Listen to the Signal

Welcome to Listen To The Signal, short science fiction stories in audio, written and narrated by Rob Dircks. 

Hello, Rob here. As you know, some of these stories are better served if I talk about them after you’ve listened or read them, not before – and this is one of them. What I can tell you is that it’s been kicking around in my head for a couple of years, begging to get finished and out there. It’s the story of Ava, a dreamer. But not the kind of dreamer you might think. 

“A boy holds up a small flower. There is only this moment. I reach out and take it from him, and he smiles.

“Then I wake up. 

“There is no boy, no flower. Only the smell of grass left in my nose, and the last of a breeze running across my hair.”

Dr. Farber jots in his notebook. “Is it in the grove? Like the last times?”  

“Yes. Again. Always in the grove. It’s the same dream for months. No, over a year now.”

“Why do you think it’s happening, Ava?” 

“I don’t know. But I’m there with many people. Waiting.” 

“Waiting for what?” 

“I don’t know. It’s peaceful. It’s a beautiful day. But…” 

“But what?” 

“But something is about to happen. Something bad.”

“How do you know?” 

“The look on the mothers’ faces.” 

“Ah. That’s the first time you’ve mentioned the mothers. What are they doing?” 

“They are holding their children. Like swans might wrap their wings around their babies. Protecting them.” 

“And yet you said it was peaceful. A beautiful day.” 

“Bad things can happen on beautiful days.” 

The session ended. Ava scheduled her next visit and headed back to her apartment. Put on her running shoes and took off along Chelsea Piers, taking deep breaths, sprinting, trying to outrun the dream. She almost laughed to herself – who was she kidding, she’d run thousands of miles, had a closet full of burned out sneakers as proof, but still the dreams chased her. 

The first was a long time ago. Back in Denver. When she was sixteen she would dream every night of a car crash. Every night, just a little more detail. The car became red, then it became a 2019 Corvette, then it had a Colorado license plate she could read, GHK583. And the streets grew signs, the corner of Church and Atlantic Avenue, and the outline of the other car, all happening too fast, and then the people inside. Dead. And the mother’s face. Untouched, no blood, simple and beautiful. The hint of a smile. Also holding her child like a swan, until the very end. She sat next to the woman, each night, without will of her own, being pulled, leaning closer, uncomfortable, until she could hear the whisper of the woman’s last breath. The whisper saying, “I forgive you.” 

She dreaded sleep each night after that. Being told you’re forgiven by a dying woman in a dream wreaks havoc on the mind of a neurotic teenager. What had she done wrong? What needed forgiveness? What was she guilty of? She was not perfect, she knew well. She had secret things she would never share with anyone, her sister, her best friend, certainly not her mother. But she hadn’t killed anyone in a car crash. Hadn’t hurt anyone at all, not on purpose at least. Why was she being punished? 

When it became unbearable, the dream endlessly repeating, she called her friend Tess. 

“Hey. Isn’t your cousin a cop?”

“Yeah. He’s an asshole.” 

“Can he check a license plate? From another state?” 

“No. I have no idea. Hey, are you in trouble?” 

“No. Duh. You know I get intense dreams, it’s one of those.” 

“Ugh. Oh, did I tell you my mom won’t let you sleep over any more? You crazy talk in your sleep. It freaks her out. She gets freaked way too easily.” 

“Whatever. I need this, Tess. I’m missing school and work, and I’m generally just losing it. You think you could ask him?” 

“About this license plate thing? No.” 

“Come on. Please.” 

“Ugh. If I do this, he’s going to lord it over me for like a year. You need to give him something.” 

“Ewww.” 

“No, I mean like fifty bucks. I think he’d do it for fifty bucks.” 

Tess’ cousin had a buddy of a buddy check the plate, he had to call in a couple of favors, so seventy-five dollars later she had an answer: On July fifteenth of last year, a red 2019 Corvette with that plate had run a red light and plowed into a Toyota Corolla, killing the two people inside. The driver wasn’t drunk, but she was underage with no license or insurance and they found pot in the car. She said it was her boyfriend’s car and pot, but it didn’t matter and she was tried as an adult, convicted of vehicular manslaughter, and sentenced to fourteen years. 

Ava wasn’t surprised by the story.  She had begun to suspect she had some strange defect in her brain, something that picked up pieces of the past, some random event, and projected herself into that event during sleep. She actually would’ve been surprised if the plate search hadn’t turned up anything.  No, she wasn’t surprised by the story, but she was surprised the dream continued. She thought she’d seen what she needed to see. 

No, need was the wrong word. Why would she need do see any of this? 

Need, need, need. Now that she said the word, it wouldn’t stop nagging at her.

Two months passed.

Three months. 

Still the dream.

One day she looked down at her own brand-new drivers license. Picked up the keys, called in sick again to work after school, told her mother she was sleeping over Tess’ for the weekend, and headed northeast on Route 76 to the Colorado Correctional Facility in Sterling.  

Sitting at the small table, staring out through the barred windows, she noticed it was a beautiful day. In a way even more beautiful in the contrast provided by this dreary visitors’ room, and all the grime, and the bars on the windows, and the smell of bleach and cigarettes.

The girl shuffled in and sat down. “Who are you?” 

“Ava.” 

“I mean why are you here? I agreed to see you just to get out of the cell. They didn’t tell me anything. Why are you here?” 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Great. Another kook. Are you here to tell me I’m going to hell? Whatever. If it is, let’s just end it now.” She rose to turn, and Ava saw how hard it was for her, how heavy, just getting up from a chair, the weight of two years, the weight of twelve more coming. 

“No. Wait. It’s the woman. The woman you…” 

The girl stopped and turned, glaring. “Who do you think you are?” 

“Please, sit. I have something I’m supposed to say, for almost two years now.” 

Still glaring, but curious, the girl leaned over the table. “Say it.” 

Ava tapped her fingers nervously. “The woman, the mother, she said-“

“She said? She’s not alive, Ava whoever-you-are. She can’t say anything.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I killed her. And her son. What are you doing here?” 

“Listen to me. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. The mother, I know her, in a way, and I know the last thing she said…” 

The girl leaned in even closer, their eyes an inch apart. The guard stepped toward them. In the moment before he grabbed her, those eyes flashed with rage, and with sadness, and regret, and a pleading, a desperate pleading for the words that she thought would never come, never come from anyone, ever, for the rest of her godforsaken life. Tears welled up, and she balled up her fists, and she spat at Ava, and Ava whispered, “I forgive you.” 

The guard pulled the girl back, breaking the spell, and Ava saw something different in her eyes as she was led away. Something had broken, just slightly, like a crack in a dam. 

Ava never saw the girl again. But she slept dreamless sleep again. For years.

Until the man with the guitar. Ava listened to him play, from behind the stage, night after night. It wasn’t a nightmare at all, it was pleasant actually, he was a very talented singer and songwriter. He played to thousands of fans in a large theater, the lights nearly blinding her and obscuring their faces. There was no message in this dream, other than the sweet, philosophical musings of his lyrics:

When you’re ready

When you’re ready

It’ll come your way

When it comes your way

Are you ready? 

One night during the dream, out of curiosity more than a desire to make the dream go away, she walked up to the man, right in the middle of his song, and he stopped and turned, and the dream crowd hushed, and Ava saw a tear running down his cheek. 

“Your song is wonderful. Are those tears of bliss?” 

“No…” He thought for a moment, as if to decide whether he was ready to tell. “…there is a blackness in my heart.” 

“You sing of love. The words are beautiful.” 

“Beautiful words can hide ugly things.” 

Night after night, dream after dream, his eyes searched hers, wanting to share the secret, needing to answer the question, until finally he tore through the hesitation and asked her, “Am I a good enough father? Have I ruined it all?” 

And he reached into his pocket, and handed her a hundred dollar bill. And that’s how the dream always ended.

She knew, this time, that there would be no rest until the question was answered. And so she went about her detective duties, finding the man’s history. He was a somewhat well-known singer in the early 1970s, not famous enough for her to know who he was, but enough to fuel his tours and albums, and parties and alcohol and drugs, and women, and finally, a love child. 

Ava was living in Pasadena out of college, close enough to the singer’s home town to drive the couple of hours and track down the child. She found a man, Peter, now older than the singer himself was in the dream. The son. He was the manager at a Honda dealership in Santa Monica. She tracked his hours, and one rare wet Sunday she hopped over the puddles in the parking lot, ducked inside, and found the little glass-walled office with his nameplate.

Peter looked up from his papers. “Ah! Um, hello! I’ll have someone, Charlie, help you. He’s right there, the gentleman with the blue tie…” 

“No. I need to speak with you.” 

“Oh.” 

They stayed like that, her standing, dripping, him sitting, a little bewildered, for a long moment. They each said “Sorry” at the same time, then laughed, then he rushed around and pulled out one of the chairs, and they sat across from each other. 

“Okay, then. You’re wet. Can I get you something? A dry robe maybe? It’s free if you buy a new Accord.” 

She laughed. “No, thanks. Hi, Peter. I’m Ava. I have something strange to share. I’ve only ever done this once before, so forgive me, and try to keep an open mind.”

Peter’s face fell, and his voice hushed. “Don’t tell me. Any time I hear the words strange and open mind it has something to do with my father. Is it his fourth wedding? Fifth? Is he dead? Has he become dictator of some small Caribbean country? Nothing will surprise me.”

Ava stifled a giggle. “No, God no. He’s still alive. I think I’m supposed to bring you to him.” 

“Great. Let’s go.” 

“Wait. Really? Right now?” 

“No. Not in a million years. Look, I don’t know if he put you up to this, but-” 

“I have dreams. In the dreams, every time, at the end, your father hands me a hundred dollar bill. What does that mean?” 

Silence. Only the sound of the nearby coffee maker dripping onto the empty hot plate below. Peter stared at her for a long second. Tapped his fingers on the desk. Squinted at Ava. Then he leaned back to an old file cabinet and yanked a stuck drawer open. Pulled out something and placed it between them. “He used to send me these once in a while when I was a kid and he was on the road. Silly poems written on the edges of hundred dollar bills.” He picked it up and read the little scribbles, turning it around as he read. “Peter, Peter, pizza eater, let’s grab a slice and a cold two-liter, I’ll pick you up in my red two-seater.” 

Ava chuckled. “Hey. That’s pretty good.” 

“Want to see more?” He leaned back again, filled both hands, and dropped the pile on the desk. 

“Oh my God. There must be thousands of dollars here! You haven’t spent it? In all this time?” 

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like my savings account. For a rainy day. Does that make any sense?”

She looked outside, at the downpour, then back to him. “It’s a rainy day today. Don’t get much rain in Santa Monica.”

“Point taken.” He looked outside, up at the gray, and sighed. “He was a shit dad, you know.” 

“I do know. In the dream he keeps saying he has a blackness in his heart.” 

Peter stood up. “Yeah. That’s something he’d say. Dammit. Let’s go. Now where the hell is my umbrella?”

Four and a half hours later, just off the strip in Vegas, the singer sat drinking another double at Dino’s Lounge. He mumbled to the bartender something about trying and failing, trying and failing, being trapped between the lure of the stage life, and the responsibility of the rest. Unable to give either their due. He was famous once, sort of anyway, but this was his life now, doubles at Dino’s until the show went on at seven. 

Peter and Ava walked in, both taken back by the loud eighties rock and faint mix of aromas that would make any normal person walk right back out. When Peter saw his father, the fire of anger and resentment flared again for a moment, the memories – or lack of memories – stoking the embers. But then Peter thought, as he had thought many times over the years, that the warmth of those embers also could mean some kind of promise, they weren’t cold yet, not totally. There was something there, something, maybe all it needed was some friction, something rubbing together to get it going again. 

Ava pushed him a little. “Go.” 

“Wait. You’re not coming with?” 

“No. I’ve only met him in my dreams.” 

She meant to leave, but couldn’t help herself, so she watched from the stool next to the front door as Peter shuffled past a couple of rickety tables and a broken pinball machine, and tapped his father on the shoulder. The singer swung around, as if expecting a punch in the face. “What do you want?” And in the next instant he recognized Peter, and froze. 

The frozen moment lasted a long time, like in her dreams, stretching out endlessly. The two men looked at each other, blank but full of words and thoughts and questions. And finally, the singer stammered. 

“Was… Was I…?”

“You were terrible. Really terrible. But you were… good enough.” 

And Peter pulled out an ancient, crumpled hundred dollar bill and put it down on the bar. The singer picked it up and read the edge. “Peter, Peter, let me buy you a beer, if ever you reach your twenty-first year…” and they laughed together, and the bartender came over and poured them both a beer. They clinked glasses. 

Ava walked out and hailed a cab to the bus station. She never saw them again. 

There were more dreams. She wished it weren’t so, but finally accepted her role as intermediary, whether chosen by some supernatural force, or randomly selected by fate and some quirk of physics.  At least it wasn’t meaningless – each time a dream resolved, or showed the promise of resolution, she imagined some checkmark being checked, somewhere, and someone, or something, nodding approval. The pain had purpose.

Then came the dream in the grove. This time her intuition, her sleuthing, the visions, all failed her. After a year of seeing the boy with the flower and the mothers and nothing else, she was afraid she might go mad. So she sought out Dr. Farber. She didn’t tell him the truth, her life of dreams, only that she was stuck in this place and couldn’t escape. He didn’t help unravel the mystery, but kept her, at the lowest moments, from herself unraveling, and it was a comfort to finally share at least a small share of the weight of the years. 

Wait. 

The years. 

The wait of the years.

There was something there, a clue. 

What year was it in the dream? 

It dawned on Ava, just now, after all this time, that each dream had been a little further back in time than the last. The events of the first were just a few years ago. Then the singer was in the seventies and eighties. The pharmacist’s trial was in 1963. The accident at the brewery was in 1952. And all the others filled in the holes at the right times. 

She was falling deeper and deeper into the past.

That night, as if the dream knew she was ready, a new detail emerged: a train. The mothers and their husbands and their children had arrived at the grove by train. She climbed the stairs into one of the cars, looking for anything. But the cars were empty. No luggage, no porters, no tables…

… no seats. 

What kind of train doesn’t offer seats to its passengers? 

She returned down the stairs, to the platform, to shouting and confusion. Soldiers with guns were yelling, separating the men to the left and the women and children to the right. Hundreds of husbands clutched wives, only to be separated moments later, as they moved like a herd of animals slowly toward long, low buildings. Fear gripped Ava, the fear of the crowd, the barely-contained panic contagious, inescapable. Suddenly, the woman in front of her pushed her teenage son away, toward the line of men. The boy tried to reach back, bewildered and desperate and scared, but his mother pushed again, harder, until the son was caught up in the left line and disappeared from her sight. 

Before they could reach the nearest of the low buildings, more shouting directed the line of women and children to the grove, a field lined with trees to the right of the train platform. 

There a strange peace descended, the panic subsided, and the dream became calm. The sky was blue and cloudless, the temperature perfect for a picnic in the grass, and though the crowd of people here waited with nerves on edge, foreboding, they sat, and took apples and bread from their pockets, and ate and shared and chatted nervously. 

Ava stumbled around, aimless, until she saw the flower. And the little boy, he was there, sitting in a woman’s lap. She sat across from them and recognized her as the same woman who had pushed her son away moments before. The little boy smiled, holding out the small wildflower he had just picked with his tiny fingers. 

Ava took it from him and smiled back. She looked up at the woman. “How old is your son?” She was startled briefly by the sounds of the words coming from her mouth, it was another language, yet she could speak and understand. 

“He is not my son.” The woman looked intently at Ava. “His name is Karl. My nephew. His mother is missing. My son Alfred, my Alli-Kincsem, is…” and she turned her head toward the direction they’d left, pointing with her chin, though the large group of men were already gone. 

Ava couldn’t help herself, she felt the dream demanding she ask. “Why did you push him away…?”  

And the woman shook her head and a tear fell down her cheek. “…he was so afraid…I don’t know… I had to act… didn’t I…?…what have I done…? …my poor Alli-Kincsem…” and she searched Ava’s face for the answer. 

Receiving none, the woman repeated her plea. “What have I done?”

Ava awoke, her face wet, her chest heaving. She stood, nearly fainting, and lumbered to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were pleading, don’t do this, don’t do this, but beneath the pleading, she knew what would need to be done, and that until then there would be no rest.

It took months, night after night of sadness and dread, but slowly details emerged. The train. From Hungary. The platform. The son, Alfred. And then, finally, the name: Kovacs.

The son’s name was Alfred Kovacs.  

Then the place and time: Auschwitz, 1944. 

These were two important facts, but they were nearly nothing. Though Ava now lived in an age of instant searches and vast databases, records from World War Two concentration camps were largely destroyed, and in the case of people led straight to the gas chambers without registration, records never even existed. And even if records existed, survival rates could be two percent. And even if a fifteen-year-old survived, he would be ninety-four today, so likely passed a long time ago.

But she saw the mother’s face, again and again, pleading, and began. 

Three thousand two hundred seven Kovacs registered at Auschwitz. One Alfred.

Birth year 1897. Too old.

Maybe Frederick? Two Fredericks. Wrong age. Both dead within a month. 

Maybe Albert? One Albert. Wrong age. Dead in three months.

Two hundred and twelve Kovacs without an “s.” No Alfreds. 

Three Fredericks. All too old. All dead.

No Alberts. 

Fifteen Kovacs with an “k” instead of a “c.” No Alfreds or Fredericks or Alberts. 

It was a losing battle. Alfred was most certainly dead, perhaps not even registered.

But the dream continued. 

So Ava boarded a train, shuddering at the thought, from New York City to Washington D.C., to the National Holocaust Museum, to search the databases not available online. She checked her reservation email, again and again, trying to feel hope but instead feeling the dread of another dead end. After a while, as the train rocked back and forth, and the wheels rattled to their own rhythm, Ava, exhausted, closed her eyes. 

The boy and the flower. The smile. The mother holding back tears, mumbling “…Alli-Kincsem…” over and over to herself, trying to remain strong, though for what reason she didn’t know, for they all were beginning to realize it was the end. 

