Rayguns Over Texas

  Jayline took her last shot and missed. She said something unpleasant. Cothron decided he’d have to chide her about that later.

  A moving target in the air--Cothron aimed with care and fired. The reptile in the air spasmed and then fell off the disk. The creature and its weapon smacked to the ground, not three yards from where Bubba was now hoisting up the other shoulder weapon.

  Cothron gave his daughter an encouraging smile. “You’re dry, sweetie.”

  “I know. That’s all I got, Daddy.” Her wail was the same one she’d use to announce that her kitten was ill. Disconsolate, she holstered her weapon and went back to taping.

  The big thunder-whine noise from beyond the slope got louder. Then its source rose into view--a circus canopy, trailing ropes, the unmistakable curve of a large saucer-shaped craft under it.

  Cothron aimed at the disk and fired his cylinder dry, knowing it was futile. He didn’t even see where his rounds hit. “Bubba! Shoot that thing!”

  “Yes, Master.” Even dazed, Bubba had apparently seen the weapon’s last owner operate it. The big man elevated the dangerous end and did something on the control surface beside his head. Bright light leaped off the weapon. The metal screech noise it made caused Cothron’s teeth to itch. The beam splashed across the flying craft. The craft wobbled and its thunder-whine noise did, too.

  And Bubba, bless his heart, held the trigger down.

  The circus canopy caught fire. Flames leaped up from the craft. Hovering, the vehicle began oscillating like a plate being spun atop a stick losing speed. Then it dropped back the way it had come, disappearing out of sight.

  The impact made a noise like what would result if someone poured an entire junkyard into the world’s largest blender. The thunder-whine cut off and, after one last tremble, the steady vibration in the ground ceased. An enormous cloud of flame and dust billowed up from Sandstone Hollow.

  Cothron trotted up the hill and peered down the slope into the ravine. The saucer had folded unevenly in half, settling into a too-narrow portion of the ravine. It had landed on orange crates, reptiles, and fake humans. Cothron could see arms, legs, and heads protruding from under the wreckage, most of them withering and blackening in the fire raging across the hull.

  Some of the invaders weren’t pinned. Cothron took his time, aiming carefully, and brought down the two that had been crawling and three others he spotted trying to hide.

  Then there was nothing going on but flames leaping up from a crashed alien craft.

  That, and the hum coming off the little disk still up about twenty feet in the air.

  Jayline joined her father at the crest, taping. “Cool. This is going up on the internet.”

  Bubba, still lugging the shoulder weapon but no longer glassy-eyed, came up alongside the sheriff. “Did I do that?”

  Cothron grinned. “Don’t worry, peckerhead, you’re not in any trouble. But we’ve got to be coordinated. Sweetheart, nothing goes online until I say so. It’ll have to wait a few hours. And I’ll need you to edit a bunch of little details out of what you put together.”

  “Awww.”

  “Bubba, I need you to load up Ayers’ car. Jayline’s going to drive it out of here before the fire department, and God knows who else, shows up.” Cothron holstered his revolver and rubbed his hands together. “Welcome to the good life, kids.”

  #

  A new day had brought a new government man, and this one was the real deal. Cothron had obliged him to demonstrate that his face didn’t come off.

  But like Ayers, this one wasn’t happy. Still, he apparently knew better than to antagonize. Short and gray-haired and polite, he kept scrubbing at his glasses with his handkerchief, long after they were spotless. “It would have been much more...helpful...if your daughter hadn’t posted that video all over the internet. If the press hadn’t got wind of things before we could move in. Now this can’t be contained.”

  Cothron, his feet up on his desk, nodded sympathetically. “Just seconds after the crash, I told her she could never, ever share that video. But you know kids. At a certain age, they’re impossible to corral. You got kids?”

  “Three daughters. The oldest is twenty.”

  “Three. Jesus. So you know what I was up against. She had that footage online before I could even call the feds. I’ve given her a stern talking to. But you have the full cooperation of my department in keeping the situation as much under control as we can.”

  “That’s comforting.” The government man’s irony was undetectable. He rose and shook the sheriff’s hand. “And if your department or any locals find anything anomalous--”

  “We’ll make sure word gets right to you. Like we did with that one shoulder weapon and those two little purple guns.”

  “Thank you.” The government man departed, leaving the door open.

  Cothron peered out through it. “Doreen, who’s next?”

  “That’d be Miss Amelia, Sheriff.”

  “Show her in and close the door, please.” Cothron swung his feet off the desk. He rose and adjusted the blinds on the exterior window so no one could see in.

  Miss Amelia Stone entered. Tall, gray, and gracious, she moved easily despite her years. Her silk pantsuit and accouterments might have been found on an ad in a recent fashion magazine. As Doreen closed the door behind her, Miss Amelia shook the sheriff’s hand and accepted his offer of the chair opposite his. “Big events in Beeman County, Henry.”

  “And more to come.” Cothron sat. “I want to show you something.” From the bottom drawer of one filing cabinet, Cothron removed an object--a tiered helmet that looked as though it had been machined from polished aluminum. He set it on his head.

