush carpeting and wood panels and clusters of ferns and flowers. Staff dressed in dark colored suits instead of white lab coats.

  He surveyed the room. Cameras, of course, but no guards, no guns. The doors weren't locked. It'd be as simple as just walking out.

  The door next to the receptionist opened. "Josh Thatcher?" He didn't recognize the young tech in the doorway, but that wasn't unusual.

  Thatcher followed her down a corridor to the transfer area.

  "Any problems or concerns today, Mr. Thatcher?"

  "No."

  "Feeling well?"

  "Yes."

  The routine questions.

  The tech looked at her tablet. "You're walking Millicent Fields again, correct?"

  "Should be."

  "I find it interesting how some walkers want someone different every time, while some stay with the same people."

  "You ever walk?"

  "Don't have the capacity."

  "Not many of you who work here do," Thatcher said. "There are too many unwelcome surprises with people I don't know. With the same people, I know what I'm getting."

  "Hopefully there'll be no surprises for you today, Mr. Thatcher."

  They arrived at a small transfer room, no larger than it needed to be. It held a recliner along one wall, a cabinet with three monitors, and a chair for the tech. A large screen on the wall showed a picturesque video of an ocean beach, waves rolling up, wisps of clouds in the sky.

  "Please have a seat," she said, pointing to the recliner.

  Heather—he could finally read her name tag—offered him a small plastic cup and he tipped it back. He blanched at the antianxiety agent with its mild, medicinal taste. She attached a heart and pulse monitor to his left index finger, and inserted a cable to the port on his left wrist.

  "Just relax, and I'll be back in a few minutes," the tech said and walked to the door.

  "Heather?" he called out.

  She stopped and turned. "Yes?"

  "Do you know how many times I've done this?"

  She looked at her tablet, swiped a few times. "Let's see...you've worked with us for over three years...and we have a record of you coming in...147 times. 148 with this one."