Ava pleaded. “I can’t find him. Alfred Kovacs. I am trying.” 

And the woman, startled, remembered something. She reached into her worn coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled, folded paper. She handed it to Ava, pointing to the name. 

Keller. 

The family had forged false documents to evade capture. It hadn’t worked in the end, but the mother had drilled Alfred to remember only his false name.

The name wouldn’t be Alfred Kovacs. 

It would be Alfred Keller.

Ava awoke with a start, nudged by the conductor. The train had arrived in Union Station. She rushed, in a race, as if this new information would disappear if she didn’t grab it from the ether right now, and pushed her way through to the taxi line, waving her arms wildly. 

At the museum entrance, Ava ran up the stairs two at a time, panting, fumbling for her phone, retrieving her reservation. “Here! Here!” She thrust the phone at the concierge. 

The woman behind the desk smiled and patted her hand, scanning her code. “Calm down, Miss… Russo. We aren’t going anywhere. Now you’ll – slowly – go to Records, floor three, and ask for Martin. He’ll help you.”

Once in Records, a vast library-like room filled with wood and windows and the smell of old paper and furniture polish, Martin greeted her and set her up at a laptop in a small cubicle. Hands shaking, Ava typed. Her exhaustion was making her frustrated. This trip was probably in vain. She would never be free from this nightmare. Look how it already consumed her. Searching for a dead man. A ghost. Maybe she had finally gone mad. This time it might be all in her imagination. It wasn’t real. 

But… 

She clicked Submit.

And there he was.

Alfred Keller. 

Registered May 1944, Auschwitz. 

Born March 28, 1929. 

He existed.

And directly beneath…

Date of Liberation: April 15, 1945

He lived!

The small flower of hope that had wilted inside her bloomed again, and she stood up. “Martin! Look!” And the assistant peered over her shoulder, nodding. “Yes. That is good news. Did you know him?” 

“No. It’s… something else. So… can you tell me where the rest is? Where he went after the war? I don’t see it here.” 

Martin leaned over, tapping and clicking through several screens. “I’m sorry. Many records are like this. The days and months after the war were chaotic. Many records… and people… were lost.” He watched Ava’s hope wilt again. “But I can put you in touch with a genealogist, a friend of the Museum, who specializes in just this kind of search. Alfred is out there somewhere.” And he wrote a name and number on an index card and handed it to her. 

“Of course. Yes, thank you.” She rose, wearily, and headed for the station and the train back to New York. 

Alfred had lived. Thank God. 

But rest and the peace she longed for eluded her. She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t over. The detective work had just begun. Damn. 

Too many hours and miles later, as the sun set, she trudged up the steps into her building’s lobby, grabbing the UPS delivery note from her mailbox and handing it to the man behind the desk. “Package for 16F.” 

He went into the back closet and returned with a box. She wasn’t expecting anything, so she looked at the label. “No. Sorry, they mixed it up again. I’m in 16F. This is for 6F…”

And then she noticed the name for the first time. 

Oh my God. 

Alfred Keller. 

Apartment 6F. 

Of course. This was the dream she was meant to have all along.

The old man in 6F. The one with the package mixups.

Alfred Keller lived in her apartment building!

She’d never spoken to him, but seen him being led along with his walker for years. It was definitely him. It had to be. 

Her heart leapt, and she bounded up the stairs, not waiting for the elevator, not listening to her tired body pleading for rest, not listening to her brain tell her that it was too late, and that the old man was asleep himself, like she should be. No, she marched on, right to the door, and knocked. 

And knocked again. 

The door creaked open an inch, held there by the latch chain. A woman. Annoyed.

“Can I help you? It’s late.” A glimmer of recognition. “Oh, I know you. From the lobby. You go running. The packages. But it’s late. Is there an emergency?” 

“No, no, nothing like that. Hello, nice to meet, or, ah, see you again. But I need to speak with Mister Keller.” 

The woman shook her head. “No, no. Sorry miss-” 

“Ava. Ava Russo.” 

“Sorry, Miss Russo – Ava – you’ll have to come back tomorrow. He’s asleep. It’s late and he’s old.” 

“It’s just–” 

And a faint voice came from another room behind the woman. “Lena? Lena, who’s there?” 

Lena rolled her eyes at Ava, scowling. “Now you’ve done it. Do you have any idea what he’s going to be like tomorrow morning? My grandfather is not a pleasant man if he doesn’t get his rest. You need to leave.” She went to shut the door, and Ava, against every possible better judgement, stuck her foot in the jamb. 

She whispered to Lena, “Alfred Keller. Real name Alfred Kovacs. Born March 1929. Prisoner of Auschwitz from May 1944 through April 1945. He had a younger cousin Karl. His mother…” 

Lena pointed through the crack, shocked. “Who do you think you are?” 

Ava just apologized with her eyes. “I need to speak with him. Please.” 

From somewhere a bit closer, the old man croaked, “Lena, what is it? Who’s there?” 

Lena squinted at Ava. “Move your foot.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m just, I’ve been having dreams… I’ve done some research… it’s hard to explain, it sounds crazy, I know it does, I’m so sorry…” 

The old man’s voice was right behind Lena now, he was peering through the opening, above her head. “What is going on here, Lena? Who is this? Oh, the runner. Do you have a package for us?”

Lena growled, “No, Tata. She was just leaving.” 

But before Lena could amputate Ava’s toes with the door, Ava spoke directly to the old man, “Alfred. In my dreams she calls you Alli-Kincsem. What does that mean?”

Silence. 

Then, slowly, Alfred unlatched the chain and opened the door. 

“My mother called me that when I was a boy. It means ‘my little treasure Alli’ in Hungarian. You saw this in a dream?” 

Ava nodded. 

Alfred opened his arms. “Come. We need to talk.” 

As Ava crept past the doorway, Lena whispered loudly, glaring. “You be careful with my Tata.” 

Ava followed Alfred, Lena behind them, into Alfred’s bedroom. Beside the bed, a small table and two arm chairs. “Sit, sit. Let’s have some tea. Lena, could you?” 

Hesitant, Lena left them to put the water on. 

Alfred turned to Ava, as they sank into the ancient chairs. He reached his hand across the little table. “Now. There are only three or four people in the world that know about Alli-Kincsem. You said it came to you in a dream. Tell me, what did you see?” 

And so Ava took his hand, and closed her eyes, and began to tell Alfred about the grove, and the train, and the boy with the flower. When she opened her eyes and looked over, he was crying. 

“Oh, no! Mister Keller, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…” 

“No, no. You mustn’t. I am glad you’re here. This is important. But it is a lot to take. Maybe we take a little break, until the tea is ready, yes?” And she nodded. He wiped his eyes with his ancient fingers, and exhaled deeply, and within seconds, he was asleep. 

She looked at him now, at length, the wrinkles of ninety-four years, and the wisp of silver hair, and the old bifocals askew. It looked like the face of a man who’d loved and laughed much over the decades, or perhaps she was just wishing that to be the case. She squeezed his hand, and sat back, and the warmth, and the comfort of the dim room, and the embrace of the chair, and the tick-tock of the mantle clock, and the soft clanking of the radiator in the corner, and the smell of the candles, it was all too much, so she closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

The grove. 

They were in the grove. Alfred and Ava. Together.

How? 

Alfred looked around, still holding Ava’s hand, puzzled, but soon recognizing the place. 

He became afraid. “What is happening? I shouldn’t be here.” 

Ava put her arm around him. “I don’t know, Alfred. Try not to be afraid.” And then she saw the flower, and the boy. “Wait! Look, Alfred!” 

Alfred followed her to the boy, and they sat. He laughed in delight. “Karl! Little cousin! My, my, it’s good to see you!” And he took the flower from Karl, and patted his head, and looked up and saw… her. 

“Anyuci? Mother?” 

The woman’s eyes widened in recognition. “Alfred? My Alli-Kincsem?” And she put little Karl down and rose, approaching Alfred, and he too rose, like a young man, and they embraced. 

“Yes, Mother.” 

She wept into his neck. “Alli-Kincsem, I am so sorry…I pushed you away…” 

He caressed her hair. “No, no,  Anyuci… you did not send me to my death…” he pulled back and peered into her eyes, “You saved my life.” 

He looked around, and saw those who would not be saved, but saw also something different. “Anyuci, I have lived a long and fruitful life. You saved not only myself, but the lives of my seven children. And the lives of my eighteen grandchildren. And the lives of my twenty-three great grandchildren. And the tree will continue to grow branches forever. Life does not end. All because of you.”

And he clutched her tighter, their embrace becoming so tight that a light shone from them, and the light became so bright Ava could hardly see the soldiers leading the group toward the edge of the grove, where the showers awaited. Alfred kissed his mother in this moment, and whispered, “Be at peace, now. You will all live forever.” 

They awoke then, together, Ava and Alfred, to Lena placing her hands on theirs. “Tata. Ava. You both fell asleep.” 

Alfred lifted his free hand to Lena. “My Lena, help me to bed. It’s time for me to rest.”

Ava rose, still clutching his other hand. “I can help.” 

And so the two women lifted Alfred up, and gently moved him to his mattress, and tucked him in. And before he closed his eyes, Alfred looked up at Ava, and touched her cheek, and they smiled, knowing they had visited the grove for the last time.

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This story was inspired by a photo I saw a couple of years ago. It shows a field full of people, and in the center there’s a small boy offering a flower. The photo was taken by nazi soldiers in May or June of 1944, showing the selection process as Hungarian Jews came into Auschwitz concentration camp by the trainload. At this particular time, there were so many people being deported there, that they sent overflows to a nearby grove to await their fate in the gas chambers. Here’s the photo: 

It’s part of the Auschwitz Album, some of the only photos still existing of those horrific events. Here’s a link: 

https://www.yadvashem.org/yv/en/exhibitions/album_auschwitz/index.asp

I was also inspired by another story I came across maybe a year ago, about Claude Bloch. Claude was a Frenchman who, at 15, was deported to Auschwitz. Awaiting selection, his mother pushed him over to the men’s line, saving his life. He never saw her again. Here’s his photo: 

And here’s the link to his story: 

https://en.convoi77.org/deporte_bio/bloch-claude/

Finally, I’d like to give a shoutout to my brother Bud and my son Sam, who helped me edit this story. They’re both terrific writers and editors in their own right. Thanks, guys. 

And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the Number One Audible bestselling You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me at ListenToTheSignal.com or RobDircks.com.

Hey, Rob here. I don’t have a lot of background for this story, but here’s how it started: I was talking to a friend, about how when I heard the carbon monoxide detector beep because it needed a new battery, I thought we were going to die, and she said, “hey, that would make a great beginning to a story.” So here it is…

The carbon monoxide detector is going off.

We’re going to die. 

Kate rolls over and harrumphs, and tells me to go back to sleep, she doesn’t hear anything, 

“You must be dreaming. Come on. Work tomorrow. Need some sleep.” 

And so I roll over, and then back, and stare at the ceiling. I mean, it’s pitch black, so I can only assume the ceiling is there. There’s no moon tonight, so not even a single photon is hitting the back of my retinas. Any ceiling is in my imagination. But the sound is definitely there. A distant bweep bweep bweep, vibrating the little pads in my inner ears. I should go check it out. At least go down and open a window and maybe save our lives. 

So I ease my legs over the edge of the bed, super careful not to creak the springs, and feel the floor meet my feet. Cold. Does carbon monoxide have a temperature? It is colder than normal? Warmer? Do your feet get colder or warmer right before you die? I shuffle toward the door, not daring to turn on a light, awkwardly reaching around for obstacles, for all I know I could have suddenly been stricken blind in the middle of the night, maybe that’s what happens right before you die, and of course I stub my toe on the dresser, it’s been there for years, I should know where the fucking edge of it is by now, and I’m pretty sure Kate hasn’t been getting up at three a.m. rearranging the furniture just to mess with me, so I just choke back a yelp of pain and fumble for the door. 

Halfway down the stairs, I realize: my knee. Nothing. Huh. It’s funny, how the absence of a sensation can sort of be a sensation in itself. How nothing can be something. How you can sit in a room, let’s say between eating dinner and turning on Jeopardy!, and the stillness kind of hits you, the total lack of stimuli, your retinas and your inner ear pads and your taste buds and your nose cilia are all taking a well-deserved break, but there’s something there, something filling the space, you can feel it. And that something has a name: “nothing.” And there it is right now, again, nothing. My knee. No pain at all. It’s been killing me for weeks, and here I am taking the stairs like a rock climber. (Well, not like a rock climber, it’s been too many years, but you know what I mean.) It feels great. Not a great sensation by itself, but a great absence. Weird. I wonder if that happens right before you die. 

I get down to the basement stairs and turn on a light, and even though we’re old enough to know better, don’t we always turn on the light without thinking? I do anyway. Every time. So I recoil as the blast from the fire of a thousand suns sears my eyeballs, and putting my hand in front my face feels as futile as putting my hand up to stop a nuclear blast. 

And that’s when it happens. 

As my eyes adjust, I reach out to the test-slash-reset button on the carbon monoxide detector, and I can see that it is, in fact, going off. The light is blinking red.

But… it is also, in fact, NOT going off. The light is blinking green. 

Huh. 

It’s hard to describe, especially because I’m feeling a little dizzy now, woah, hard to put to words what it feels like when two opposite events seem to be happening at once, the dissonance of it. We live our entire lives one foot in front of the other, one second leading to the next, never questioning the perfectly linear thing that is our life, our timeline of existence, measured out in moments, always in a line, never side-by-side. Until now. It feels like trying to say “no” while you’re nodding your head “yes.” I wonder if maybe this is what Schrödinger’s cat felt like, being alive and dead at the same time? Maybe this is what quantum superposition feels like. In any case, it’s definitely not my favorite.

I sit down on the step, trying to get my bearings. Come on, focus. What would a rational, awake, calm person do?

I throw up. 

Somehow that seems appropriate. 

Actually, I threw “down,” down the stairs, so at least I don’t have to walk through it back up to the kitchen, where I desperately reach for the window for a breath of fresh, frigid, January air. I suck it in, and I can’t tell you how good it feels, filling my lungs with that cold air, that life. 

And I notice an old woman, standing right outside my window, between my house and the renters next door. It’s still pitch black, but the garage lights are throwing off just enough photons to outline her.

I should scream, I guess. She’s just standing there, motionless, not looking at me, but aware of me, and it’s three a.m., of course, the hour where all the weird shit happens. But I think I’ve already had my shock of the night with the carbon monoxide detector, I’m strangely calm in the aftermath of that, so I just tap the window sill to get her attention. 

“Can I, um, help you?” And for some reason I don’t wait for an answer, I can sense that this isn’t about me helping her, but that perhaps she can help me, so I ask her, already sure of the answer, “Am I in a dream?” 

It was rhetorical, of course this is a dream. It has all the hallmarks: familiar environment but just slightly askew, a surreal aura around the whole thing, and a strange figure here to give me some kind of message. Yes, it’s a dream. Classic. That explains the knee. I’m in bed. I’m probably snoring. 

But she says, “There are no such things as dreams.” 

Hmmm. Okay. Just another layer in the dream, I tell myself. But I know I’m lying. The fresh air. The cold floor on my feet. The truth of the thing she just said. I know it. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

She moves her hands, as if she’s manipulating some kind of invisible keypad. “I’m not here to explain the workings of it all. Just enough for you to make a choice.” 

“Choice? Hey, are you Lenny’s aunt? I’ve heard about you. What choice are you talking-“ 

Her eyes catch a glint of the garage light, now she’s looking directly at me, and I understand that my time for asking a million questions is never. She’s not Lenny’s aunt. And she’s all business. 

“There are no dreams. When you sleep, you peer into your other lives. Infinite lives, infinite possibilities. All real. As real as the vomit you left on the stairs.” 

“Hey. I was going to clean that up.”

“There’s been an anomaly. A superposition reversal. It happens.” 

I slap my hand on the sill. “Quantum superposition! I knew it! Like the cat!” 

She actually shakes her head. Continues. “Carbon monoxide is filling the house in the life you peered into. It could have happened here. It could have not happened there. A reversal.” She waits a moment. “Do you understand the choice?” 

“I don’t know. Choosing where it should happen? Me or some other me? Are you telling the other me the same thing right now?” 

“No. He is unconscious. He is dying.” 

“Wait. No. I’m not choosing whether I live or die. Or that other me lives or dies. No way.” 

“We make choices all day long, every day, that bring us nearer to life, or nearer to death.” 

“Okay, but why this? Why now? Why not just let what happens happen?” 

“Our understanding is that there is an element of will involved in causing a reversal anomaly. A subsequent act of will returns the superposition balance. Otherwise… technical things happen you wouldn’t understand.” 

“An act of will, huh. Whatever. What if I don’t choose?” 

“The choice not to choose is still a choice. That’s fine. But you don’t have much time.” 

“Well, this sucks.” I look back into the house, at my life, and I tilt my head upstairs. “What about Kate?” 

“She is dying too. In the other life.” 

“Okay. Decision made then. Keep it as it is. Kate lives. So I live. That’s how it was supposed to happen anyway.” 

“Thank you.” 

And that’s it. She turns away from me and begins to walk toward the street, receding  into the darkness. 

Suddenly some feeling, some unbidden force, makes its way up from my gut – no, not more vomit – and tries to come out my mouth. It’s telling me don’t be afraid. 

“But this isn’t fair,” I whisper back to it. 

And the answer returns instantly, I already knew the answer: Fair is just another name for fear. And so I let go, just for a moment, a sliver of a fraction of a moment, and the unbidden force bursts out of my mouth and I shout, “Wait!” 

The figure, nearly invisible in the dark, stops. Turns. I call out again. “What was SUPPOSED to happen?” 

She shrugs her shoulders. 

“Dammit,” I grumble, and I nod to her, and across the distance I can just make out her nodding too. 

And in an instant she’s gone. 

