#flashpulp

After a buddy of mine linked to this image, we had a little poetry exchange:

Me: Now all of you ladies and lasses from gents of low and high classes expect works of art from our pens and our hearts but we'd rather just show you our...hallmark cards?

And now, the grand finale for this week!

Me:

Even before he opened his eyes, the echoes from his breathing gave him an approximation of the size of the room he was in: 1.3 meters by 2 meters, give or take ten centimeters. The surfaces were clearly a machined or cast metal; after opening his eyes he also ascertained that it was not lit. He quickly maximized his volume, exploring the interior for any cracks of any sort. None whatsoever. A conundrum. With all of his senses set to their most sensitive as he explored the room he was in, he realized that it was possible to hear a quiet voice, tinnily broadcast through an intercom system of inferior construction. English. Male. Middle American, with a slight accent that indicated some other origin. Past middle age, and someone with no clear spoken indications of any cardiopulmonary health issues.

"No cutesey fucking tricks with you, Reed. You just die. 

"You're locked in a vault of adamantium. No holes. No mechanism. No access. No escape. I stimulated the stuff to grow into a whole piece with some clever nanometallurgy. No one else on Earth is clever enough to understand how hard that was to do, but I imagine you can. You had air enough for about two hours, before I locked you in there. Listen carefully, though. I've placed some speakers against the outside of your tomb. Induction should be sufficient for you to hear the microphones at the other end: one each on Johnny, Susan, and Ben. You can hear them, but they can't hear you.

"They're dying, and none of them are smart enough to figure out how to get out of this. That's your torture, Reed: knowing you could make this all better if only you could talk to them. If only you could get out.

"Have fun dying, Reed. You never were as smart as me."

Faintly, oh so faintly, Reed could hear sniffling and coughing from what he pinpointed as one of the speakers. Slight gasps of pain from another. And the slow creak of a rope from the third.

Mind working with frantic concentration, Reed reallocated body mass and blood flow, maximizing his capacity for thought, increasing metabolic rate and oxygen consumption in order to improve the odds of a cognitive breakthrough. There had to be a way out, he thought.

There was always a way out.

John:

Microfiction theme of "Our hero, rather regretting where he is" continues.

John: Unconsciousness begrudgingly loosed its grasp on him. Gradually, he became aware of flickering points of light in the gloom. Indoors, then. The heavy earthy scent of the air, and the clinging dampness of the hard bed he was on suggested a dungeon or cave. A form shambled toward him, moving stiffly. His arms were heavy, possibly from the blow to the head, and bound besides. "Where am I?" he demanded, as much to gain initiative as to pierce the uncomfortable silence. "THe Pit of Despair..." 

Me:  "It was not easy, I admit, to render you unconscious. You are more resilient than most." He woke, bewiildered. "Don't move!" The voice stopped him from flexing his arms and legs for just a moment. As his vision cleared, he saw that he was hanging, head down, suspended by his left leg. His arms and right leg hung loosely, enmeshed in fine transparent threads, like spider's silk. His chest, he saw, was also criss-crossed by a thousand delicate, translucent fibers. "Who da hell are you? What da hell is going on?" "Patience, my fine pebbled friend. Listen to me for just a moment, and then I'll leave you to your peace. I'll address these things in order of importance, and I shall use little words so you do not misunderstand me. If you twitch one of those over-large muscles of yours, you will break the fiber-optic strands I've so painstakingly wrapped you in, and dozens will die. So, in your vernacular: move bad. Fire! Arrgh! "The fiber optics, you see, control a governor for a laser. If their circuit is interrupted, the laser goes to full power, and will immediately burn through your dear friend Sue. But that's not all, Bob! No, indeed. For that same laser will ignite a room filled with natural gasses, and kill a round dozen kidnapped children. And quite possibly Johnny as well. And this is the house the Jack built! "Don't worry, though. Under your head are some monofilament carbon nanotube wires, spun down to just a hair over three molecules wide. The rope you're hanging from, well, it's made from natural fibers--good for the environment, I've been told--but they tend to stretch when something stupid and heavy hangs from them. I don't know if you'll miss your brain, when it gets sliced right out of your skull, but I suppose you'll find out in, oh, an hour or so." The voice chuckled. "The thing of it is--ha! The Thing of it!--be you ever so fast and ever so strong, you can't save Sue and Johnny. But the good Doctor, he could use your help. So are you willing to kill them both to save him, or are you noble enough to wait for the hot knives?" 

==

Continuing our "Places that our hero would rather not be," John: The room was a shambles. Broken shelves spilled books, vases, and dead flowers across the floor. Roaches and ants meandered about, shuttling crumbs of food and bits of binding glue to their hidden stores. Two birds' nests in the rafters shook faintly in the breeze, and hundreds of white splotches on the mildewed floor gave hint as to how long those birds had found roost here. Dust covered everything thickly, greasy from the cheap barbecue joint next door, and matted with hair from the pet grooming shop on the other side. The door creaked open, pushing rusty cans aside with a hollow rattle.

"It's right in here, Mr. Monk."

Me:

Johnny came to, bound hand and foot. The echoing sounds of a few children sniffling and weeping told him he was in some kind of tunnel. The air reeked of rotting eggs, but there was a faint light from far above. As he struggled upright, he saw a piece of paper at his feet. The note on the ground was scrawled in a barely legible hand. The awful smell made his eyes tear and the air was clearly not good to breathe; his head was already spinning. Johnny squinted, reading the note.