  Miss Amelia frowned in mild concern. “That’s not an alien device, is it?”

  “No, ma’am. It was put together by my daughter’s science class.” Cothron worked the controls on the side of the helmet and it hummed into life. As he’d learned from practicing on Doreen, Cothron gave Miss Amelia an intent stare and saw the green, eight-pointed cross hairs appear on her face. He blinked. The office walls echoed with a zap sound.

  Miss Amelia’s mild frown relaxed into neutrality. Her eyes went glassy.

  “In fact, this helmet is so dull that you’re not even going to remember that you ever saw it. Understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Call me Hank. Now, you know my daughter, Jayline, wants to go to film school.”

  “Yes, Hank.”

  “You’d like to pay for her entire education, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d love to, Hank.”

  “And I mean, high class all the way. She needs her own Los Angeles condominium. And a car, a big Cadillac sports utility. That’ll be okay, won’t it?”

  “Yes, Hank.”

  “As for me, I’m going to spend a term as governor of Texas before going on to the Presidency. I assume I can count on your full support?”

  “Of course, Hank.”

  “Excellent! Please see Doreen on your way out. You’ll need to set up a regular appointment where you can come in and receive further instructions.”

  “Yes, Hank.”

  Cothron deactivated the helmet and put it away. Miss Amelia looked confused for a moment then resumed her smile. “It sure was nice visiting. We need to do this more often.”

  “We do indeed. Thanks for stopping by.”

  When she was gone, Cothron put his feet up on the desk again. He leaned back and smiled up at the ceiling fan.

  The military and government agents were all over Beeman County, especially at the crash site. That would be good for the local economy, and Cothron was sure the government would be able to ramp up to repel the reptiles when the flying saucer armies came. But it was too little, too late. Earth had just been successfully invaded.

 
By Beeman County, Texas.

  Life was going to be good.

  Sovereign Wealth

  Chris N. Brown

  In a near future of financial and environmental collapse,

  businessmen vie for influence in a rapidly changing political arena.

  Chris N. Brown ventures into the rarely employed economic science fiction

  subgenre with this disturbing and poignant vision.

  1.

  “Since when are you working for the Martians?” said Gareth.

  “Not Martians, dumb shit,” I said. “Mauritians.” On the tiny pop-up on my office overlay, it was hard to tell from Gareth’s face whether he got it. I moved him to the window, enlarged framed by Houston glass, steel, and green.

  “Oh,” said Gareth. “Too bad. Martians would be much more interesting.”

  “The only Martians so far are drones, and they can’t vote,” I said.

  “Yes, Tony, but they can still send us a Fed funds wire,” said Gareth.

  “Yeah, well, if I can’t get the Mauritians some new land quick, the idea of a Martian deal may become a lot more plausible.” I looked away from Gareth and down at the bayou overflowing, and wondered when it would be our turn and if I could make enough money before then.

  “They like beaches, Mauritians do, as I recall,” said Gareth. “Lots of sand on Mars.”

  “Yes, Britwit, they are an island people,” I said.

  “Were, technically,” said Gareth.

  “No, they still have some peaks above the waterline. More importantly, they still have their sovereign wealth and their climate fund reparations, and the rest of the funds that they would be happy to use to pay us a nice, fat success fee, if we could put together a deal where they could resettle with full, fresh sovereignty.”

  “Right, okay, maybe I was thinking of the Maldiveans,” said Gareth. “But I guess we already did that deal.”

  “Yeah, that was like five years ago,” I said. “My first geopolitical M&A deal, when I was still at the law firm.”

  “Who knew a masters in experimental geography and an LL.M. in con law would become the perfect pedigree for an investment banker,” said Gareth. “Too bad your Mandarin is such shit.”

  “I’d rather have Farsi,” I said. “Or Arabic. Look, Gareth, the reason I called you is that I told my clients you could help them figure out a way to do a deal with the Saudis.”

  “Yeah, sure. Lots of sand there, too,” said Gareth. “Any specific proposals?”

  “More like test balloons, but one idea is pretty cool. We—the Mauritians—fund a demilitarization and buy-out of the Yemeni border zone at the coast. Just a few hundred square kilometers of already disputed territory.”

  “Interesting,” said Gareth. “That could be a very significant deal. But I’m not the one who’s going to work with those crazy fucking Yemenis.”

  “I know. I didn’t ask you to,” I said. “I’ll call Tariq, he did that water deal for them. Nice stack of favors in the bank.”

  “Religion?” asked Gareth.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Mostly Hindu, but the idea is to have the Catholics put in a casino there that will out-do the Emiratis. And to buy a long-term water contract from the Saudi purification plants. And I’m pitching them on the idea of a data haven.”

  “Interesting,” said Gareth. “I think--”

  Another window popped up. Carlos.

  “Gareth, can you hold for one second?” I asked, muting his screen before he replied.

  Carlos came on, voice only. Carlos was the house counsel for another one of my clients, the Mexican media conglomerate, MundoRed.