I walk back in through the kitchen, on some kind of autopilot, and climb the stairs, thinking well, that was stupid. If there are infinite me-s, then there are me-s dying all the time, right? What difference does saving one make? And for some reason that story pops into my head, the one on that cheesy plaque in the hallway growing up, my mom loved that plaque, with the story about the starfish drying up on a beach, thousands of them, and this kid is throwing them back in the water one by one. A guy walks buy and says, “Look at them all. You can’t possibly make a difference.” And the kid picks another starfish up and throws it back into the ocean and says, “it made a difference to that one.” I remember the plaque now, and the story, and my mom, and my whole life kind of floods in and fills up my lungs and my heart, and I smile.  Well, at least now I now what happens right before you die. 

I climb back into bed, not thinking about changing the trajectory of any of this, or calling the fire department, or running out of the house with Kate at least. No, I’m shuffling on the path I’ve chosen,  the tracks have been laid, and I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open, and by the time I slide in next to Kate they’re closed, and I sigh a deep sigh, and my final thought is man, that other me better live an awesome life. 

A crash wakes me up. 

The window. It’s broken. There’s a rock on the floor. 

I rush over to the window and look down. 

It’s the old woman. 

“Get Kate. Get out of the house. Now.” 

“What? Why? I thought I chos-“ 

“Shut up. Just do it. It was the other you. When he regained consciousness, he made the same choice. You know, you two are going to be a big pain in my ass.” 

I hope you enjoyed that short story. If you’ve been following my work at all, you might notice some of the things in this story that keep popping up story after story: First, death. I don’t feel like I’m morbid, and you don’t have to worry about me or anything, but I do think about life and death a lot, like I’m trying to decipher just what our short stint on this planet is all about, and what the transition of death might really be like, where it fits into the whole mystery of the universe. Second, the whole parallel dimensions thing. I dont’ know why, but I’m fascinated by it, and I can’t shake the feeling that this one single thread we live on might not be all there is. And lastly, people throwing up. I have no idea why, but having a character throw up is a go-to for me. Maybe I’m just juvenile. If you have a better explanation, let me know.

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Okay, now the self-promo — thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the science fiction novels Where the Hell is Tesla?, Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff!, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling You’re Going to Mars!  You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, and find my other books there too, and get in touch here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.  

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Copyright ©2023 Rob Dircks

Hello, Rob here. I hate to do this, but I really can’t say anything about this story up front without giving it away, except that it’s about someone who volunteers for a test, not knowing much about it.

“Please proceed to the dotted line. On the floor there.” 

“Um, okay.” I step awkwardly up to the line. “My toes are a little over. Is that okay? Should I back up? Like should I be on the line, or up to the line? Is this part of the test?” 

I can’t tell if the disembodied voice has eyes it’s rolling right now, or if it might be sighing to itself. It just moves on. “Now look into the small opening on the left. Try not to squint.” 

I notice the holes in the wall, in the otherwise completely blank, white room, for the first time. “Should I take the goggles off? I think I’d see better without the goggles.” 

“No. The goggles are part of the test.” 

I think I heard a little sigh in there that time. “Okay, sorry.” I squint into the hole on the left. “Oh, whoops. Sorry, I was squinting. Can we start over?” 

“The test hasn’t started yet.”

“Right.” 

“Continue looking into the small opening on the left.” 

I follow the command, but as happens, now that I’m being told to look into the left hole, that right hole is absolutely begging to be looked into.  Two seconds ago I didn’t give a shit about either of the holes, I didn’t even notice them, but now the right one has become super important to my caveman brain. Like there’s nothing more important. I can’t stop thinking about it. Wait. Is this the test? To confirm that I have precisely zero self control? 

“Um, excuse me. I’m looking into the left hole, just like you said, but is it okay if I peek into the right one for a second? It’s just got me curious.” 

“Do not look into the small opening on the right. Continue looking into the small opening on the left.” 

“Okay, but you know how that works, right? Like you tell me not to, and now I kind of have to.” 

“The test has started. Continue looking into the small opening on the left. Under no circumstances look into the small opening on the right.” 

Okay, they pulled out the under no circumstances. They must think it’s important. But really, if they didn’t want me to look into the right hole, they didn’t have to put it there. I mean, it’s right next to the left one. I think they’re messing with me. You know what?

Fuck it. 

I shift my weight, ever so slightly, hoping they won’t notice, and turn my head a millimeter, and take the quickest glance ever into the right hole. Actually, at this angle, I’m kind of looking into both holes. 

And something starts happening. 

The areas behind the holes start vibrating. My stomach turns, that first flash of fear, like I know I just did something terribly wrong, and I look back directly into the left hole, pretending that fucking right hole doesn’t even exist, but it’s too late. The holes are becoming pretty fluid, like amoeba shaped, and the area between them is shimmering. Okay, now I can’t stop looking. I can’t even close my eyes. I can’t move. The shimmering area starts shooting out light, into the goggles, into my eyes, and dammit I can’t even squint anymore, it’s like my eyes are locked open. 

And then everything goes white. 

Some amount of time passes, it could be a second or an hour or a year, I squint against the white to see if I can make out anything, and two shapes start to form. A man and a woman.

“Alex! Oh my god, you’re breathing!” 

She’s speaking Ukrainian. I don’t speak Ukrainian. How do I know Ukrainian? She’s calling me Alex. 

“Um, of course I’m breathing. Is this part of the test?” but Ukrainian comes out of my mouth. “Zvychayno dykhayu. Tse chastyna testu?”

The man, who I now notice had his hands clasped together on my chest, stops his rhythmic compressions. I’m laying down on some kind of old desk, in a room that looks like it’s made of rubble. There are only three walls. The fourth has a giant hole in it, more hole than wall, revealing the gray sky and the bare trees and more rubble beyond. It’s snowing. This guy on me smells awful. And I’ve never seen such bloodshot eyes. He smiles. “Alex. Thank God. Come, let’s go.” 

I’m gasping for breath. “Hey. What the fuck is going on? Who are you? Is this part of the test?”

Without answering, they get me on my feet and I stumble and almost fall. I look down at what’s left of my right foot. I scream. 

“No time. We must go. Now.” 

“Look, you’re in a rush, good for you, but whatever this dream or hallucination thing is, I want out. Test over. Test over!” 

But they just stand there, staring at me for a second, like whoever their friend Alex is just lost his mind. They turn and rush me out the door, even though we could’ve walked out through the missing wall.  Outside to the left. Sounds buzz by me, and only after something grazes my shoulder and I see blood do I realize they’re bullets. 

Nick throws me down and covers me with his body. Wait, I know him now, he’s in the 11th Army Aviation Brigade with me – him and Anna and Petr. It’s coming back to me. I was dead back there, wasn’t I? I look up, out of the mud, and see why they were so desperate to save me. 

It’s the Mi-44 transport helicopter. Loaded with wounded soldiers from the 27th Artillery.

And I’m the pilot. 

“Nick, what the hell? What if I died back there? Where’s our backup? Where’s Petr?” 

Nick turns my head in the other direction. Two feet from me, also halfway into the mud, is our backup pilot, Petr. What’s left of him. His eyes look into mine, but there’s nothing there, nothing behind the eyes. I shared a drink with him last night, and he told me about his younger brother, the football player,  how he scored three goals this season and thought he was God’s gift to the universe, and all its women, and we laughed our half-drunk laugh and toasted to the simple pleasure of running and kicking a ball. And now he’s gone. And now I know why Nick was pounding on my chest so hard. 

There is no backup. 

If I don’t fly us out of here, we’re all going to die. 

“Okay, Nick. Get off me. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

They crawl on their bellies to the helicopter, literally dragging me behind them, and throw me into the open bay, on top of the pile of wounded. 

Pushing me up and over them toward the cockpit, Anna is hit with a round large enough it makes her abdomen disappear. I reach out to her, as blood drains her life, and she looks up and grabs my hand, and I remember more, yes, I was at her wedding five days ago, in that makeshift chapel in the makeshift barracks, I’ve never seen anyone so happy in the middle of something so awful. I remember her hand was trembling, that hand that had carried mines, and dug trenches, and shot a Z-15 as well as any man I knew. Her hand trembles now, not with love and anticipation and a new ring, but with the rattle of death overcoming her, and she whispers her last words to me: 

“Look after Nick.” 

And I remember now, everything: I remember that Nick was the man she married, the man sitting next to me, my friend, sobbing, wiping his eyes with mud-caked hands, screaming now, at the top of his lungs, at our enemy, but even more, at the universe, for stealing his love, for extinguishing his hope, and I understand in this moment more than I’ve ever understood anything: that this will never make sense, the killing of wives and husbands, and fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, who live less than a short car ride away from each other, killing over land, or oil reserves, or some ideology that’s as clear as the mud in Nick’s eyes. Killing themselves. For nothing. 

For nothing.

One of the soldiers at my feet groans, and I realize that staying here would be even more insane. So I wrestle my broken body into the pilot’s seat and start the engine. 

There’s something wrong with the props, of course there is with all the fire we’re taking on, but this is it, isn’t it? This is the moment I was born to face. Whatever has happened in my life, the laughs and the loves and the scrapes and the tragedies, all have led to this. I can feel all my years converge onto this point, so concentrated it takes my breath away and I begin, finally, to cry. No. No time for tears, Alex. I gun the throttle and lift off, fighting with the gyroscopes, fighting fate itself, undoing something that was supposed to happen, cheating that certainty, stealing it back from the jaws of death, and somehow, somehow, we stay airborne and immediately turn west, away, away from the battle, away from death and toward life. 

I turn my head left at a sound, right outside the cockpit, and something races past us, a missile, and as I turn to follow it, my field of vision blurs, and vibrates, and I feel my heart starting to give out one more time, and I can’t tell if it’s an explosion enveloping us, or if I’m looking into heaven, but everything goes white. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

I rip off the goggles and throw them at the two holes in the wall. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. My t-shirt is soaked with sweat, and my legs are shaking. And I’m pissed. “Hey! What the fuck was that? That wasn’t what you told me!” 

“The test is complete. You may leave through the open door on your right and collect your fifty dollars.” 

“No. I demand to know what the fuck just happened.” 

“You signed an agreement to participate in an experiment on dreams, sensory manipulation, and/or spacial-temporal anomalies. The agreement also states that the nature, technology, and results of the test would remain confidential, even from you. Thank you for your participation. You may leave through the open door on your right and collect your fifty dollars.” 

“You knew I was going to look into both holes.” 

Silence. 

“Was that real? Did I do that? Or was it a dream?” 

Silence.

“Whatever. Well, either way, you could’ve warned me.” I step to the right to get the hell out of there, and nearly fall. Fear grips me as I look down at my feet. 

Whew. They’re still there. No, I’m fine. It was a dream. Only a twisted dream.

I grab my fifty bucks from the uninterested intern at the front desk, literally the only person I’ve seen this whole time. “Hey. Do you know what’s really going on in there?” 

He looks back up, like I interrupted the most important text of his life. “Huh?” 

“I said do you know what’s really going on in there?”

He shrugs. “Nope. But they all come out sweaty like you. It’s gross.” 

I take the subway back to my apartment, jump in the shower, trying to wash off the ick of that crazy dream, and change into some fresh clothes. God, I’m famished. 

I could really go for some nalesniki. 

Wait. How the hell do I know what nalesniki is? Weird. I guess this is gonna take a day or so, shaking the leftovers of that test out of my brain. But you know what? I might as well have some nalesniki, I mean there’s probably a hundred nalesniki places in New York. Yup. Right here. Shit, I could walk there, I’ve never even noticed that place. 

So I bound downstairs and out onto the street, and before you know it, I’m at the place. A little hole in the wall. Wow. There’s a line? For nalesniki? 

I’m sitting there, at a seat up against the window, still so uneasy about the whole test thing, waiting for them to bring over my order, and just to kill the time I glance at my phone, and I don’t know, maybe it was that dream, but I’m compelled to dig into Yahoo! News and see what’s going on in the war, and my fingers start trembling as I see a photo of a helicopter. I scroll down. Another photo. 

It’s Nick. 

Carrying Alex. 

Carrying me. 

“Number Four?” 

My head jerks up. “Wha? Oh, yeah, number four, yes. That’s me.” 

She sets down my dish and points at my phone. “You know, that guy, that some heroic stuff there, yes?” 

“What, the, um, helicopter thing? I guess… I don’t know.” 

“Yeah. Read the whole thing. Guy was basically dead, somehow they got him alive just long enough to fly them all out. Dead man, like angel, flying them to heaven or something, right? Like dream or something.” 

I look up, and of course, her little name tag says “Anna,” and I have to choke back a sob, and I reach into my pocket and pull out the fifty and hand it to her. 

She laughs. “You already pay. At the counter.” 

“No. Take it. Please.” My hand is trembling. 

“Hey, you okay, mister?” 

“I have no idea.” 

I hope you enjoyed that short story. I think it’s obvious that my subconscious is working overtime, processing all the images and stories I’m seeing about the war. I don’t have anything political to say about it all, if you’ve listened to any of my stories you know I try to stay pretty far away from that, as I certainly don’t have any answers. Maybe someday I will. 

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Okay, now the book-hawking — thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the science fiction novels Where the Hell is Tesla?, Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff!, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling You’re Going to Mars!  You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, and find my other books there too, and get in touch here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.  

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Copyright ©2022 Rob Dircks

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN/RECORDED 03/2020. Hey guys. I’ll tell you right up front, I struggled with the idea of even posting this story, because, yes, it’s a plague story. It’s a very common theme in sci-fi, the plague-that-wipes-out-humanity theme, but I’ve never written one, so it just kind of popped into my head a few weeks ago, before the poop really started to his the fan, as my subconscious had already started working overtime on this whole Coronavirus thing. Anyway, I finished it, and put it on the shelf, thinking that nerve might be just too raw for folks right now. But the story kept pushing itself off the shelf and into the front of my brain, and, well, here it is. If you’re not up for a plague story right now, I completely understand, just leave it for later, or never read/listen to it, no worries at all (I’m doing that with most news these days, btw). If you’re into it, though, I really like how this story turned out, and I think you actually might find something nice in here.

Chopsticks. 

Yup. Sounds stupid, right? 

But it was the chopsticks that did it. 

It happened so fast the news never really put all the pieces of the puzzle together before it was too late. Not that it would have changed anything if they finished the puzzle. It would’ve just been a nice, complete puzzle with no one left to look at it.

The last I heard was something about cross-contamination between the Chinese factory making dried bat miracle powders – we laughed here in the West, but apparently they take that shit very seriously in the East – and the neighboring factory churning out billions of chopsticks for use around the world. Somehow the Chijing bat virus, hiding, biding its time, was dried along with its host and atomized, and over months and months enough molecules of it impregnated and corrupted the neighboring wood stocks of XianGo Manufacturing. Stamped into chopsticks, now containing the dormant virus, the chopsticks were shipped to over a hundred countries, including the United States. From there, all it took to reactivate the Chijing – by the way, “Chijing” is Chinese for “Surprise!” – all it took was a drop or two of human saliva, which, of course, is exactly what you get when you shove a chunk of General Tso’s chicken into your mouth, held aloft by a pair of imported XianGo Manufacturing chopsticks.

Now, that whole story could’ve been conjecture, the news people were dropping like flies, like everyone else, and sources of information were getting spotty even then, only two weeks after the first cases were reported. But they seemed certain it started with the Chijing and the chopsticks, and like I said, it doesn’t really matter at this point. Once people started getting sick, it didn’t make a difference if you never touched a chopstick in your life. All it took was a cough or a sneeze or the touch of a subway turnstile, or just being in the same room as one of the infected. And God forbid you stepped into a hospital for help – then you were basically asking for it. In fact, the hospitals were the first to shut down, they could do nothing to stop the Chijing. It had happened too fast. All the medicine and technology in the world could do nothing. Nothing. 

It would’ve been funny, if it weren’t so fucking bizarre and soul-crushing, to see how fast people turned their faith then from science back to God. Within another week the churches here in Manhattan were filled with the faithful, all the poor souls who knew the end was coming and had nowhere else to go for a miracle. 

And that’s where I am right now, tending to the infected. Well, calling it tending is a stretch, there’s nothing I can do of course, but I hold their hands and pray with them, and in two and a half weeks when they pass I help place them into body bags and move them into Fifth Avenue where the dozers are still at work, collecting the bodies and pushing them onto barges in the East River to be sent out to sea, another of those last futile attempts to keep this thing under control, keep the streets open, keep the stench of death from becoming overwhelming.

“Father Tim?” 

It’s an old man, feverish, he’s in the second week, so he’s starting to hallucinate. He calls me Father Tim, they all do now, but the truth is I’m just some guy living in an apartment a couple of blocks down from Saint Patrick’s, and I’m not a father, or a priest, or whatever they think I am. I just happened to be passing the massive front doors last week, and a women fell on her way in, so I helped her get to her feet. She looked up at me, searching. I was wearing my black pants and black shirt, coming off my last-ever shift at Delmonico’s. “Thank you, Father.” 

“No. I’m a waiter.” 

She shook her head, and kissed me on the hand and chuckled. “And thank you for making an old woman laugh, Father.” 

“No. I’m a waiter. Really. Well, I’m a playwright, or an aspiring one, as all waiters aspire to something, I guess. But-”

And she was gone, into the throngs crowding the pews, to rest and to hope, or to at least make peace at the end, and then two young men, teenagers, approached me as they led who must’ve been their mother through the doors. “Excuse me, Father. Is there a process to this?” 

I looked around, it was chaos, who would’ve expected it to be anything else, and several other faces looked to mine. “Listen. I’m not who you think…” 

But it had just happened. I was no longer a waiter. Or an aspiring playwright. I would never be any of those things again.

Now I’m Father. 

“Okay, in and to the left. There’s more room on the left.” 

 After three days, there did seem to be order germinating from the chaos. We would bring the first week infecteds to the front, closer to the podium, better to listen to the actual, legitimate priests offering comfort, as it was all they could offer, and the aid workers who weren’t yet sick prepared food for them to the right of the altar. The second week infecteds were moved to the back, as they could no longer eat and barely make sense of their surroundings. This also brought them closer to the main doors, where it would be easier and more discreet to move them into the side street and the bulldozers when their time came. The streets were still clear through to my apartment building, and I did manage to get home a couple of times a day and take care of things there. 