"The air here is filled with natural gas; one spark will light it and kill the ten children I have placed in there with you. On the other hand, the increasing concentrations of gas will kill you all in less than an hour. Stay here and hope your three friends can rescue you—I doubt it, as they are also constrained in similar circumstances—and die. Or escape, and carry the blood of innocents on your hands. I care not."

The Human Torch looked up at the tiny window of sky above, out of reach. 

John

Anton came to in the medical bay, and bolted upright in panic. 

"What happened? How long have I been out?" 

Sierra held him down with a gentle hand. "Less than an hour, Anton. It was a collapsed bituminous meteor of some sort. Hit the fuel cells on the ZG Botany lab. Amanda and Pierre are gone." 

"Oh, God. ANd the rest of the facility? Are we pressure stable?" "We are, but...Anton, it's bad. The whole station spun, and the emergcency descent thrusters went berserk and burned until they blew out. We're in an elliptical more than a hundred thousand miles out from geostat." 

The lab was perfectly still for a moment. "Have you informed Houston?" 

"I have, and they will scramble a rescue flight and reorbit module as soon as possible, but it's hurricane season, and bad. They expect it will be more than a month." 

Anton blinked. "A month? We'll have begun to settle into a stable elliptical by then, and..." 

"Yes. We have food aplenty, now, with four mouths instead of six, and our water and air should last us at least three years. But best guess, Anton? Nothing they send will be able to match orbit and get us for at least a year and a half. We're too far out." 

Grimly, Anton nodded. Sierra was always right about math. Nothing to be done now but wait. Outside, the maddening black of space swallowed light like hope.

==

That would be a mashup title. It makes more sense when you read the actual posts. The topic for the week is, "Our hero finds himself somewhere that he wishes he wasn't."  And before reading on, please note that this set of statuses makes use of stereotypes and may not be suitable for people with no sense of humor.

John: Abdul Sharif Khalid ibn Mustafa ibn Akhmed ibn Mahmud, you have given your life in the service of Allah. Be welcome into heaven. Your seventy virgins await you." As the speaker faded into mist and a silvery door appeared, Abdul eagerly stepped forward to his eternal reward for martyring himself to bring jihad to the infidel. The door closed and vanished behind him, and seventy remarkably rotund forms stood up from assorted tables.   "Are you the new guildie?" "He looks like a fag" "Noob, I hope you can l2p. If you wipe our raid you'll regret it."   Horrified, Abdul realized there was no escape.

Me: His hands ached from the climb; it had been arduous work, climbing to the roof of the temple, crossing the main worship chamber, and then climbing back down. The singing of the cultists above him was an annoying counterpart to the cloying smoke that seemed to have filtered into every crevice of the temple. According to his sources, the relics explaining the Tolmec's human sacrifices should be somewhere in this cellar. He listened carefully for any footsteps. Other than a quiet, continual sursurrus, there was no motion nearby. Carefully, he opened the shutter on the keyhole lantern and looked around. At his feet, coils of something stirred sleepily, sending a bolt of pure adrenaline rushing through his system. Behind him, the door suddenly ground shut as he triggered a trap with a suddenly careless step.

John presumably had "work" to do on Friday, so it's just me today.  Here's the last of "Critical Flaw in the Plan"

Me: "It's a marvel of ECM," the engineer said smugly. "Why bother deploying regular chaff when you can simply create light-reflective nanomachines that will replicate themselves--and home in on the strongest energy emitters while they do so?"

The general grunted, chewing the sodden end of a cigar and running his hands over the hilt of the odd pistol in his shoulder holster. He didn't seem overly impressed.

The engineer's smile faltered a little as he pressed a button and out on the test field a faint puff of gas released from the test chamber.  He pressed another button and the Radar emitters powered up, drawing the slightly shimmering mist into noticable cones as the machines started to reproduce themselves and home in on their target.  "See?" the engineer crowed, "Foolproof protection!"

The general drew the gun from its holster and opened the window. 

"Don't do that!" the engineer cried, reaching for the general's arm.

With his mouth set in a line, the general fired the gun three times. White phosphorous flares soared out into the test field and immediately the self-motile chaff swarmed towards the incandescently hot projectiles, immolating themselves by the millions until the slivery shimmer had faded from the air entirely.

...then, as the saying goes, skydiving is probably not for you.  Microfiction for the day!

Me:

10 seconds. Andy checked his static whip, part of the complicated gravity harness that would act as a combination parachute and hanglider. The mountains of Proxima II grew below, majestic and terrible. He mentally reviewed his gear prep one last time. It was his first static jump, so he was a little nervous. Charge levels, check. Connections, check. 5 seconds. Recording gear, check. Drogue line, check. Go time. Andy tabbed the button that charged the whip, and everything spun wildly. It took a moment for Andy to stabilize himself. He realized that he was still in freefall. What the hell was going on?

He ran through the checklist mentally again, mind reeling with terror. Oh no, he thought. He'd forgotten "buckles secured, check."

With a sick feeling, he looked at his altimeter. 8 seconds...

John:

Ashley hit the radio. "Control, this is Mobile Actual, we have green lights. Request to attach the scrubber and reinitialize the atmospherics."

"Mobile Actual, you are clear to attach the CO scrubber. Set torque to 9 and take your time, the secondary will pick up in 12 minutes if you are still working."

Before the torque driver even slowed, there was a terrible burst of light as the hull was breached, and a jet of air escaping into vacuum blew Ashley away from the microstation an instant before the radio squawked urgently