  “Carnal,” I said, trying too hard. “What news?”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to call me when shit gets fucked up like this,” said Carlos.

  “What are you talking about?” I said, checking my feed for whatever I missed in the five minutes I was talking to Gareth. Oh, fuck, I thought. “Oh, that?” I said.

  “Yes, the Arizonans telling us our bid was bounced, after you told me we had a deal,” said Carlos.

  “We do,” I said. “We do. It’s binding under their county charter. The state says they have to leave it open for bids for ten days, but we think that’s wrong.”

  “Well these fellow Texans of yours who outbid us don’t agree,” said Carlos.

  “They’re full of shit,” I said. “I will get on it and get back to you. Don’t panic. And definitely don’t tell anything to Alejandra or her dad until we talk again, okay?”

  “You better get it done before it leaks,” said Carlos. “Clock is ticking.”

  “I know, I know, mil gracias,” I said. “And it’s not the only clock I’ve got. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”

  Before I put Gareth back on, I raided the stash in my desk. Time to get the prescription refilled. Game on.

  2.

  Dr. Liefhaecker’s office was at the UTMB campus, off the loop. There wasn’t much left in Galveston anymore, and they were already moving some of the smaller clinics to Austin.

  “You’re a lifer, aren’t you, Tony?” said Dr. Liefhaecker as he adjusted my head inside the fMRI chair. “You’ll probably trade in your Porsche for a nice boat to get around town.”

  I laughed. “It won’t get that bad, but contingency planning is always fun. Why Chicago?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dr. Liefhaecker. “I’m intrigued by the arctic winters. I have my eye on one of those big, biodiesel, all-weather performance jeeps. That, and they just seem ready for what’s coming.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “So how am I doing? When can you do my upgrade?”

  Dr. Liefhaecker was a neuropharmacologist. He made a great living helping people enhance their neural performance. I had been talking to him, for six months or so, about a series of cocktails that could give me like a twenty percent edge in processing power--just what I needed to make the most out of the next five years, before burnout.

  “Yeah,” said Dr. Liefhaecker, looking at my electronic records, instead of looking at me. “Here’s the thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  He sat down across from me, as the rainbow of my color-coded brain rendered itself on the monitor behind him.

  “I talked to Dr. Kalki.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The surgeon you sent me to last week. She is so hot.”

  Dr. Liefhaecker ignored that. “She confirmed what I thought. To make your enhancements work, first we’ll need to cut some manual adjustments. I’m going to send you a link with the full tutorial, but basically, imagine a toggle switch in there. Made of flesh.”

  He touched my forehead a few times with his big doctor index finger.

  “It’s an invasive procedure, and a tricky one, but they do it all the time.”

  “Head shaved and the whole bit?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Will I be out of commission for long?” I asked. “I can’t miss more than a few hours of work.”

  “We can do it on a Friday,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too bad. The real trick is we need to get it scheduled right away, because the regs won’t let us do it after your thirty-fifth birthday.”

  “That’s next month!”

  “So I saw,” said Dr. Liefhaecker.

  “Why the cutoff? I asked.

  “After that age, more or less, the tissue has too much trouble adapting to the switch,” he said.

  “How much?” I asked.

  Dr. Liefhaecker showed me the quote on his handheld.

  “Euros?”

  He nodded.

  “Fuck!”

  “Look,” he said. “I know it’s a lot, even for a guy like you. If you can’t get that together now, there are other sim
ilar things we can try, without the surgery.”

  “No, no, this is it,” I said. “Let’s schedule it. I can do it. I need it. I need that chess computer thing I’m missing, to really take it to the next level.”

  “You really don’t,” said Dr. Liefhaecker. “Because you have such a perfect brain for poker. That’s what they really want.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Guys like you are the last, great, American export,” he said. “Freelance deal people, whose only loyalty is transactional, with highly developed capabilities for guile and indigenous game theory they can’t replicate in black boxes.” He pointed at a couple of notes on my fMRI display. “Our own variation on capitalism may be looking a little waterlogged, but we still make a mint selling it to everybody else. You guys are like Hessians. But with business calculators.”

  “Thanks, doc!” I said.

  He laughed and shook his head. “You can schedule your next appointment with the tablet on your way out.”

  3.

  That night, I got together with my buddies in Austin to watch the vote. They had their own idea of the pregame.

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to watch another one of your marionette shows,” I said as I plopped myself down on the sofa, between Annie and Chaz, in front of the big screen they had flashed on the wall.

  Vijay and Clarice were laughing already before I started bitching.

  I looked at the scene on the screen. Retail surveillance from the Kaufstraße in Munich. People walking on their lunch breaks or whatever, letting their earbuds, and tablets, and bluerings tell them where to go and what to buy, waylaid, lured and consensually hoodwinked by hundreds of ethereal proximity bots.

  “Santa doesn’t like it when you rig the Christmas lists,” I said.

  “We’re the ones in charge of the other 364 days,” said Chaz.