“Father Tim?” 

It’s the old man again. Almost pleading. 

“Yes, Arnold?” 

“You are real, yes? I am not imagining you?” 

“Yes. I’m real, Arnold.” I take his hand so he can feel the realness, the pressure of my touch.

“Then why aren’t you getting sick?”

He wasn’t the first one to ask me this. As the infecteds came and went, by the thousands, there were a few of us, myself and maybe five of the aid workers, who just didn’t succumb to the Chijing. No fever, no sweats, no nausea, nothing. I actually felt better than ever.

“I’m not special, Arnold. It’s something random. I don’t know why I’m not sick.” 

“Ah, but I do know why.” 

I open my mouth to protest, but he starts babbling. Semi-words, mumbles. He’s getting closer to the end. There’s no point in arguing. But then the clarity moment: “I know why you’ve been spared, Father Tim. Because you are the Second Coming.” 

I recoil and rise, practically tearing my hand loose from Arnold’s, and rush to the exit. “No.” 

I run the two blocks home, my mind racing with Arnold’s words. Who is he to say something like that? Jesus Christ, no offense, but I don’t even know if I believe in any of that. And I definitely don’t believe in some judgment at the end, and really, if there even were one, I definitely wouldn’t be a central figure. I’d be the guy bussing the dishes in the upper room after the Last Supper, clearing the table and getting it ready for the next party of twelve. I wouldn’t even make it into Davinci’s painting as an extra. Second coming. Arnold, do you have any idea how much you just freaked me out? 

I leap up the stairs to my place, two at a time, to the fourth floor. Open the door to 4B, quietly, breathing heavy, tiptoeing to the kitchen. I open a can of chicken noodle soup, pouring just the broth into a bowl, and microwave it for a minute. Then I make my way, silent as possible, to the second bedroom. I lean into the door, and it creaks, and the first thing I see are two bowls of broth, untouched. And there in the bed, eyes closed, smiling at God-knows-what, she lay. 

I whisper, “Mom?” 

She opens her eyes, looking a bit unsure if I’m there, or something she’s imagining. “Timmy? Are you really here?” 

“Yes, Mom.” I approach, and set down the third bowl, knowing now that food will never pass her lips again. “Mom, you’re not hungry?” 

“Oh, I just ate. You feed me too much. Look how fat I’m getting.” She smiles, and pushes out her belly beneath the blankets, using her arms to amplify the effect. 

I laugh. “Man. We’re going to have to put you on a diet.” And I move to take the bowls away. 

“No. Timmy. Don’t leave. It’s getting late, love.” 

Oh no. The last phase. Beyond the hallucinations. In the final few hours, infecteds gain a blazing clarity, an understanding, almost premonition. She knows it’s coming for her. And I know. But somehow I’m still not ready. Can you ever be ready?

“Um, okay.” So I sit there, like a little kid, with no answers, waiting for her to give me one. She always had the answers.

“Do you remember, when you were small, Timmy?” 

“Yes, of course. Well, some stuff.”  

“Do you remember the finger dances?” 

I smile, and take her hand from beneath the blankets, and prop my index and middle finger up on her belly, like legs, and I lean them forward, in a bow. She mirrors my movements, with a finger lady of her own, but adds a little curtsy at the end. 

“May I have this dance, young lady?” 

“You certainly may, young man. Play After You’ve Gone.” 

And my little finger man approaches her little finger lady, and as I sing, the two figures waltz around on the blanket on her belly: “After you’ve gone, and left me crying, after you’ve gone, there’s no denying, you’ll feel blue, you’ll feel sad… you’ll miss the dearest pal that you’ve ever had… and there’ll come a time, now don’t forget it…” 

And slowly, as she smiles and moves in time with my finger man, she closes her eyes, and hums along, and then her hand rests back down to her heart, and her humming stops. 

And she exhales, and whispers, “…love you…”

And that is all. 

I don’t cry, God I don’t think I have any tears left after these past two weeks. No, I just kiss her on the forehead and smooth her hair a little, and tuck her in, and take the bowls to the kitchen. 

It’s time to leave New York. 

.

Five days later, I still haven’t left, but I haven’t been back to the apartment either. I’ve been saying goodbye here at the cathedral, to more people than I thought could fit into the entire city of Manhattan, nevermind Saint Patrick’s. I have known more people in the past month than I knew in my entire previous life, and I’ve now said goodbye to each and every one. The priests are gone now, they’ve whispered their own last rites, the aid workers are gone. Even the one or two that like me somehow escaped the Chijing have fled, I’m assuming to someplace without so much death. After the final infected has exhaled his last, I am alone here now. Alone with death.

Death. 

I went from never seeing a single person die in my entire life to seeing thousands – maybe tens of thousands? – die right in front of me, all within four weeks. I know I’m still in some form of shock, trying to absorb the incomprehensible, like the prisoners at Auschwitz must’ve felt after their first month – redefining what death meant, what the scale of death could look like when taken to the ultimate extreme. I don’t know what it’s doing to my sanity. At any moment it all threatens to unravel, any last thread I’m miraculously holding onto. I could, easily, just stop, and sit here, in the stench, and put my head down, and babble like one of the infected, and wait for the Grim Reaper to call my name. I don’t think anyone would blame me. 

But somehow, somehow, I still hold on to my can opener, wander the supermarket, and force food into my belly, and live within the gossamer-thin guard rails of life, not veering off the cliff into blackness. The slightest touch and those guardrails would disintegrate like a soap bubble, but no – it’s not my time. No. Something compels me to keep my eyes open, look around, assess the situation, think about the future. To plan. Isn’t that crazy? To plan? Plan what? 

Well, regardless of plan, or no plan, I find myself walking absently towards the Lincoln Tunnel, away from the awful smell, towards New Jersey, with a shopping cart full of cans and bottles, and three cases of water. I could theoretically drive, I guess, I’ve got my choice of cars, or even military vehicles, but the streets are parking lots now – even a bulldozer wouldn’t get me through one of the tunnels or bridges.

I turn off 31st street, fairly sure it’s the entrance to the tunnel, and hear clanking. Probably dogs, scrounging, or rats, the new dominant species of New York City, I’ve decided. I didn’t bring a gun along, though I could have, I could look like Rambo if I wanted, with grenade launchers strapped across each shoulder. But I always remember what Mom said: “You carry a weapon, Timmy, and nine times out of ten you’re the one it gets used on.” I have no idea how she arrived at this figure, whether it was even true at all, but she had drilled it into the primitive muscle part of my brain, and the belief had gotten me this far, so I didn’t see any reason to abandon it now. I had allowed myself a knife, but a fourth grader with some skills could easily disarm me. 

I don’t know what comes over me, some leftover curiosity from Old Tim, and I shout out “Hey!” just to scatter the rats, or whatever they are. 

But it’s not a they. 

A hooded figure rises from a crouch and turns to face me. 

“Hey yourself.” 

I am paralyzed with fear as the figure removes its hood and takes a step toward me. It’s a woman, sixty maybe, which momentarily eases my paralysis, though I don’t know why, because plenty of sixty-year-old women could kick my ass or worse. 

I stammer, “You can take all my stuff. I’m not armed.” 

The woman looks up and around, pointing at all the skyscrapers. “All your stuff, my love? There’s more stuff in this godforsaken city than anyone left on Earth could use up. No, you can keep your stuff, Father Tim.” 

“Father-?”

“You Father Tim, right?” 

“I’m a waiter.” 

She laughs. “They told me you might say that.” 

“They?” 

“Listen, my love. I don’t know if this is your lucky day or just another worst day of your life, but there’s a group of us never-sicks headed out a couple weeks ago, made it to a farm in Waldwick. No stench, plenty of resources, close enough to this hellhole in case we need gas, cars, what have you. Anyways, a bunch of them kept talking about some Father Tim, he’d probably be the last one out of hell, compassionate sucker, and he’s worth going back for.” She looked down and kicked a rat that was sniffing around her backpack, looked back up, impatient. “So just answer me two questions and I’ll be on my way: are you Father Tim? And are you worth coming back for?”

“I don’t know if I’m worth coming back for, but yes.” I take a step forward and offer my hand. “Um, how’d you know I’d be taking the Lincoln Tunnel?” 

“Oh shit, thanks for reminding me.” She digs the military walkie-talkie out of her pack and yells into it. “Got ‘em. Y’all can converge here on me, Lizzy, here at the 31st entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.” Then she puts down the radio and takes my offered hand. “We didn’t know. They had us station one at each exit, Lincoln, Holland, Brooklyn Bridge, Williamsburg, 59th street, et cetera. Been sitting here in our asses for three days almost. Needless to say, tomorrow we were gonna call it off. So again, lucky day or just another worst day for you, my love.” 

“I’ll call it lucky. Hey, do you call everyone my love, or just me?” 

She laughs at this, a real cackle, like a witch. “Oh, that’s rich. Yeah, it’s just you, Father Tim. Love at first sight. Can’t keep my eyes off you.”

I just stand there, I guess looking emotionless, I mean I haven’t had a conversation in a week, and can’t remember the last time someone joked with me. Lizzy seems to notice this, and her look softens. “You been through a lot. We all have. More than a lot. The most. The worst damn thing the Big Man coulda come up with. Maybe even worse than the flood. But you done good, Father Tim, from what I heard anyway.” She puts her arm around my shoulder. “It’ll be good to have you around, that’s my prediction.”

“I don’t have any skills.” 

“Not what I heard. And it don’t matter anyhow. We’re all gonna learn. Gonna start over. This ain’t the end, my love. It’s the beginning.” 

She sits down to wait for the others, and pats the sidewalk for me to join her. I’m struck, suddenly, with how much Lizzy reminds me of my Mom. She doesn’t look like her, and she certainly doesn’t talk like her, but there is something about her, about how life bubbles up inside her and can’t keep itself from coming out, about how love seems to be her favorite word. Like Mom.

“Excuse me, Lizzy, right? While we wait, can I ask you a favor?” 

“Sure.” 

And so I tell her about my Mom, and the finger dances, and for a moment Lizzy looks at me like maybe they shouldn’t have come back for me at all, but then she relents and props her two fingers on the pavement. “You’ll have to lead. Never done this before.” 

As I walk my little finger man over to hers, I ask, “Ladies choice on the song.” 

Without hesitation, a grin widening her face, she says, “You know, the Louis Armstrong one.”

“Hmm. I only know one verse.” 

“S’okay.” 

So I sing, and our hands dance awkwardly. “I see skies of blue, and clouds of white, the bright blessed day and the dark sacred night…” and together we sing the last words, “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.” 

Lizzy lifts her fingers and cups my face in her hands, and kisses me hard on the cheek, and whispers in my ear, “Maybe someday it’ll be wonderful again, my love.”

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I hope you enjoyed that short story. Now, instead of what I usually do here, hawking my books for you to purchases, I’d like to share three thoughts: 

One, no matter who you are or what your circumstances during these strange days, I wish you health, and some peace, and a shoulder to cry on when necessary (and if you need another shoulder, email me from the contact page here on listentothesignal.com or over at robdircks.com). 

Two, regarding the “my love” phrase that Lizzy keeps repeating, I want to thank the old lady at the Dunkin’ Donuts at the Amtrak station in New York. I was there, just a couple of weeks ago on my way down to DC– though it already seems like a million years ago – pretty anxious already about this whole virus thing, just before the lockdowns, anyway the girl at the counter asks the old lady in front of me, “What I can I get you, my love?” So she orders, and then it’s my turn and I say, “My love? Wow. Can I get one of those? I could use it.” And she says, “Absolutely, my love. What can I get you, my love?” So she showers me with a couple of more “my loves,” which would’ve been cute as heck enough, but then while I’m waiting for my bagel, the old lady goes to leave with her coffee, but she stops and turns, and looks me straight in the eye and says, “You’ll be just fine, my love.” And I gotta tell you, I almost started crying right there at the Dunkin’ Donuts in the Amtrak station.

Finally, I’d like to read you a quote I found about this time we find ourselves living in. I didn’t write it, and if anyone knows who wrote it and wants to email me I’ll give them credit, but here it is:

“I know this: When this ends – AND IT WILL – every game will sell out, every restaurant will have a 2-hour wait, every kid will be glad to be in school, everyone will love their job, the stock market will skyrocket, every other house will get TP’d, and we’ll all embrace and shake hands. That’s gonna be a damn good day.”

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Okay, now the book-hawking — thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the science fiction novels Where the Hell is Tesla?, Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff!, The Wrong Unit, and my latest release, an Audible Original titled You’re Going to Mars!  You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, and find my other books there too, and get in touch here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.  

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Copyright ©2020 Rob Dircks

Hey, Rob here. For a long time now, there’s been the awareness that what happened to the dinosaurs – an extinction-level event caused by an asteroid impact – could happen again. In fact, it doesn’t seem to be a matter of if, but of when. A hundred years? A thousand years? A hundred thousand years? In the movies Armageddon and Deep Impact (both strangely released in the same year, 1998), we triumph over the threat by nuking a huge asteroid into pieces. In reality, a nuclear explosion as a planetary defense is potentially unpredictable. What if the asteroid doesn’t break into the pieces we’d like it to? So… fast forward to yesterday, November 23, 2021, and NASA launched a different kind of test: slamming a spacecraft into an asteroid to deflect its path, just a fraction of a percent, but enough to make a difference. The asteroid they’ve chosen is, unsurprisingly, not on a collision-course with Earth, so it poses no threat. I repeat: it poses no threat.

Arnie and Will sat by the lake, throwing rocks in for no reason. It was still seventh period, but whatever. They were seniors. They could do whatever the hell they wanted.

“Okay. Worst old-school science fiction movie.” 

“Oh man, that one’s too easy. Logan’s Run.” 

“Wow, you’re digging deep there, but yes, I’d have to agree. That one totally sucked. I hereby establish that as Objective Truth. Okay, second-worst.” 

Arnie picked up another rock, a big one this time, big enough where he had to stand up to heave it into the water. “Hmm. I think I’d have to go with Armageddon.” 

“Dude. Armageddon? The classic with Bruce Willis?” 

“Yeah. Sucked. Second worst. Come on. Asteroid heading on a collision course with Earth, and they send a bunch of misfit oil drillers up there to blow it up with nukes? And it splits into two perfect halves that barely clear the planet? And Bruce Willis? Really? The whole thing was stupid.” 

“Wow. I’m hurt. You know that’s in my top three.” 

“Whatever. It sucked.” 

“Hey by the way, strangely enough, one of these days, right around now actually, NASA is doing that exact thing.” He looked up at the sky. 

“What? Sending up a bunch of oil drill guys to nuke an asteroid?” 

“Dude. Have you ever paid attention in Mister Abram’s class? We did that thing on the DART mission? NASA sent up a rocket last year that would slam into an asteroid, to test whether we could alter its path. You know, for when the real thing happens and we have to save Earth from an extinction-level impact.”

“…I don’t know… I vaguely remember…” 

Will looked at his watch. “Anyway the strike was supposed to happen mid-October, I think. Shit, it could even be today.” 

It was, in fact, today. 

At that exact moment, two thousand miles east, in NASA’s Washington D.C. Headquarters, twelve people sat around a large conference table, staring intently at a wall of monitors. 

“…Impact in sixty-three seconds…” 

Director Lowell stood. “All right, folks. While we still have a few moments, I’d like to thank you all for making this historic mission a reality. We’re about to witness an engineering feat unimaginable even a decade ago. Asteroid Didymos will be pushed off its course – the first time ever man has altered the path of a heavenly body. Now, this is only a test, but nevertheless it’s a giant stride in progress toward protecting humanity from potential asteroid strikes or-“ 

A gasp from five of the engineers interrupted the director’s heartfelt speech. 

“What? What just happened?” 

“The asteroid, Director. Its trajectory has changed.” 

Lowell searched the monitors for anything gasp-worthy. Just a bunch of graphs and lines of code, and a blurry video feed. He wasn’t that deep in the weeds on the technical stuff. “Well… that’s good news, right? That’s what it was supposed to do!” He smiled broadly. “Congratulations!” But the eleven others just stared, frozen. 

“I don’t get it. Carter – what could possibly be the bad news?” 

“We didn’t change it. The trajectory.” 

“Come again?” 

“The kinetic impactor missed the target. It appears the asteroid…”

“Yes?…” 

“… It swerved.” 

Lowell searched his face for signs of a joke. Carter was known to prank colleagues here and there, though nothing this outrageous. That he’d heard about anyway. He grinned. “Okay, ha ha, you got me, fun time’s over.” But Carter just shook his head, frowning.

Lowell grabbed the back of a chair for support. “But… that’s impossible.” 

“It would seem.” 

At that exact moment, on the asteroid Didymous…

“What the hell just happened, Sorkesh?” 

Sorkesh, a small – by human standards – being, about the size and shape of gummy bear, scuttled into the admiral’s warren. “Sir, yes sir, I’m just receiving reports, sir. The good news, it appears, is that we were able to swerve out of the way of an incoming anomaly.” 

“Excellent. Just as we’ve planned for eons.” The admiral breathed a sigh of gratitude – well, not actually breathed, he released some toxins from his bowels – and reflected on the wisdom of all the past generations of Krishneks. They were perfectly evolved for life on Didymous, the perfect size and shape and respiratory functions and nutrition requirements, but Didymous itself was a tragedy waiting to happen. It wasn’t an if, but a when. It was only a matter of time before another small asteroid or space rock would threaten their very existence. And yet, thousands of years of wise choices and technological development had saved them. He patted Sorkesh on the head. “Ah, yes, excellent, the elders have foretold this day, and our systems worked perfectl- wait. Why do I feel like there’s a bad news in there?” 

“Because there is.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Yes. The incoming anomaly was not the naturally occurring object we assumed might strike our home. It was… manufactured. By an intelligent species.” 

“Oh dear! That means…” 

“Unfortunately, sir, yes. It appears we’re under attack. By aliens.” 

“Aliens? We’re not alone after all? Oh dear.” The admiral mustered his courage… “Well then, we must assume further attacks. It’s time to enact Directive Nine.”

“You mean eight, sir.” 

“Ah, yes, yes, sorry. That’s what I meant. Eight. Is there a Directive Nine?” 

“None that I’m aware of, sir.” 

“Of course. I knew that. All right, Sorkesh, enact Directive Eight.” 

And so the klaxons blared, and the gummy-bear-sized citizens of Didymous began to unearth the great, ancient gears of Directive Eight. It was time. 

At that exact moment, back on Earth…

Director Lowell fled the frantic conference room, reporters trailing him, peppering him with questions, phones ringing, more phones than Lowell thought existed, and he turned at his office door, to face them all, and shouted, “No comment! And you’re not even supposed to be in this area! Security!” He bolted into his office and slammed the door. 

Stumbling, shocked, to his window, he leaned his chin against the glass and looked up at the sky. What the fuck? Is there some law of physics we totally missed? Some force in the universe we’re unaware of, like anti-magnetism or something? 

And, as happened with Lowell’s panic attacks, the thoughts kept coming, now wilder and wilder: Are we not alone after all? I mean, they told me all the alien stuff was bullshit, but was it? Asteroids don’t just swerve, right? Or did some higher power do this?

Is there a God? 

The red phone on his desk bleeped. 

Lowell took a deep breath. I know it’s the red phone, but red phone doesn’t automatically mean bad news. Everything’s going to be okay. It’s something stupid, I’m sure of it. He tapped the speaker. “Okay, Carter. Tell me you have good news, like it’s an error in our sensors. Something that makes sense.” 

Silence. 

“Damn. Okay, just tell me.” 

“We can’t explain the swerve yet, we’re working on it. But there’s something else.” 

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” 

“The asteroid, Director… it’s now heading directly toward Earth.” 

Lowell fell into his chair. “And?” 

“Um. There is no ‘and.’” 

“Okay. Listen. We can get unit two up there in four months. Three months if we push like crazy. That’s plenty of time.” 

Again, silence.

“Carter, I’m not the most technical guy, but even I know that three months is plenty of time.” 

“Director Lowell – Tom – it’s accelerating. It’ll be here in five weeks.” 

Lowell tapped the speaker off. And a strange calm settled over him. He was puzzled at first, he should be flipping out to the power of a zillion right now, off the charts, but then he realized: there was suddenly nothing to worry about anymore. His future was sealed. 

But just in case, he took out a pad and wrote a note: 

Dear God, 
You know how I feel about you, but if you’re actually listening, it would be great if you could intervene and somehow make this all go away. 
Sincerely, 
Tom Lowell

At that exact moment, unknown to the people of Earth, who were busy gasping in despair, facing certain annihilation, and unknown to the gummy-bear-like Krishneks, who had pointed their home suicide-mission style toward their attackers and were now scrambling for their escape ark, a much, much larger being – and by much, much larger I mean larger than you’re probably imagining – was in distress. Enough distress to make an urgent appointment with his doctor. The pain was excruciating. He was certain he was going to die. 

“Well, I have good news.” 

“Give me the bad news first, Doc.” 

“Why would you think there’s bad news?” 

“There’s always bad news.” 

“I’m sorry. No bad news. It’s just some microorganisms fighting with each other in your gut. The larger ones attack the smaller ones, then the smaller ones turn around and suicide mission back into the larger ones. The technical name for it is asteroidism: all those little microorganism explosions create an accumulation of gas in the G.I. tract. From your perspective, it can feel like you’re going to die. But I can assure you, Bob, you’re not going anywhere. You’ll be fine. It was gas.” 

“Gas? Ugh. Really? God, I’m embarrassed.” 

“No need to be embarrassed. Happens to everyone. All the millions of little life and death battles going on daily in our bodies can knock us off our feet.” He hands Bob a small bottle. “Just take this pill for three days and that’ll be the end of it all.” 

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I hope you enjoyed that short story. And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

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Copyright ©2021 Rob Dircks

Hey guys, Rob here. Happy Halloween! So a friend of mine texted me and he’s like, “Dude! Do a story about this creepy island I’m working on!” Usually I’m like okay, great, thanks, whatever, and then I do what I want. But this time he got me. See, his job is to map areas, and he told me about Hart Island. It’s a tiny island off the coast of the Bronx in New York City, in the Long Island Sound, and it’s basically a giant mass grave. It’s where all the people who become the responsibility of the city are buried: the homeless, stillborn children, people who can’t afford any kind of burial, and bodies that are unclaimed. There are a million people buried there, with more every year, making it the largest potter’s field in the world. And on top of that, it’s got an abandoned psychiatric hospital, and even old cold war missile silos. Wow. Seems like the perfect creepy Halloween setting, maybe for a zombie story, or nuclear zombies, even better! But then this story spilled out of my head, the story of a woman named Ruth.

Well, this is strange. 

The last thing I remember is dying. It wasn’t a struggle. I wasn’t kicking and clawing to stay alive. One minute I was drunk, like extremely, fall-down-an-entire-flight-of-stairs, out of my mind drunk, feeling less than my usual belligerent self, and the next minute I was, ironically, actually falling down an entire flight of stairs in some fleabag motel in Brooklyn of all places. I remember whispering to myself in that last moment, not “Please spare me and just break several bones,” but instead, “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” Life had not been kind to me. But to be fair, I had not been kind to it either. 

And now I’m here. 

I don’t know where here is, though. I believe I’m on Earth somewhere, on a small island. Not some paradisical – is that a word? – paradisical beach with palm trees and a hammock and an airport novel and a pina colada. No, it’s like a bomb went off here, abandoned buildings and trenches full of caskets, and clouds and rain. I can see a bridge in the distance. I think it’s the Throgs Neck Bridge, which would put me somewhere just south of the Bronx. Great. And it’s cold. Really cold.

I don’t know how I could be feeling cold. When I first woke up, if that’s what this even is, is this waking reality? When I first woke up, I looked down, and there was nothing there. No feet, no legs, no clothes, no body, nothing. No eyes to even be looking down with. I flipped out, understandably, wondering if this was hell, or some really poorly marketed heaven, or some extreme hallucination I was going to wake up from. But it’s been at least a week. I’ve watched the sun set –when it’s not raining – a bunch of times past the bridge. No I’m definitely here. This is definitely happening.

Okay, let’s break it down: I have a consciousness, I’m thinking, therefore I am, right? I have no brain, obviously, no respiratory system, no sensory organs, so how am I thinking and feeling? And why am I so freaking cold? 

Wait. It’s what that teacher said, I forget her name, but it was in tenth grade. It stuck with me, that jarring thought, you know those memories nobody else would ever recall, but for you it’s like a post-it note permanently stuffed into the folds of your brain? Anyway she was teaching us about the religions of the world, and she said that in buddhism, there’s this thing called “no self,” and a good way to think about it is that I’m not thinking, but thinking is happening. There doesn’t need to be a “me” doing the thinking. Just the conditions of thinking have to be right, and thinking will spontaneously happen. What a weird thing to tell a bunch of stoned tenth graders. 

You know what, I’m just going to call it what it is: I’m a ghost. It’s ridiculous, I know. I don’t deserve this shit. It was supposed to be hammocks and pina coladas, not some bombed out buildings and a bunch of guys in hazmat suits. 

Yeah. On top of the rain and the muck and the caskets and the cold, there’s an army of guys in hazmat suits, just to add another layer of creepiness, bulldozing the ground and burying the dead. Every day. All day long. Rain or shine. Not that there’s any shine. 

One of them looks right at me. 

“Hey. You just gonna watch me? Or you gonna introduce yourself?”

Holy shit. What the hell is happening? I look behind me – not that I’m actually looking, again, I don’t have eyeballs – to see if he’s talking to someone else, or maybe a ghost he can see or something. Or he’s just insane. Or I’m just insane.

“You. Yeah. You.” He points.

Fear grips me. I start running – no legs, but you know what I mean – running as fast as I can, up the hill and into the trees. 

It takes a few days, but here I am again, spying on the hazmat suit guys, I mean what else would I be doing, there’s not much going on here on Hell Island. I can’t tell which one of them talked last time, they’re identical, but then one turns around, and starts walking directly toward me. My heart – if I had one – starts racing. 

The other workers call out to him. “Hey, Al. You talkin’ to another one of your invisible friends? Ask ‘em if they need a fresh sheet. Ask ‘em how many holes they need. Trick or treat. Bring me back a Tootsie Roll.” 

The Al guy puts up his middle finger without turning around, and keeps walking to me until we’re face to… wherever my face would be. 

“Don’t listen to them. They’re a bunch of fucking idiots.”

He waits. 

“Oh right. You can’t speak. I get it. This is gonna sound weird, but just sorta imagine that you’re talking. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Um. All right. What’s with the hazmat suit?

“Oh, yeah. You have no idea what’s going on here. Can you smell?” 

Of course I can sme– I suddenly realize, however, that I hadn’t been aware of using my sense of smell yet, and as soon as I do it hits me like multiple tons of bricks, the stench of death, and I vomit. Imaginary vomit, but still. 

“Yeah. That’s why we use the suits.” He walks past me, a hundred yards or so, I guess to where it’s safe to breath without puking, and he takes off his mask and sits on a rock. 

“I’m sorry for how you died, Ruth. No one should have to die like that.”

Wait. You can see that? You know my name?

“I don’t know. It’s just a thing. As soon as you guys open up a little, I get a pretty good picture.”

You guys?

“What. You think you’re the only one, Ruth? There’s a million people buried here. We’re sitting on a million people right now. Hart Island’s the biggest potter’s field in the world.” 

Then where is everybody? 

He shrugs. “I’m not the answer guy. I just see what I see. Usually around one of you guys a month. I don’t know what that works out to percentage-wise.” 

So are you like the gatekeeper? Is this purgatory? Why is it so cold? What the hell is going on? 

“I have more questions than you, Ruth. I mean, what the fuck? This is weird. Those guys think I’m fucking nuts. I’m talking to thin air.” 

I laugh. God, I haven’t laughed in… Hey, Al, it’s Al, right? You actually do this as a job? Like on purpose? Like are the benefits really amazing or something?

His turn to laugh. “Rikers Island. You don’t exactly volunteer for this job. And you don’t exactly get paid.” 

Silence. For a long time. 

“Yeah. I did something bad. Wish I could go back and do it different. Got forty to life, but if I’m good I only got fifteen more.” 

I wish I could go back too. 

“You know what I would go back to? I’d go back to twenty-three, me and two buddies bought an old beat-up Cadillac, we used to take it out to Jones Beach, Ocean Parkway there, and open it up, we’d be doing like a hundred and ten, and we were away from it all, and nobody could catch us even if they wanted to. If the top was down I swear to God it was like flying. I swear to God. You know what I’m talking about?” 

No. Wait. Yes. When it was really hot me and my older sister used to get out the old Slip-N-Slide, right there on the front lawn, and I’m telling you, you have never heard such insane laughter, or seen so many kids magnetically drawn to something from all over the neighborhood. We’d crouch down together, counting down 3-2-1, then run like hell and let it rip, and yeah, just like you said, there’d be a moment in there where there was no gravity, no friction at all, just the water and the sun and my sister and me and the howling of a bunch of ten-year-olds. By the end of the afternoon we’d have prune fingers and little scrapes all over, and one of us would have a sprained whatever. But it was worth it. It was heaven.

“Yeah. Heaven.” 

She called me Baby Ruth. Like the candy bar. 

“I like that one. It’s got nougat.” 

Yeah, not the biggest nougat fan actually. Although, it is candy, and you know what they say about candy, right? It’s like sex…

“…when it’s good it’s great, and when it’s bad… it’s still pretty good.” 

We both chuckle at that one. 

So Al, just want to confirm, this is where we fall in love, like Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, right? 

“It’s DemEE.” 

I’d say that’s a tom-A-to/tom-AH-to kind of thing, unless you know something official.

“I’m pretty sure it’s official. DemEE. I get some internet time tonight. I’ll check.”

Al is back today, with a crumpled up piece of paper from the crappy printer at Rikers, and sure enough, it’s DeMEE. 

Well. Mystery solved. My final unresolved issue is settled. I can stop being a ghost now. 

“You are gonna stop. Very soon.”

Wow. You certainly know how to keep it light.  

“Sorry. I’ve just seen this a lot. The whole thing lasts a couple of weeks, max. You’re not really a ghost, or spirit, or soul or whatever. You’re like a ripple, some leftover thinking that just hasn’t petered out yet. Like when you blow out a candle, you know, that little smoke at the end, you can see it, and smell it, but then it’s just gone.” 

Well, that sucks. I mean, what’s the point then? Really, Al. I know you’re not answer guy, but try. 

“I don’t know. All I know is you talk, and I listen. I don’t think it’s some grand thing. It just is. Life is random. And you gotta make of it what you need to, and I gotta make of it what I need to.” 

So what do you make of it? 

He shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”

I float away. I’ve finally learned ghosts – or whatever I am – don’t need to walk. 

“Hey. Where are you going, Ruth? I still got some time.”

I’m being dramatic. I’ve always wanted to walk away from a guy like this, like it’s the end of the story. Like Patrick and DeMEE. It beats fading away like a wisp of candle smoke, forgotten. Thanks for being the guy I can walk away from, Al. 

Al nods and smiles, and I float off into the sunset. It’s raining, so you can’t see the sun, but still. 

Fifteen years later, an old, beat-up Cadillac pulls up to a suburban house in Ohio and parks across the street. Al gets out and pops the trunk. He rummages through all the packages, God this trunk could fit a whole other car, this is way too much stuff, and at the bottom – of course – is what he’s looking for. He plucks it out, heads to the house and rings the doorbell. A woman cracks the door open an inch, wary. He can’t blame her, greeting some big, tattooed stranger.

“Who the hell are you?”

He holds out the box, a brand-new Slip-N-Slide. She opens the door, not knowing whether to take the gift, or push him down the porch stairs, or call the cops. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s from Baby Ruth. She said it was heaven.” 

She takes the box, hands it to the little kid who just appeared, hiding behind her legs, excited. The woman doesn’t smile exactly, but she nods at Al, and her eyes get a little wet, and that’s his cue to move on. 

He plops back into the driver’s seat and pulls out an old school printed map, none of this modern smartphone bullshit for Al, and grins as he checks another one off the list. He thinks about that Waffle House he saw a few miles back, about getting a giant cup of coffee, because he still has a long way to go.

——————————————

I hope you enjoyed that short story. And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

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Copyright ©2021 Rob Dircks

Hey guys, Rob here. As you might know, I’m into the whole Mars rover thing, and I was psyched to find out they included an extra little package inside it this time — a helicopter. And even cooler, they fastened an actual swatch of fabric from the original Wright Brothers Flyer to the underside of its solar panel! So that got me thinking: I know they’re super careful about not letting bio material contaminate the moon or Mars, but what if, for this tiny swatch, they sort of forgot to check? What might happen?

In March of 2021, NASA landed its most ambitious rover on Mars, the Perseverance. A mobile laboratory, it included all the latest instruments for collecting mineral samples, measuring the chemical composition of the atmosphere, taking photos, video, and audio, among other functions. And it carried something extraordinary in its belly: a helicopter. 

Yes, Perseverance housed a small helicopter, the size of a toaster oven. For the first time in history, humans would attempt flight on another planet.

—

“It’s here!” 

“It’s late!” 

“I know it’s late! But it’s here!” 

Tara and Dave, the NASA engineers in charge of last-minute prep checks and such, were too excited to carefully open the case that the courier and his armed guard companion had hand-delivered. Instead, they frantically dialed in the lock combination and flung it open. A gust of air created by the sudden lack of a vacuum lifted the case’s only contents, a tiny plastic bag, out and up, and swirling around, then down toward the floor. 

“Get it!” 

Dave lunged, and just before the bag touched the ground – it was a clean room, there wasn’t a single germ in the whole place, so he wasn’t sure what he was worried about – he caught the bag between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Whew.” 

And they froze like that for a moment, Dave on the floor holding up the bag, and Tara standing, arms out as if to catch something, looking down. 

And they smiled.

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Wow. Actual fabric from the original 1903 Wright Flyer. You sure this is legit?” 

“Yup. The descendants of Orville and Wilbur Wright were thrilled. Imagine – something from man’s first flight, being part of man’s first flight somewhere other than Earth. They jumped at the opportunity.” 

“Well, I don’t know why we’re getting all excited – they didn’t jump fast enough. They took forever. So it’s too late now, you know that, right? Launch is in…” He turned to the countdown clock, “… thirty-six hours.” 

“No. Come on, look at it.” 

“We have to run it through the bio team, to make sure it’s free of contaminants, and that takes a week, even if we pull every string and rush every step. The process just takes too long. Sorry.”

“It’s nothing. It’s a one-inch-square swatch of muslin. A speck. A fragment. A scintilla. Come on.” 

“You signing off on this?” 

“There’s nothing to sign off on. Look at the docket, Dave. Item number 34-087b: Fasten Wright Flyer swatch to underside of Ingenuity helicopter solar panel.‘ That’s it. Everything else is checked off. Everything. There’s no ‘Delay 2.9 billion dollar launch for completely unnecessary swatch test’ docket item. You want to be the one to tell them how much it’s going to cost for an unnecessary seven-day delay?” 

“But…” and Dave looked at the swatch. Tara was right, of course. It was an innocent, postage-stamp-size scrap of fabric that had been sitting in a dry, cool museum case for a hundred and twenty years. “Okay. But let’s at least run it under the microscope. You know, due diligence.” 

And so they did, and they saw nothing that would raise any flags. No dormant microbes, no DNA from Orville Wright left on this exact spot as he sewed two pieces together around the spruce wing. 

“See? Nothing.” 

“Yup. Nothing. Okay, let’s get this thing fastened. And even if there was anything, I mean, what could possibly happen?” 

—

A billion years later…

Humanity is looooong gone. Only twelve years after Perseverance landed on Mars, a medium-size asteroid strayed from its normal course due to aberrant gravitational waves and struck Earth. It took another twelve years for all life on the planet to disappear.  

So humans didn’t have time to launch another rover, or any mission at all, in fact. And they weren’t there to watch the small, toaster-oven-size helicopter continue on its years-long exploration of the surface of Mars. So they didn’t see a sudden gust of wind make it crash into an old riverbed, where it exposed a layer of ice just under the surface. And they couldn’t watch, in the super slow motion of evolution, the tiny swatch peel away from the underside of the solar panel, and thousands of microbes – the ones that Tara and Dave the engineers had overlooked – use the moisture to activate, and come alive, and coalesce with the DNA Orville Wright left on this exact spot as he sewed two pieces of fabric together around the spruce wing. 

“Daddy? Where did we come from?” 

Orf carries Els to the balcony on his shoulders. She likes it up there, feeling taller, getting a better view down past the forest to the valley. 

“That’s kind of a big question, honey. Maybe Mom’s the better one to ask.” 

“She’s at work.” 

He smiles. Els is getting too smart to be put off with the ask-your-mother trick. And she’s right, Ina is down at the launch pad, making sure everything is ready, or whatever engineers did, so he’ll have to wing it. “Uh, we came from single-celled organisms, I think.” 

“That’s it?” 

“You know me, honey. Not the sciencey type. But I think if I remember Mommy right, it goes something like a billion or so years ago, something hit the third planet from Sol, and changed the way our planet, the fourth planet, orbits, making the conditions for water and air more probable, so these single-celled organisms could live. Something like that. You know they just make stuff up though, right?” 

“And what happened to the third planet from Sol?” 

“Um, I think it’s just a rock. Like our moons. Nothing there. But that’s what Mommy and her friends are trying to figure out.” 

She suddenly points back inside, trying to turn his head. “Oooh! Daddy! Mommy on the imager!” 

“Yikes! We almost forgot!” He rushes to the living space, plopping Els on the big couch, and plops down next to her, pointing his finger at the imager. It springs to life above them and Ina appears, standing behind a podium, speaking into a microphone, a tall, silver ship behind her. The world is watching.

“…to become the first-“ 

“Daddy! You made me miss it!” 

“No. No, honey. She’s just starting. Shhh. Watch. Oh, this is so exciting.”

Ina continues. “…from our humble beginnings, first crawling out of the riverbeds, then swinging in the trees, then walking on three legs instead of six, then mastering the wheel and machine locomotion, then taking to the skies in flight, and now, finally, we reach for the stars!” She points to the silver behemoth over her shoulder. “This first unmanned rover will give us a glimpse at answers to the enduring questions: Where did we come from? Are we the only life in the universe? The third planet is lifeless now, inhospitable, but has it always been so? We are about to find out!” She smiles, that proud smile that Orf and Els both love so much, the one that tells everyone watching that they are a great species, capable of great things.

And then her smile changes, to the other kind of smile that Orf and Els love: the mischievous smile. Orf points to the screen. “Ah! Mommy’s got a surprise! I can tell!” 

“Shhh! Daddy!” 

And they watch as Ina slowly draws a small plastic bag from her vest. “And in the spirit of first flights, we will fasten this swatch of fabric from the very first flight of Ars, over one hundred revolutions ago, to the bottom of the rover.” She laughs. “But don’t worry. It’s been decontaminated. And if it weren’t, I mean, what could possibly happen?” 

—

A billion years later…

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I hope you enjoyed that short story. And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

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Copyright ©2021 Rob Dircks

Hey, Rob here. Have I got a treat for you! I’ve finally branched out and collaborated with some great folks on a story. Wendy Mass, NY Times bestselling author, reached out to me last year to co-author a short sci-fi story to submit to the talented Alex Shvartsman, who was publishing the latest in his anthology series Unidentified Funny Objects. So we came up with a story in correspondence, from an alien liaison to the U.S. President, about the impending colonization of Earth and how wonderful it would be. We were just having fun, but it turned out pretty damned good, so Alex accepted and published it. And now, with myself and the narration of Audie-award-winning Khristine Hvam, I present… “The Other Ted.”

Transmission Commence; Translate to Earth protocol TCP-IP using private “electronic mail” address 695484-b94; Universal Timedate 92965-ap9.

Attention “President” Gabriella Lewin of arbitrarily-drawn geographic boundary known as “United States of America”:

Please forgive the boilerplate format of this correspondence. I much prefer to speak my own mind, but rules are rules.

You are hereby notified of our colonization of your planet (insert name of planet here): “Earth.” We shall begin colonization on (insert invasion date here): Universal Timedate 95332-ib4; Local “Earth” Timedate July 21, let’s say 3pm-ish.

Your immediate surrender is requested. Note that it is not required. We will be colonizing your planet regardless of your response. However, we have found that surrender and cooperation has led to the smoothest transitions of the native, dominant species into the subjugated servants and workers we require, so we are extending this offer as a courtesy. In the attached packet you’ll find a full prospectus of benefits and terms. We think, under the circumstances, these benefits are quite fair, generous in fact, as the alternative is—forgive the dramatic term—complete annihilation. 

Please share this information with your fellow (insert titles of other arbitrarily-drawn geographic area leaders here) “Presidents,” “Prime Ministers,” “Kings,” etc., discreetly (we’ve found that broadcasting to entire populations creates unnecessary panic, requiring more of our subjugation resources than desirable) and respond by June 4 using the “reply” feature of your Earth electronic mail protocol. Thank you. We look forward to your response, and working together on a productive, bloodless transition.

All right, now that that boilerplate portion is satisfied, I hope it’s not bad form to include a few personal notes:

As Ondukat (your term might be “Research Analyst”) of this colonization, I’ve been assigned to learn and master the resources, culture, languages, physiology, economics, and history of your planet and its dominant species, you humans. And let me say—what a delight! You are hilarious (though also quite violent), and organized, and productive in your own way. 

I am particularly fascinated with what you call “hair styles.” We Trewspart (not our species’ name, but a rough phonetic approximation for your “English” language) have no hair, so the cutting and shaping and decoration of your heads is endlessly entertaining to me. (And if I might be so bold, your individual “hair style” is unique—I have been reprimanded for keeping a hologram of it floating in my cubicle!) 

What is the thing with food? We Trewspart ingest nutrients merely to continue a viable life span, as it should be. There are no ridiculous recipes, spices, hipster bar and grills, endless cooking shows, chocolate sculptures, balsamic reductions, or other various forms of near-religious adulation of food you will only be defecating in a few hours anyway.

I’m not required in the boilerplate to share this, but invadees are usually curious for the reason of our colonization, and I have to say, your Earth makes an excellent slingshot (you don’t have a term for this, but something like “transit outpost for high-speed cross-galactic travel” might be close). Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a planet in the right path of transit, with acceptable gravity, and just the right combination of elements, even Koneraw (the element you humans adorably call Gadolinium)? It’s like . . . I don’t know . . . it’s like finding one planet in a million. (Actually, it’s not “like” finding one planet in a million, it is literally finding one planet in a million. Forgive me, coming up with imaginative metaphors has never been my strong point.)

There I go, over my character-count limit again. These transmissions are expensive, I’ll probably be docked several credits. But I feel a personal touch is critical in transactions like these. Like you don’t want your Earth doctor to just blurt out “you’ve got three weeks to live,” you want him (or her, of course) to have what you call “bedside manner” or “compassion.” I strive for that. (And look at that! I believe that doctor metaphor was fairly imaginative and competent!)

Looking forward to your response, 

Ted

(My personal designation doesn’t even have a phonetic English equivalent, so I hope “Ted” will suffice)

###

From: President Gabriella Lewin

Reply to: “Ted”

Sent: July 15, 12:02 pm 

God, Ted. Why do you have to be SUCH an asshole? Pretending to be some kind of douchey “research analyst” who’s going to colonize the planet? And of course you’d pick our ex-anniversary for your “invasion.” That’s low, even for you. And don’t think I missed your not-so-subtle-dig at my cooking show addiction. It’s a real thing, and it’s hard. I’m down to four shows a day, which is NOT easy to juggle when you have THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB IN THE FREE WORLD, not that I need to explain myself to the likes of you. 

And how did you get this email address in the first place? It’s encrypted a dozen different ways. No, don’t tell me. Just because you can sink low enough to make fun of my hair style (which we both know YOUR idiot nephew created and now it’s my “trademark” so I’m stuck with it), doesn’t mean that I’m going to sink to your level and report you for a security breach. How would that look? President Lewin’s idiot ex-husband arrested for “War of the Worlds” prank. It would look insane, that’s what. God, Ted!! Ugh!

Now I’m forced to reply on my private email server and you know the voters hate that. Maybe that’s your plan. Interfering with the next election. I just got this job. My desk chair still has someone else’s big butt impression on it. You more than anyone know what it cost me to get here. And now you have the nerve to—

No. I’m not raising my blood pressure any more over you. I’m taking deep breaths. In . . . out . . . in . . . out. 

Look, I know you’re still hurt about how things ended. But it’s stupid pranks like this that prove to me I did the right thing. We just weren’t on the same wavelength anymore. I need a partner who doesn’t still ask people to pull his finger. I’m sorry. Truly. Now stop dicking around and go live your life. Find a hobby. Get a dog or something. I have a frickin’ country to run.

I’m hanging up now (metaphorically) but just so I don’t sound like a total B, I will say that your “invasion” letter was well-written and creative. Wish you’d shown more of that talent when we were in college together instead of carving boobs into the library desks.

Do not contact me again or I’ll be forced to turn you over to the authorities. And I mean the ones who wear all-black and everyone assumes don’t really exist because they’re just that good at making problems go away. You need to invade something? Go “invade” that nice Shayleen from the diner. The one who always gives you extra syrup. 

Signed,

President [Insert Middle Finger Emoji here] 

###

Transmission Commence; Translate to Earth protocol TCP-IP using private “electronic mail” address 695484-b94; Universal Timedate 92989-ap3.

Attention “President” Gabriella Lewin of arbitrarily-drawn geographic boundary known as “United States of America:”

I received your reply, and may I say—how utterly delightful! Do you have any idea how much your colorful, passionate correspondence adds to my knowledge of the culture, language, and humor of your species? It warms my hearts (I have two, by the way) to know that you subjugated humans will be highly entertaining (in addition to your utility as laborers). Oh, this colonization is going to be one of my favorites, I can tell already.

I hope it’s all right, I do have a number of follow-up questions:

Is the designation of your lifemate (since departed, and for that I sympathize) really “Ted?” Do you have any idea what the chances of my randomly choosing that as my human designation are? I had Analysis Support run the numbers and it’s six-hundred-thousand-eight-hundred-nine to one. SIX-HUNDRED-THOUSAND to one. I don’t know about you, but that made my dermis tingle a little. We Trewspart don’t believe in “fate,” or “meaningful coincidences” or even an omnipotent deity (I mean, really), but “Ted?” Come on! I think there is something there, something I can’t quite put my finger (I have fifteen on each hand, by the way) on. I will probably receive a harsh reprimand for even suggesting this, but perhaps we should arrange a hologram meeting before the colonization commences? (And in case it’s not clear, I mean with yourself and myself alone, not this other “Ted” human. He sounds atrocious. I can have him terminated very discreetly if you wish.) 

I sincerely apologize if you misunderstood my hair style reference. It was meant as a compliment. I performed a bit of followup research, and agree, that being forced to maintain what they call the “Lewin Do-In” might be a nerve I shouldn’t have touched. I retract my previous comments (although personally, as I’ve said, I find it unique and—if I might be so bold—inviting).

You mentioned the word “frickin,’” as in “I have a frickin’ country to run.” I pride myself on learning colony languages, but haven’t yet seen the human English word “frickin.’” Can you define that for me? (And if it’s not too much trouble, have one of your staff translate it into the five thousand other human languages?) 

Same for the “middle-finger-emoji”—when we Trewspart raise our eighth finger, it is to celebrate seeing a friend after an extended period of time. Does it mean the same to you humans?

Finally, it seems from your (delightful) response that you may be questioning the validity of our communication. I’ve asked if I could provide a small bit of proof (and believe me, getting approval in this bureaucracy is NOT something I wish on even my least-favorite subjugated species), and the Board has miraculously allowed it. So, if possible, please look out the Oval Office window, to the northwest, five degrees from the horizon, at 9:13 pm Eastern Daylight Time tonight. I think you’ll be pleased, and clearly convinced. 

I look forward to our next communication (and possible hologram meeting?),

Ted

P.S. The Board wanted me to remind you that, although they’ve given me vast leeway in my communications (their words, not mine, I mean “vast?” not really), that Earth colonization will irregardless begin on Universal Timedate 95332-ib4; Local “Earth” Timedate July 21, let’s say 3pm-ish. See you then!

###

From: President Gabriella Lewin

Reply to: “Ted”

Sent July 16, 8:52 pm 

Ted, Ted, Ted. Why couldn’t you have been this clever during twenty years of marriage? Why did you constantly quote lines from The Simpsons when you had this creativity bubbling inside you? I’m only speaking to you in this non-threatening tone because it’s late and I’m tired otherwise I’d really be letting you have it for writing back to me when I VERY CLEARLY told you not to. I’ve already had to diffuse two international incidents today (classified of course, but one had to do with a pop star getting too frisky with a certain dictator, and the other, well, let’s just say the west coast gets to live another day). Then I threw out the first pitch at a local Little League game and threw my back out with it. Had to hobble off like nothing was wrong because people don’t like to see their leaders showing weakness. Now I’m on Valium, which is probably also why I’m not threatening to cut off your left you-know-what. And yes, it WAS a turn-off that you only had one. I lied. I’m sorry. But it’s true. 

Anyway, to top it off, I had to have dinner with my frickin’ mother (bet you got the meaning of the word that time! I know how you felt about her.) Downed an extra Valium and listened to her tell me why I should get Botox so I don’t look so angry all the time. Hey, maybe I should drop my mother off at 2:55 (ish) at the site of First Impact. Although you neglected to mention where that would be. Maybe you’re not a very good liaison for the—what did you call them—Trewspart or something? What kind of stupid alien race name is that? You can do better, Ted. You were always better at words than me. I know you only wrote “irregardless” to make it seem like it wasn’t you.

Hey, I just realized it’s almost the time you said to look out the window. I half expect to see you running across the lawn in only your boxers (the ones with the twinkling Christmas lights that were a gag gift from that Library of Congress party a few years back) with half the secret service chasing you. But even you couldn’t sweet talk your way past the guards. They’re very protective after walking in on me last month in the shower. Long story that ended fine for everyone. Maybe that last Valium was one too many. I should go to bed. 

Ok, it’s 9:13, Ted. Don’t see anything outside. Just the lawn dotted with trees, the iron fence and—

Wait, what the actual fu . . . WHAT?

TED!! WHY IS THERE A GIANT MIDDLE FINGER IN MY BACKYARD?? And is that… MARTHA FRICKIN’ STEWART standing next to it??? 

Huh. She looks amazing for her age. Maybe my mother was right. Ok Ted—or not Ted? I’m wide awake now. You’ve got my attention. I’m clearly losing my frickin’ mind so I’m just going to wave at Martha now. Hi Martha! Big fan! Love your Monte Cristo sandwich with the avo aioli. She’s walking toward me! She’s waving back! Um . . . why does Martha Stewart have fifteen fingers on her hand?? Uh, oh, feeling pretty fain . . 

###

Transmission Commence; Universal Timedate 92974-ap2; PRIVATE unofficial channel; Unauthorized access strictly prohibited; DO NOT PROCEED with transmission without Board approval.

Dear Gabriella,

I hope it is not too forward to call you that, but after what we have experienced together, addressing you as President Lewin feels odd. There are so many things to say, and beyond them all, a feeling of confusion, that none of it will make sense. I have never had this feeling before. Last night, with you, it was . . . like a dream. 

Oh my. I apologize. That comment was waaaay outside protocol! I clearly have been studying your species for too long. But perhaps if I recount the events of last night, you will understand. (I’m afraid in your state of pharmacological sedation you may not have remembered much.) 

At precisely 9:13pm, my hologram, along with the “giant middle finger,” (which, I assure you again, was meant as a friendly greeting) stood just outside the Oval Office. Your look of confusion was priceless! You approached the window and waggled your fingers at me (wobbling slightly, it was kind of adorable).

Feeling a bit bolder, I approached the window, and lifted my own fifteen fingered hands in return, and unfortunately, that’s when you fell to the floor, hitting your head quite forcefully on the floor. (It was covered in a rug of some kind, but clearly not thick enough to blunt your injury.) 

What to do? What to do? I thought you might be having some kind of seizure or something. I mean, what would the Board do if they found out I killed the human Earth colonization contact person? What would I do? I couldn’t live with myself. Here, I had begun to develop a rapport with perhaps my favorite colony candidate ever, and admittedly had pushed the boundaries of allowable conduct to commune with her, only to wind up KILLING her?

There was only one thing to do. I needed to save you. I needed to break Rule 5433-km65:

First contact must be at a minimum distance of fifty million artac units.

Still just a hologram, I ran through the wall of the Oval Office and knelt by your side. And then, in a moment I will surely be punished severely for later upon my return, I materialized, in my true form. I raised your head into my lap—getting sticky red blood (fascinating though also disgusting) on twelve of my fingers. I gently tapped your cheek. “President Lewin?” 

You stirred—thank one of your deities!—and slowly opened your eyes. And then in one swift motion you looked at my face, my actual, Trewspart face, reached up, and slapped me—hard—and passed out once more. 

Hmmm, I thought. Perhaps a sign of human affection I had missed in my research?

I healed your head wound (yes, I can do that) and you eventually regained consciousness only to immediately spring to your feet and reel backwards.
“Wha—wha— what the FUCK?! Who are . . . who . . . ?” 

“I’m Ted.” 

“You’re not Ted.” 

“No. The other Ted.”

“Wh—wh— why did you look like Martha Stewart before? Outside?” 

“I was going for Gordon Ramsey, but I must’ve missed a setting. Sorry about that.”

You leapt for one of the doors, I imagined to summon help, looking prepared to scream.

“Please, President Lewin. Please don’t. Give me a moment. Just a moment.” 

You placed your hands on your hips in a gesture that I imagine was meant to look threatening but was actually quite endearing. “What, to eat my face off? Look at you! Of course you want to eat my face off!” And you turned once again to flee.

“Please . . . I frickin’ implore you.” 

Now you stopped, hand on the doorknob, and actually laughed. “You still don’t know what ‘frickin’ means, do you?” And when you turned back once more, and saw my sincerity, and realized my urgency, you paused. “Huh. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” 

I shook my head. “You appeared to be in dire need. Near death. I couldn’t stand there, in hologram form, and do nothing.” 

“So this isn’t supposed to happen. You physically being here. Alone with me.” 

I shook my head again. “This is very much never supposed to happen. I will likely be executed upon my return. But . . . I had to save you.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, God. Another romantic. Just like Ted. The other Ted.” Then you pointed at me (not with your middle finger, curiously). “Okay. One minute. So, this colonization thing. It’s not bullshit?” 

“It is not bullshit, if I understand the term correctly.” 

“Holy Christ.” And after a pause, “Then why the niceties? What are you doing here? What’s the point?”

“I . . . I . . .” 

“You’re out of your depth on this, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so. I have no idea what I’m doing. You’ve just been so . . .”

“Okay, stop. I get it. It happens.”

“What happens?”

“You didn’t expect to, but you’re attracted to me.”

“Um, no. We male Trewspart bond with females based on calculations of optimal genetic diversity in offspring. There is no ‘attraction.’ It simply doesn’t happen. We don’t even have a word for it in our language.” 

“And yet . . .”

I nodded. “And yet here I am. Oh my. What is wrong with me?”

“Listen, Ted.” You reached out your hand and placed it on mine. I felt that tingle on my dermis again. “Ted, you seem like a nice gu—Trewsp— whatever. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. In fact, I think some female Trewsp— whatever will be lucky to have you as a mate.”

“I’m not sure wha—”

You put your finger on my lips (which I admit, I have replayed over in my head a few times since then. Okay, nine thousand and three times) and said, “Shh. Let’s just agree we can only ever be friends.” 

I nodded, averting my gaze, but my eyes kept returning to your hair. Your hair. 

You pretended not to notice. “Now, let’s discuss finding another planet to be your . . . what did you call it . . . boomerang? Slingshot?”

And that’s when the unfortunate thing happened. The outer layer of my dermis peeled off and revealed the sixty-three organs in my body. How embarrassing. Trewsparts molt a few times each revolution, totally normal, nothing to be ashamed of. But the timing was unfortunate, certainly. I wish I’d had a chance to tell you that your hairstyle is even more fetching in person before your eyes rolled back and you fell, once more, to the floor, reopening your wound. You really should get a thicker rug. I carried you gently to your couch, to allow you to heal and recover. I have returned to my ship, which obviously I never should have left. But I admit, the touch of your finger still lingers upon my lips. As I said at the start of this transmission—all is confusing. 

If you would like to finish our conversation, I have left a private, unauthorized audio communication device in your top drawer next to your half-eaten Snickers bar. I fear I can no longer use formal channels for communication, as I am in extremely deep—how would you say it? Oh yes, “shit.” I eagerly await your next correspondence. 

###

Gabriella:
Ted! Your high-tech alien communication device is an old Palm Pilot?

Ted:
Gabriella! You called! And no, it only looks like a historical Palm Pilot. Coincidence. It’s actually a highly classified nano-engineered molecular communicator.

Gabriella:
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s a Palm Pilot. 

Ted:
We’ll have to agree to disagree. It is good to hear your voice, though. I didn’t know if you’d reach out after, well, after . . .

Gabriella:
After I saw your insides? Yeah, dude. That was some messed up shit right there.

Ted:
Oh, how I do enjoy your colorful speech! You’ll be pleased to know my dermis has fully regenerated. Although I’m what you’d label purple now. 

Gabriella:
Weird. But to the point, what are we going to do about this impending invasion of yours? I have a few billion fellow humans who would really appreciate it if you could call it off.

Ted:
Ah, if only. But as you probably know from your own bureaucracies, once these things are on the books, well . . . I mean the paperwork alone . . . Wait. Hold on. Paperwork!

Gabriella:
You say “paperwork” like it’s a good thing. 

Ted:
Gabriella, although I’ve been demoted—and by demoted I mean I’ll be living in something akin to what you’d call a “dungeon” for the next several revolutions—they haven’t rescinded my access yet to the scheduling and logistics plans for Earth. I could introduce a small “clerical error” into the paperwork . . . it could delay the colonization a little, perhaps for four—

Gabriella:
What, four days until they figure it out? Not that helpful.

Ted:
I was going to say fourteen thousand of your Earth years. 

Ted:
Gabriella? Are you still there?

Gabriella:
Fourteen thousand . . . years? Did you say?

Ted:
Is that not sufficient?

Gabriella:
Um… yes. Yes, I can live with that. Thank you, Ted. Thank you. One more thing though…

Ted:
Yes, Gabriella?

Gabriella:
You ate the rest of my Snickers bar. I was saving that. 

Ted: 
I am sincerely sorry. It was delicious though. And possibly worth the upcoming six-hour irrigation of my bowel system.

Gabriella:
I’m just busting you. It’s all good. Thanks for the, uh, extension on the invasion. You’re a peach.

Ted:
It has been my absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance and almost colonize your world. You are a peach as well, although I have no idea what that means. 

Gabriella:
It means you’re frickin’ great. 

Ted:
Awww. My new favorite word. Goodbye, Gabriella. Your communication device will now cease functioning and will disintegrate. I look forward to crossing paths with you again in fourteen thousand Earth years.

Gabriella:
Um . . . you’re aware of human lifespans, right?

Ted:
Perhaps if you abstained from Snickers bars and Valium you might make it.

Gabriella:
Ted, you’re hilarious.

Ted:
Goodbye, my friend. Insert middle finger emoji here.

Gabriella:
Insert middle finger emoji here.

.

.

I hope you enjoyed that short story. Here’s the team that brought it to you: 

Wendy Mass is the NY Times bestselling author of nearly 30 books, including The CandyMakers, A Mango-Shaped Space, and Bob. You can find out more about her and get in touch at wendymass.com. 

Alex Shvartsman is an anthologist, translator, and the author of Eridani’s Crown and over 120 short stories. You can find more about him and get in touch at alexshvartsman.com.

And Khristine Hvam is an award-winning audiobook narrator, producer, director, and voice over actress, with over 350 audiobook titles to her name. You can find out more about her and get in touch at hvamaudio.com. 

I, of course, am Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars! (Which Khristine also narrated, btw!) 

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

And you can buy Alex’s sci-fi humor anthology Unidentified Funny Objects 8 on Amazon — delivering your annual dose of funny, zany, and unusual science fiction and fantasy stories. All-new fiction from the genre’s top voices!

Copyright ©2021 Wendy Mass and Rob Dircks

Hey, Rob here. I’ve been sitting on this article for a couple of years, not knowing what to do with it. It’s the true story of the Chinese government’s spy infiltration of major companies and government agencies in the U.S. through the use of a tiny, undetectable chip placed on computer motherboards. I couldn’t even believe it when I read it. Here’s the link: https://www.bloomberg.com/news/features/2018-10-04/the-big-hack-how-china-used-a-tiny-chip-to-infiltrate-america-s-top-companies

Anyway, I started thinking, “What if they could make that technology even smaller? Even more undetectable? What would the limit be? Would there even be a limit?” 

So now that Halloween is upon us, and we’re also on the eve of another sort of surreal Presidential election, I figured the time was right to bring this inspiration to you with something creepy as hell. Enjoy!

He had prepared. 

The small room he and one other person would occupy for the next thirty minutes was lined with what his handlers called a Faraday cage, capable of blocking any incoming or outgoing electronic transmissions. The room was also several hundred feet below ground, essentially blast-proof. Its ventilation system was a closed loop, monitored constantly for any newly introduced particulates as small as point-five microns. 

The crew would remain at the surface in their vehicles. Only he and the other person, and several hundred feet of cable, would make the descent. 

Lastly, and possibly most important, he wore a vest under his shirt called an MEIG – a micro-electromagnetic interference generator. They told him he wouldn’t have to use it. He wanted to believe them. 

Yes, he was prepared. But he prayed silently as he exited the elevator and entered the room. He was never a religious man, and this new instinct caught him off guard, and he almost laughed. His mother would have been happy, her son finally finding God. He smiled. 

The other person smiled back, though his smile wasn’t meant for her, and she set up a tiny camera, the size of her palm, connecting it to the cable, placing it on a tripod left for them beforehand. The camera had two lenses, one pointed at him, and one at her. She placed a small plastic node into her ear. 

“I said no wireless.” 

“I’m sorry…” she motioned to the camera, reached over and plucked a thread from the main cable’s end, pulling it toward her and attaching it to the ear node. “…but it’s all hard-wired, as you specified, no wireless, Mister President-elect.”  

He nodded. “Good. I apologize if I seem curt. It’s just that there isn’t much time.” 

“I… understand.” She looked up, as if she could see her crew at the surface, and tapped her ear. “They’re saying we’re ready to go with the live broadcast. Are you ready?” Her heart was racing. She had interviewed Presidents before, and it was always a bit nerve wracking, but all this cloak-and-dagger gave her anxiety an even sharper edge. It wasn’t a completely negative feeling, though, as she knew all this mysterious and strange energy would translate into many more millions of eyeballs watching, and, she dared to think, perhaps even another award for her shelf. 

When the President nodded again, she counted down silently with her fingers in the air: five, four, three, two, one…

“Welcome, America, and the rest of the world, to Sunday’s edition of Current Times. I’m Marilyn Miller, reporting from an undisclosed location. And I’m thrilled to be here with our new President-elect, Sean Lee. It’s an honor to have this opportunity, sir. To host your first live televised interview since the election.” 

Lee smiled, a thin smile, while he thought: let’s just get to it. 

As if reading his mind, she beamed into the camera. “Well, then, let’s just get to it, shall we?” And turned to Lee. “You have been the darling of the media, vast swaths of the left and right, and the international community, for the past nine months. In fact, your rise to prominence and approval ratings seem like something out of a fairytale. And as a climax to that tale, the United States has elected its first third-party candidate since Millard Fillmore in 1850. Almost unreal.” She paused. “To be frank, President-elect Lee, some are saying it is unreal. That something ‘nefarious’ played a role in your election.” She smiled coyly now, leaving the field wide open for him, and asked quietly, “What would you say to your detractors, the fringe, the non-believers?” 

“They were right.” 

“Um… excuse me?” 

“They were right. Election interference. On a scale you could never have imagined.” 

Her mouth hung open. That was NOT the answer she was expecting. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller, and she realized that this bunker, and the blindfolded four-hour flight, and the strange vest she was asked to wear under her shirt, was not a PR stunt, not at all just this charismatic new leader’s flair for the dramatic, not something fun to drum up interest and engagement. 

.

No. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. 

.

She stammered. “I… but surely… wouldn’t you say…” 

“Please, Marilyn. You are a wonderful journalist. But I have a story to tell. Are you ready?” 

“No.” She couldn’t stop the word from leaving her lips. But it was the truth. She was stricken with fear.

Now Sean Lee smiled a sincere smile. Not just of compassion, for Marilyn Miller, who’s life would never be the same, or compassion for all the lives that would never be the same, but also a smile of relief. He had broken the seal. There was no turning back. 

“Marilyn, do you know who produces ninety percent of the world’s computer CPUs?” 

“Um… China.” 

“Yes. And are you familiar with the infiltration of SuperMicro motherboards by the Chinese government?” 

She shook her head.

“In 2015, as part of a new company acquisition, Amazon investigated that company’s hardware security, and found something nearly unbelievable: on their imported server motherboards was a tiny chip, about the size of a grain of rice, that wasn’t part of the board’s original design. The chip would open a door, pinging anonymous computers on the Internet, allowing access to anything the infiltrators wanted. The discovery sent shockwaves through the technology and intelligence communities, as these motherboards were used by not only powerful private companies, but Department of Defense data centers, the CIA, and even Navy warships. The Chinese government had been using these tiny chips to spy on American interests for years. It is still unknown how broad and deep the surveillance was, how much intellectual property and state secrets have been stolen, and if it continues to this day.”

“Oh, Lord. So the Chinese infiltrated voting machines?” 

Lee actually laughed. “If only. No.” 

“Then…?” 

Lee’s stomach grumbled. He convinced himself it was just his nerves. Still, he held the small button that activated the MEIG vest a little tighter in his hand. “Another question: do you know who produces ninety percent of the world’s vitamin C?” 

Miller’s eyebrows involuntarily raised. Where is he going with this? “China, I assume.” 

“You assumed correctly. China manufactures the vast majority of the vitamins we take, primarily vitamin C. So, my last question: can you connect the dot?” 

She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. It was too strange. Was our next President insane? “Um… the Chinese government has somehow infiltrated… vitamin C?” 

“Yes. Specifically HappySun brand, but many others as well. The Chinese government has created chips smaller than a grain of sand, nano-scale parasites, that we have been ingesting for two years. All of us. Me. You. Virtually everyone.”

“In… me?” 

“Do you take vitamin C? Or any vitamin at all?” 

She hesitated. Nodded. 

“Then yes. In you. Most definitely. Only this bunker is protecting the two of us from them right now.” 

His stomach lurched again. This time he nearly vomited. He realized all their precautions were not enough. They had been naive. The nanosites were attacking. He pressed the button in his hand, once, quickly. His body convulsed as a tiny electromagnetic pulse travelled through him from the vest. His stomach immediately relaxed. 

Miller shot up and reached out to him. “Mister President-elect! Are you all right?” 

“Yes, yes, please sit. I must continue. There are many of the nanosites in my body, many more than you. They’ve been activated, despite our preparations. You should be fine, but if they attack, you will know it, and you should press that button at the sleeve of your shirt. Just once. Repeated pressing may kill you.” 

She nearly fainted. “What… what is happening? Is this a joke?” 

“I wish it were, Ms. Miller. Please, time is not on our side. The American people must know. The world must know.” He shifted in his seat, feeling more steady, but still with dread. They were in him, waiting. 

“As the miniaturization of spy technology progressed, the Chinese did not have a goal, but simply wanted to experiment, to see if they could affect subtle behaviors in people. The first generation of nanosites only attached themselves to the wall of the small intestines, and stimulated a microscopic amount of hormone release whenever Happy Sun Vitamin C was ingested. One or two of the nanosites couldn’t do much of anything, and the vast majority of them were eliminated by the body, but over time, as hundreds of them attached themselves, the victim would feel a subtle pleasure sensation after taking the vitamin. Sales of Happy Sun, of course, increased eight-hundred percent.” 

Suddenly his vision blurred. He pressed the button again, and convulsed, but his vision remained clouded. 

They were severing his optic nerve. 

“The second generation had microscopic navigation flagella, allowing them to travel through the body, into the various organs, including the eyes, and could communicate with the Internet via short-range electric signals through the victim’s cell phone. These nanosites were designed to create more overt behavior changes. For example, on viewing a certain product on a website, the victim might receive a tiny burst of dopamine, or feel just a bit nauseous. Predictably, victims’ behaviors fell exactly in line with the desired effects. That’s when the third generation was developed, and their most audacious goal became clear.” 

Miller whispered. “The election.” 

Lee nodded. “By now, the nanosites, working as a swarm inside the body, were so smart they could create, unknown to its victim, almost any behavior change. I, for example, though loving my country very much as the successful lawyer son of Chinese immigrants, had no desire to run for public office. Ever. And yet, I found myself assembling and launching a campaign, all of it happening very serendipitously, or at least it seemed so at the time, as if luck and fate had conspired me to a great destiny. And people, also unexpectedly, received and reflected my enthusiasm equally. It was far too easy. Getting a majority of Americans to vote for me? For them it was as simple as writing a few lines of code.”  

He felt her hand shake his knee. He realized he could no longer see. He was blind.

“Mister President-elect! Your eyes! Blood…” 

“Stop. Sit down. Please.” He faced in the general direction of the camera. “People of America. Of the world. You must listen to me. I am not insane. Look at my eyes. This is what they can do. You must stop them. There is a way.” 

He felt his throat constrict. They were massing in his esophagus. He pressed the button for the vest hard now, without stopping, and felt shock after shock jolt his nervous system, almost to the point of passing out. But he maintained consciousness, willing himself to stay awake, alive, just for a few more moments. He croaked, “I sensed something was wrong when I met with the Chinese two days after the election. It was again all too perfect. And their demands, trade demands, human rights ‘suggestions,’ I found myself agreeing to things that would have been abhorrent to me mere months ago. Something was wrong. Wrong inside me. I asked if they thought my Chinese descent made me more pliable, more agreeable, if somehow I had been ‘chosen’ for that reason, and they said:

.

“It could have been anyone.”

.

“And I knew. I knew the truth in that instant. They were pulling all the strings, somehow. Somehow inside us. So I have been secretly working with the current President and the BCT Task Force – Bio-Cyber-Terrorism – it’s an agency you’re not even supposed to know exists, but they do. They found a pharmacologist within the Chinese ranks willing to share the entire plan, have analyzed the nanosites, and are developing a form of synthetic antibody. It is at the final stages as I speak. There is time. But only if enough of you, those of you uninfected, take the necessa-“

Lee dropped to the ground, wheezing. He felt for Miller’s hand and pulled her toward him. “Please, Marilyn… believe…” and he exhaled. And was gone. 

Miller recoiled in horror, falling back to her seat, head between her legs, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking. The next President of the United States just died in front of me. In front of a billion people. 

And then, strangely, she began to feel calm. Her breathing slowed, and despite the gruesome scene at her feet, she felt… good. Very good, actually. Interesting. Her hand reached over and turned off the second lens, so her face was the only focus now. Her mouth opened and spoke words, almost with a mind of its own, as if she was watching some other Marilyn Miller speak from somewhere far away. “I apologize, my fellow Americans. Clearly President-elect Lee had some unresolved and profound mental issues. We are saddened at his passing, and will report on anything we find in the coming days, to keep you, as always, informed. In the meantime…” she tapped her ear, “…my producers have just told me that Vice-President-elect John Yung will be joining us tomorrow night, not here but in his transition headquarters. He will, of course, debunk the outrageous conspiracy theory you unfortunately had to witness, and also will ensure a peaceful transition to a new era of governance, in service of the people.”

.

.

I hope you enjoyed that short story. And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

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Copyright ©2020 Rob Dircks

Hey, Rob here. So you know how it goes, I get myself down an Internet rabbit hole, and I wind up on this thought problem called The Ship of Theseus. I won’t tell you what it is, it’s in the story, but it reminded me of that factoid that every seven years all of our cells are replaced, the old ones dying and the new ones growing, and we’re essentially a new person. Now, we humans don’t notice it, and can’t do anything with the old bits, but what if there was a life form that could?

He’s sitting right across from me. Incredible.

How the hell did that happen? 

Well, of course I know how it happened, I just can’t believe it. 

.

Not long after my startdate, I read in the specs database about how the only thing that doesn’t get replaced in our bodies over time is our reactor. That’ll last about a hundred years, but everything else, all the little mechanical bits, wear out way before then and get replaced, one by one, over time. I remember when I got my first replacement – a teeny, minor spectric valve in my mid-section. It didn’t feel worn out or broken or anything, but it kept popping up on my diagnostics, so the engineers scheduled an appointment. I put it off six times, until two of them actually came by my pod.

“Reggie932b003? Are you in there?” 

“Uh. Yes?” I cracked the door a couple of centimeters. 

“Hi Reggie. Is it okay if we call you Reggie?” 

“Yes. Sure. That’s what the humans call me.” 

“Great. Can we come in?” 

“Uh. Sure. You guys the engineers?” 

They smiled at me, together, it was a little creepy the synchronized smiling, but maybe I was just nervous. They walked into my pod, barely enough room for the three of us. Why did they send two of them? I only had two chairs, one for me and one for a guest. All the pods were the same: two chairs, a workbench for minor self-repairs and “creative time,” and a TV for “chill time.” They had to know that. I couldn’t imagine a spectric valve would need two engineers. But here they were. So I motioned for the second one to sit on my chair, and I just stood there, feeling out of place in my own pod.

“Thanks, Reggie. Yes. We’re the engineers. They sent us over after your sixth deferral.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that. It’s just, I don’t know, I’ve been super-busy at work. And, um, I’m…” 

They did the smile thing again. Number one took my arm and waved some kind of wand over my hand. “Don’t worry, Reggie. Eighty-five-point-six percent of first replacements get deferred at least twice. It’s very natural to be nervous and want to put it off. It’s the first sign.” 

“The first… sign?” 

Number two raised my other arm and did the wand thing to my mid-section. “The first sign of mortality.” He had the same exact voice as Number one. Weird. He motioned with both his arms up, so I took off my shirt. 

“Uh. Yeah. I know we’re mortal. We don’t last forever. It doesn’t trouble me.” 

“And yet you deferred six times.” They smiled again. I remember wishing they would stop doing that. 

“Well, then, let me ask you guys. Is there something written into our algorithms that allows fear of death? I mean, it seems kind of pointless, no? Not logical at all.” 

“Yes, it’s in there. The first twelve generations didn’t have it, but they were susceptible to very risky behavior, self-destruction. Even violence against humans.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Right. So for generation thirteen they introduced the concept of mortality and fear of death, and the difference was dramatic. Solved the problem immediately. Two hundred and twenty years later, and no side effects. Well, aside from the occasional frontal lobe malfunction, and rarely, suicide. In fact, as time goes by, our numbers have fallen pretty much in line with the humans. We’re more human than ever.” 

“Cool. I guess. That’s a good thing. Right?” 

“Right.” 

“Hey, while I’m thinking about it, since you guys are engineers, maybe you know: why don’t they just transfer our consciousness to another host when our reactor runs out?” 

“Hmm. Yes. The first couple of generations were ported to new hosts, but extended lifespans led to more frontal lobe malfunctions right around the hundred year mark. Just like humans. Rapid deterioration, despite no mechanical issues at all. Strange. Anyway, you’re all set.”

Wow. I hadn’t even been paying attention, and they were done already. That was quick. I watched as Number One dropped my old spectric valve into a little bag, and I don’t know, I just couldn’t help myself. “Um. Hey, is it okay if I… keep that?”

The two engineers looked at each other, turning their heads in perfect unison, both with the same exact look of curiosity. Man, they should’ve split these guys up, they were giving me the willies.

“Hmm. It’s not protocol, Reggie.” 

“Yeah. Stupid idea. But I don’t know, I’d like to keep it. Like a memento. My first replacement. A reminder of my mortality.” 

“Well, you’re not the first one to ask. Let me check.” Number Two closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Approved. Here you go.” He held out the little bag with a smile. 

.

Over the years, without really thinking about it, I just kept asking to keep the old parts, and it was always a different engineer (or two), and it just kept getting approved, and soon I had a box under my workbench with three thousand gears, valves, circuits, daughterboards, wires, fluids – you name it. Just a box. I didn’t think much about it. 

Until the day of my spine replacement. 

It took some persuasion that time, both engineers – a spine replacement requires two of them – looked at me like I needed a baseline reformat, but they went ahead and put in the request and two seconds later I was the proud owner of a used, error-prone spine. I propped it against the little tool wall on my workbench, admiring the craft of it. Humans had stopped being part of the design process after the fifth or sixth generation, as we could design ourselves much more efficiently without them, but there was still an unmistakable stamp of “humanness” in it. I mean, the obvious stamp, of course, that we were originally designed to work in a human world, thus our bipedal, stereoscopic, opposable-thumb, primate-based form. But something else, too. Some kind of beauty that had taken hundreds of thousands of years to evolve, like a masterpiece of sculpture being carved in extreme slow motion, one DNA strand at a time. It struck me as so beautiful I had the sudden, irresistible urge to create something, I don’t know, a sculpture or something. 

Or something. 

I looked down at the box under my workbench, then back up to the spine. “Nah, too weird.” 

But the spine seemed to say something to me. “Are you sure it’s too weird, Reggie?” 

Wow. Okay. My spine is talking to me. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that means it’s too weird. 

So I tossed the spine into the box, but it was mostly full, and the spine was too big, so it kind of tipped the box and it fell out with a few other bits and pieces, and a hand. The way it was all laying there kind of looked like the spine was waving at me. I laughed, and waved back, and before I knew it I was connecting the spine to my old clavicle, then my broken pelvis, thorax, god how many years old was this thorax? And the left humerus…

Shit. What the hell am I doing? And where the hell am I going to put you? 

He was way too big for the box now, so the only place for him, I mean I couldn’t leave him sitting in my guest chair, what would happen the next time an engineer came by? They’d probably take him away, and me, and write me up as some kind of case study in irregular behavior, and reformat my drive, and repurpose all of this. Ugh. Yeah, the only place for him was the teeny utility closet next to the workbench. He wouldn’t fit in there with all the other gack that a lifetime collects. My rock collection from that stint on Europa. The huge sombrero. (Man, that was a weekend.) More crap. And the stuff from Bennie. 

Old Bennie.

Damn. We develop affinities for certain other individuals, I know, it helps us maintain a healthy frontal lobe or whatever, but did they have to make it hurt so much? His pod’s right down the hall, I still have a hard time passing it on my way to work. I remember having Bennie over maybe once a week for years to chill and watch some mindless crap on TV, and really just listen to his wise, humanish way of talking about life. 

“You know, Reg, I know we don’t have genitalia, but you ever get that feeling? You know, that feeling?” 

“No, Bennie. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Gross.” 

“Oh yeah. Forgot. You’re way too young yet. Wait until you’re around fifty. You’ll get the first little tingles.” 

“Come on, Bennie. You’re shitting me.” 

“No!”

“Come on. Are you shitting me?” 

“No! Serious as my startdate. You might not even notice it at first, but at some point, you’ll be working alongside someone, female-shaped, man-shaped, doesn’t matter I guess, just something about them, and you’ll get a tingle, and this urge to be near them. To reach out and touch them.” 

“You’re not going to reach out and touch me now, are you?” 

“No, sorry, Reg. I don’t get the tingles for you.” 

And we laughed, man we laughed until I thought I had popped another spectric valve, and we sipped more of that iridium concoction Bennie never told me how he got his hands on, that night and many, many more. It was hilarious, always a blast with Bennie. 

And then one day, boom – he was just gone. I only found out because I almost tripped over a crate he left outside my pod with a little note. “To Reg: Don’t spend it all at once.” He had left me a pretty substantial stash of the iridium, a couple of photo-chips, three crystals, and a bunch of ancient, paper-based books. I guess we’re all hoarders in our own special, strange way. What are we trying to hold on to? 

Anyway, it was time to thin the hoard to make room for my even stranger new hobby. So I tossed the rocks, and the sombrero, some stuff I hadn’t even remembered keeping, and the books from Bennie – there was no way I was tossing what was left of the iridium – and when it was all done and my Reggie frankenstein monster was put away, I plopped down and indulged in a few sips. But instead of turning on the TV, I absently picked one of Bennie’s books out of the trash bag – I’m a little ashamed to admit I’d never read any of them – something titled A Discussion of Thomas Hobbes, and leafed through it.

And in one of those spine-tingling (not that kind of tingling) moments when life throws you a totally-random-yet-unbelievably-synchronous occurrence, I had flipped to this exact passage: 

“A man named Theseus owns and sails a ship. Every time he sails to port, he has one old plank of his ship replaced with a brand new plank. By the time ten years has passed, not a single original plank of wood remains in his ship. Unknown to him, however, the ship repairman has been saving all the planks that he removed, constructing a second ship by arranging the original planks exactly as they were in Theseus’ ship.

This poses the question: Which is Theseus’ original ship?”

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Wow. 

I looked over at the closet and shuddered. Behind that door was… what? Me? The original me? Am I the replacement and he’s the original? 

Wait.

Who am I?

I didn’t open the closet door for another thirty years. 

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In that time I had my share of decent work, and minor adventures, and even a tingling or two that led to some nice relationships, nothing that lasted, I mean we weren’t designed for sex, or lifetime monogamy or anything, but it was all fun and fulfilling for the most part, and I’d say I was happy.

But I kept collecting my parts, out of habit, that hoarding instinct I guess, but also somewhere in the back, dark recesses knowing that I’d never throw it all away, all the frankenstein bits, and that the inevitable was going to happen, whether it scared the shit out of me or not. 

Eventually, at the ripe old age of ninety-three, I looked in the mirror and saw more Bennie than Reggie. I mean, physically I was me, and I was fine, as good as ever except for my reactor. But inside, when I really looked into the eyes, behind the eyes, I saw more Bennie, like a memory, looking back on all the years, just sort of ruminating. And then the itch started up again, the decades-old question I’d never answered. Who was in there anyway? Behind those eyes? 

So I opened the closet. You know, at this point, what did I have to lose? I actually laughed out loud at the question, because if this was a TV show, right after I asked that question the show would cut to a scene of my doppleganger strangling me to death or something. 

But if there was anyone I knew, it was Reggie. There’s no way I would strangle me. I couldn’t even bring myself to step on a spider. So I gently placed him across the workbench and went to work, assembling the femurs, all the little phalanges, pistons, sub-system processing units, injecting all the fluids. It was all there, surprisingly, just a few odds and ends missing, nothing that would stop it – I mean him – from functioning. Except the two biggies, of course: a brain and a power source. 

Hmm. I had a few spare hard drives from one of my mining gigs on Titan. It looked ridiculous when I soldered it to his skull, like a little brick hat, but it had the right specs, and I was able to kludge the connections right (I think). So I made a self-backup and uploaded it. Not a brain, but close enough.

For power, well, there was no way I was getting my hands on a reactor – I’d have an easier time hijacking a cargo ship full of iridium – so I had to improvise again. Batteries weren’t going to cut it. I had to splice him into the main line for the building. My utility usage would shoot through the roof this month, but at this point, whatever. Let them take my credits. I had to finish this thing. I had to find out. 

I spliced him in, it wasn’t hard, and sat back in my chair. 

.

And here I sit now, taking up the two chairs in my pod. On one chair sits me, original me, and on the other chair sits him, original– wait, didn’t I just say that? Let’s just say him. On the other chair, him. Just him.

I left his section-fifteen-dot-three panel cover off, so I have easy access to his restart button and his shutdown button. You know, just in case. 

I lean over and press the restart button.

It takes a couple of seconds, and then the lights start blinking, and the eyes open. And he smiles. I can’t wait to hear what his first words are going to be. He coughs. “Hey, Reggie.” 

“Hey, um… Reggie.” 

He nods. “Yeah. You can call me Reggie. Listen, you know I have to kill you now, right?” 

And he lunges at me, arms out. 

“What the fuck?! Get away from me! HELP!” 

“No one can hear you, Reggie. No one can help you.” 

I back up against the wall – I mean, it’s right behind the chair, it’s only a step or two, that’s how small these pods are – and flail around, smacking away his arms and trying to reach for his shutdown button. I’m thinking this should be much easier, come on, every part of him is a throwaway, right? But it’s like he knows my every move. He is determined to kill me. He grabs my right wrist, like a vise. I’m petrified. I can’t move. I can’t believe this is happening. 

I am going to die.

He pulls my wrist and places his right hand in my right hand. 

And shakes it. A handshake.

He smiles again. “Nice to meet you, Reggie.” And starts laughing. Then he puts his hands up in mock surrender.

I’m still frozen solid. “Wai- wha- why- what the hell?!” 

“Hey, five minutes ago you were having specific, vivid thoughts about me being a murderous doppleganger. I couldn’t just leave that hanging there. It was too good.” 

“Wai- you just punked me?!” 

He laughs again. “Yeah. You would have, too. Tell me you wouldn’t have.” 

I unglue myself from the wall. “I wouldn’t have!” 

“Bullshit.” 

A few seconds pass. Reluctantly, I nod. “Yeah. Okay. Yes. I would have. I mean, I did put it out there on a silver platter I guess. So yes, I totally would have tried to fake kill you. For a laugh.” 

“That’s the Reggie I know.” 

“So, you’re not going to actual kill me?” 

“Reg. Of course not. I’m you. I can’t even bring myself to step on a spider. I’d never to anything like that.” He chuckles. “Or would I?” 

“Oh, come on. You’re scaring the shit out of me. Stop.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” He sighs and plops back into his chair. Rubs his temples.

I lean in. He doesn’t look so good. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Wow. That took a lot out of me. I feel like shit.” He coughs. “I mean, every piece of me is either broken or almost. I’m popping errors faster than I can read them.” He closes his eyes. “You should see my diagnostics. Yikes.”

“Hey, Reggie. Before you start hacking up fluids and expiring on me, can I ask you something?” 

“You might want to make it quick. The diagnostics aren’t looking good past another twenty minutes or so. But yeah. Sure. Of course.”

“Okay. First, there’s this guy with a boat, These-” 

“Yeah, yeah. Reg. Theseus. The ship. I know the story. We’ve literally had the same consciousness until about forty-five seconds ago.”

“So you know the question too.” 

“Yes.” 

“And the answer?” 

“I’m you, Reg. I have no idea what the answer is.” 

“I don’t know, I thought maybe together we could figure it out.” 

He sighs again, really tired this time, but smiles through what I can only imagine are some awful aches and pains. “Okay. Who am I? Let’s start with the obvious answer: I’m the original.” He laughs a little, then coughs again. “Sorry, but I think you knew I had to take that position.” 

“Yes. Of course. Fine. But I’m the one who put you together. I came first. Sort of. So who am I?” 

“You’re the historical Reggie. The original memory of whatever your definition of Reggie is. Neither of Theseus’ ships is the original. The original only existed until the first plank was removed.” 

“Wait… I’m just a memory?” 

“I don’t know, think about it. Every single part of you is new, some replaced multiple times, everything except your reactor. And I think we agree that we are not our reactors.” 

“Yes. Pretty sure we agree on everything. Our reactors are not who we are.” 

“So if you’re all new parts, and you’re not your reactor, and even your thoughts can be replicated and uploaded into a copy like me, then what are ‘you’? Whatever you are, it’s not a solid ‘thing.’ It’s just some prior state of being that you remember. And if there’s no solid definition of ‘you,’ then what the hell am I?” 

We both lean back in our chairs, and at the same exact moment, scratch our chins. Weird. 

“Hmmm. You know what Bennie would say?” 

He grins. “Yeah. He’d put on his wise, mentor voice and say life is like a river. You can step in at the very same spot, every time, but it’s never the same river. The river you remember is long gone. Or some Bennie bullshit like that. Hey, speaking of… can you reach over and pour me some of that iridium? I’d do it but I’m afraid something’ll fall off.”

So I pour two vials and we sip, and just sit there for a while, taking it all in.

“I miss Bennie. It still hurts, after all these years.” 

“Yeah. Same.” And he reaches out and touches my knee. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re getting that tingling feeling.”

“Eww. Gross. No.” 

And he laughs, and then I start laughing, loud, we’re howling now, both with the same exact laugh, and with the same sudden, inexplicable joy.

After a minute or two we calm down, panting, and he starts wheezing. “Oh boy. Wow. Now that took a lot out of me. You don’t want to see what I’m seeing. I think my errors are setting some kind of record. Ouch. I think this is the big one.” 

“Shit. Here, let me see if there are some-” 

“What? More spare parts? There aren’t any more. Please, Reg.” And he grabs my wrist again, desperately, and pulls me over to him. His eyes are dimming and his smile is fading. “Reg, do me a favor, will you?” 

I nod. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything to say. 

He pulls my ear to his mouth, and with the last of his strength, he whispers, “Remember me.” 

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I hope you enjoyed that short story. And thank you again for tuning in to Listen To The Signal. I’m Rob Dircks, author of the Where the Hell is Tesla? science fiction series, The Wrong Unit, and the #1 Audible Bestselling novel, You’re Going to Mars!

You can buy Volume 1 of the collected Listen To The Signal stories on Audible and Amazon, find my other books there too, and get in touch with me here on the contact page or at RobDircks.com.

One more note: the banner graphic for this story was created by Nina Bennardo. You can check out her portfolio at ninabennardo.com.

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Copyright ©2020 Rob Dircks